The old man sat alone in the shadow of the Dragon's

Teeth and watched the coming darkness chase the day-

light west. The day had been cool, unusually so for

midsummer, and the night promised to be chill. Scattered clouds

masked the sky, casting their silhouettes upon the earth, drifting

in the manner of aimless beasts between moon and stars. A hush

filled the emptiness left by the fading light like a voice waiting

to speak.

It was a hush that whispered of magic, the old man thought.

A fire burned before him, small still, just the beginning of

what was needed. After all, he would be gone for several hours.

He studied the fire with a mixture of expectation and uneasiness

before reaching down to add the larger chunks ofdeadwood that

brought the flames up quickly. He poked at it with a stick, then

stepped away, driven back by the heat. He stood at the edge of

the light, caught between the fire and the growing dark, a crea-

ture who might have belonged to neither or both.

His eyes glittered as he looked off into the distance. The peaks

of the Dragon's Teeth jutted skyward like bones the earth could

not contain. There was a hush to the mountains, a secrecy that

clung like mist on a frosty morning and hid all the dreams of

the ages.

The fire sparked sharply and the old man brushed at a stray

bit of glowing ash that threatened to settle on him. He was just

a bundle of sticks, loosely tied together, that might crumble into

dust if a strong wind were to blow. Gray robes and a forest cloak

hung on him as they would have on a scarecrow. His skin was

leathery and brown and had shrunken close against his bones.

White hair and beard wreathed his head, thin and fine, like

wisps of gauze against the firelight. He was so wrinkled and

hunched down that he looked to be a hundred years old.

He was, in fact, almost a thousand.

Strange, he thought suddenly, remembering his years. Para-

nor, the Councils of the Races, even the Druids-gone. Strange

that he should have outlasted them all.

He shook his head. It was so long ago, so far back in time

that it was a part of his life he only barely recognized. He had

thought that part finished, gone forever. He had thought himself

free. But he had never been mat, he guessed. It wasn't possible

to be free of something that, at the very least, was responsible

for the fact that he was still alive.

How else, after all, save for the Druid Sleep, could he still

be standing there?

He shivered against the descending night, darkness all about

him now as the last of the sunlight slipped below the horizon.

It was time. The dreams had told him it must be now, and he

believed the dreams because he understood them. That, too,

was a part of his old life that would not let him go-dreams,

visions of worlds beyond worlds, of warnings and truths, of

things that could and sometimes must be.

He stepped away from the fire and started up the narrow

pathway into the rocks. Shadows closed about him, their touch

chill. He walked for a long time, winding through narrow de-

files, scrambling past massive boulders, angling along craggy

drops and jagged splits in the rock. When he emerged again into

the light, he stood within a shallow, rock-strewn valley domi-

nated by a lake whose glassy surface reflected back at him with

a harsh, greenish cast.

The lake was the resting place for the shades of Druids come

and gone. It was to the Hadeshom that he had been summoned.

"Might as well get on with it," he growled softly.

He walked slowly, cautiously downward into the valley, his

steps uneasy, his heart pounding in his ears. He had been away

a long time. The waters before him did not stir; the shades lay

sleeping. It was best that way, he thought. It was best that they

not be disturbed.

He reached the lake's edge and stopped. All was silent. He

took a deep breath, the air raiding from his chest as he exhaled

like dry leaves blown across stone. He fumbled at his waist for

a pouch and loosened its drawstrings. Carefully he reached

within and drew out a handful of black powder laced with silver

sparkle. He hesitated, then threw it into the air over the lake.

The powder exploded skyward with a strange light that

brightened the air around him as if it werc d^ Bg'""- There was

no heat only light It shimmered and danced against the night-

time like a living thu^- The old man watched, robes and forest

cloak pulled close, ey^ b1^111 wlth the reflected gtow. He rocked

back and forth slightly and for a moment felt young again.

Then a shadow appared in the light, lifting out of

it like a wraith a W^ ^orm mat ""ght have been something

strayed from the dark^^ beyond. But the old man knew better.

This was nothing straY^'ttus was something called. The shadow

tightened and took s^P®- K was the shade of a man cloaked au

in black a tall and forbidding apparition that anyone who had

ever seen before wou^ have recognized at once.

"So, Allanon," the old man whispered.

The hooded face tit^"     s0 tnat me "§"1 fevealed the dark,

harsh features clearly^t11® angular bearded face, the long thin

nose and mouth the fierce bTOW that ""S"! have been cast of

iron the eyes beneatflthat seemed to look directly into the soul.

The eyes found the o^ man and held him fast-

-I need you-

The voice was a whisper in the old man's mind, a hiss of

dissatisfaction and ur^Y- The shade communicated by using

thoughts alone The c^d man shrank back momentarily, wishing

that the thing he had called would instead be gone. Then he

recovered himself an^ stood firm before hls fears-

"I am no longer one of V0"'" he snapped, his own eyes

narrowing dangerous^' forgetting that it was not necessary to

speak aloud. "You can command me!"

-I do not commad - Listen to me- You are all that

is left, the last that m^V be unti1 "^ successor is found. Do you

understand-

The old man laughed nervously. "Understand? Ha! Who un-

derstands better than me

-A part of you will always be what once you would not have

questioned. The mastar within you. Always. Help me. I

send the dreams and Shannara children do not respond.

Someone must go to them- Someone must make them see. You-

" Not me' I have ^ved BP^ from the races for years now- I

wish nothing more to do with their roubles!" The old man

straightened his stick and frowned. I shed myself of such

nonsense long ago."

The shade seemed t° nse anu broaden suddenly before him,

and he felt himself li^d free ofme earth- He soared skyward,

far into the night. He did not struggle, but held himself firm,

though he could feel the other's anger rushing through him like

a black river. The shade's voice was the sound of bones grating.

-Watch-

The Four Lands appeared, spread out before him, a panorama

of grasslands, mountains, hills, lakes, forests, and rivers, bright

swatches of earth colored by sunlight. He caught his breath to

see it so clearly and from so far up in the sky, even knowing that

it was only a vision. But the sunlight began to fade almost at

once, the color to wash. Darkness closed about, filled with dull

gray mist and sulfiirous ash that rose from burned-out craters.

The land lost its character and became barren and lifeless. He

felt himself drift closer, repulsed as he descended by the sights

and smells of it. Humans wandered the devastation in packs,

more animals than men. They rent and tore at each other; they

howled and shrieked. Dark shapes flitted among them, shadows

that lacked substance yet had eyes of fire. The shadows moved

through the humans, joining with them, becoming them, leaving

them again. They moved in a dance that was macabre, yet pur-

poseful. The shadows were devouring the humans, he saw. The

shadows were feeding on them.

-Watch-

The vision shifted. He saw himself then, a skeletal, ragged

beggar facing a cauldron of strange white fire that bubbled and

swirled and whispered his name. Vapors lifted from the caul-

dron and snaked their way down to where he stood, wrapping

about him, caressing him as if he were their child. Shadows

flitted all about, passing by at first, then entering him as if he

were a hollow casing in which they might play as they chose.

He could feel their touch; he wanted to scream.

-Watch-

The vision shifted once more. There was a huge forest and

in the middle of the forest a great mountain. Atop the mountain

sat a castle, old and weathered, towers and parapets rising up

against the dark of the land. Paranor, he thought! It was Paranor

come again! He felt something bright and hopeful well up within

him, and he wanted to shout his elation. But the vapors were

already coiling about the castle. The shadows were already flit-

ting close. The ancient fortress began to crack and crumble,

stone and mortar giving way as if caught in a vise. The earth

shuddered and screams lifted from the humans become animals.

Fire erupted out of the earth, splitting apart the mountain on

which Paranor sat and then the castle itself. Wailing filled the

air, the sound of one bereft of the only hope that had remained

to him. The old man recognized the wailing as his own.

Then the images were gone. He stood again before the Hades-

hom, in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth, alone with the shade

of Allanon. In spite of his resolve, he was shaking.

The shade pointed at him.

-It will be as I have shown you if the dreams are ignored. It

will be so if you fail to act. You must help. Go to them-the

boy, the girl, and the Dark Uncle. Tell them the dreams are real.

Tell them to come to me here on the first night of the new moon

when the present cycle is complete. I will speak with them then-

The old man frowned and muttered and worried his lower

lip. His fingers once more drew tight the drawstrings to the

pouch, and he shoved it back into his belt. "I will do so because

there is no one else!" he said finally, spitting out the words in

distaste. "But do not expect. . . !"

-Only go to them. Nothing more is required. Nothing more

will be asked. Go-

The shade of Allanon shimmered brightly and disappeared.

The light faded, and the valley was empty again. The old man

stood looking out over the still waters of the lake for a moment,

then turned away.

The fire he had left behind still burned on his return, but it

was small now and frail-looking against the night. The old man

stared absently at the flames, then hunkered down before them.

He stirred at the ashes already forming and listened to the si-

lence of his thoughts.

The boy, the girl, and the Dark Uncle-he knew them. They

were the Shannara children, the ones who could save them all,

the ones who could bring back the magic. He shook his grizzled

head. How was he to convince them? If they would not heed

Allanon, what chance that they would heed him?

He saw again in his mind the frightening visions. He had best

find a way to make them listen, he thought. Because, as he was

fond of reminding himself, he knew something of visions, and

there was a truth to these that even one such as he, one who had

foresworn the Druids and their magic, could recognize.

If the Shannara children failed to listen, these visions would

come to pass.

II

Par Ohmsford stood in the rear doorway of the Blue

Whisker Ale House and stared down the darkened tun-

nel of the narrow street that ran between the adjoining

buildings into the glimmer of Varfleet's lights. The Blue Whisker

was a ramshackle, sprawling old building with weathered board

walls and a wood shingle roof and looked for all the world as if

once it had been someone's barn. It had sleeping rooms upstairs

over the serving hall and storerooms in the back. It sat at the

base of a block of buildings that formed a somewhat lopsided U,

situated on a hill at the western edge of the city.

Par breathed deeply the night air, savoring its flavors. City

smells, smells of life, stews with meats and vegetables laced

with spice, sharp-flavored liquors and pungent ales, perfumes

that scented rooms and bodies, leather harness, iron from forges

still red with coals kept perpetually bright, the sweat of animals

and men in close quarters, the taste of stone and wood and dust,

mingling and mixing, each occasionally breaking free-they

were all there. Down the alleyway, beyond the slat-boarded,

graffiti-marked backs of the shops and businesses, the hill

dropped away to where the central part of the city lay east. An

ugly, colorless gathering of buildings in daylight, a maze of

stone walls and streets, wooden siding and pitch-sealed roofs,

the city took on a different look at night. The buildings faded

into the darkness and the lights appeared, thousands of them,

stretching away as far as the eye could see like a swarm of

fireflies. They dotted the masked landscape, flickering in the

black, trailing lines of gold across the liquid skin of the Mer-

midon as it passed south. Varfleet was beautiful now, the scrub-

woman become a fairy queen, transformed as if by magic.

Par liked the idea of the city being magic. He liked the city

in any case, liked its sprawl and its meld of people and things,

its rich mix of life. It was far different from his home of Shady

Vale, nothing like the forested hamlet that he had grown up in.

It lacked the purity of the trees and streams, the solitude, the

sense of timeless ease that graced life in the Vale. It knew noth-

ing of that life and couldn't have cared less. But that didn't

matter to Par. He liked the city anyway. There was nothing to

say that he had to choose between the two, after all. There wasn't

any reason he couldn't appreciate both.

Coil, of course, didn't agree. Coil saw it quite differently. He

saw Varfleet as nothing more than an outlaw city at the edge of

Federation rule, a den of miscreants, a place where one could

get away with anything, hi all of Callahom, in all of the entire

Southland for that matter, there was no place worse. Coil hated

the city.

Voices and the clink of glasses drifted out of the darkness

behind him, the sounds of the ale house breaking free of the

front room momentarily as a door was opened, then disappear-

ing again as it was closed. Par turned. His brother moved care-

fully down the hallway, nearly faceless in the gloom.

"It's almost time," Coil said when he reached his brother.

Par nodded. He looked small and slender next to Coil, who

was a big, strong youth with blunt features and mud-colored

hair. A stranger would not have thought them brothers. Coil

looked a typical Valeman, tanned and rough, with enormous

hands and feet. The feet were an ongoing joke. Par was fond of

comparing them to a duck's. Par was slight and fair, his own

features unmistakably Elven from the sharply pointed ears and

brows to the high, narrow bones of his face. There was a time

when the Elven blood had been all but bred out of the line, the

result of generations of Ohmsfords living in the Vale. But four

generations back (so his father had told him) his great-great-

grandfather had returned to the Westland and the Elves,

married an Elven girl, and produced a son and a daughter. The

son had married another Elven girl, and for reasons never made

clear the young couple who would become Par's great-

grandparents had returned to the Vale, thereby infusing a fresh

supply of Elven blood back into the Ohmsford line. Even then,

many members of the family showed nothing of then- mixed

heritage; Coil and his parents Jaralan and Mirianna were ex-

amples. Par's bloodlines, on the other hand, were immediately

evident.

Being recognizable in this way, unfortunately, was not nec-

essarily desirable. While in Varfleet, Par disguised his features,

plucking his brows, wearing his hair long to hide his ears, shad-

ing his face with darkener. He didn't have much choice. It wasn't

wise to draw attention to one's Elven lineage these days.

"She has her gown nicely in place tonight, doesn't she?"

Coil said, glancing off down the alleyway to the city beyond.

"Black velvet and sparkles, not a thread left hanging. Clever

girl, this city. Even the sky is her friend."

Par smiled. My brother, the poet. The sky was clear and filled

with the brightness of a tiny crescent moon and stars. "You

might come to like her if you gave her half a chance."

"Me?" Coil snorted. "Not likely. I'm here because you're

here. I wouldn't stay another minute if I didn't have to."

' 'You could go if you wanted.''

Coil bristled. "Let's not start again. Par. We've been all

through that. You were the one who thought we ought to come

north to the cities. I didn't like the idea then, and I don't like it

any better now. But that doesn't change the fact that we agreed

to do this together, you and me. A fine brother I'd be if I left

you here and went back to the Vale now! In any case, I don't

think you could manage without me."

"All right, all right, I was just..." Par tried to interrupt.

"Attempting to have a little fan at my expense!" Coil fin-

ished heatedly. "You have done that on more than one occasion

of late. You seem to take some delight in it."

"That is not so."

Coil ignored him, gazing off into the dark.

' 'I would never pick on anyone with duck feet.''

Coil grinned in spite of himself. "Fine talk from a little fel-

low with pointed ears. You should be grateful I choose to stay

and look after you!''

Par shoved him playfully, and they both laughed. Then they

went quiet, staring at each other in the dark, listening to the

sounds of the ale house and the streets beyond. Par sighed. It

was a warm, lazy midsummer night that made the cool, sharp

days of the past few weeks seem a distant memory. It was the

kind of night when troubles scatter and dreams come out to play.

"There are rumors of Seekers in the city," Coil informed

him suddenly, spoiling his contentment.

"There are always rumors," he replied.

"And the rumors are often true. Talk has it that they plan to

snatch up all the magic-makers, put them out of business and

close down the ale houses." Coil was staring intently at him.

"Seekers, Par. Not simple soldiers. Seekers."

Par knew what they were. Seekers-Federation secret police,

the enforcement arm of the Coalition Council's Lawmakers. He

knew.

They had arrived in Varfleet two weeks earlier. Coil and he.

They journeyed north from Shady Vale, left the security and

familiarity and protective confines of their family home and came

into the Borderlands of Callahom. They did so because Par had

decided they must, that it was time for them to tell their stories

elsewhere, that it was necessary to see to it that others besides

the Vale people knew. They came to Varfleet because Varfleet

was an open city, free of Federation rule, a haven for outlaws

and refugees but also for ideas, a place where people still lis-

tened with open minds, a place where magic was still toler-

ated-even courted. He had the magic and, with Coil in tow, he

took it to Varfleet to share its wonder. There was already magic

aplenty being practiced by others, but his was of a far different

sort. His was real.

They found the Blue Whisker the first day they arrived, one

of the biggest and best known ale houses in the city. Par per-

suaded the owner to hire them in the first sitting. He had ex-

pected as much. After all, he could persuade anyone to do just

about anything with the wishsong.

Real magic. He mouthed the words without speaking them.

There wasn't much real magic left in the Four Lands, not

outside the remote wilderness areas where Federation rule did

not yet extend. The wishsong was the last of the Ohmsford

magic. It had been passed down through ten generations to reach

him, the gift skipping some members of his family altogether,

picking and choosing on a whim. Coil didn't have it. His parents

didn't. In fact, no one in the Ohmsford family had had it since

his great-grandparents had returned from the Wesdand. But the

magic of the wishsong had been his from the time he was born,

the same magic that had come into existence almost three hun-

dred years ago with his ancestor Jair. The stories told him this,

the legends. Wish for it, sing for it. He could create images so

lifelike in the minds of his listeners that they appeared to be

real. He could create substance out of air.

That was what had brought him to Varfleet. For three centu-

ries the Ohmsford family had handed down stories of the Elven

house of Shannara. The practice had begun with Jan". In truth,

it had begun long before that, when the stories were not of the

magic because it had not yet been discovered but of the old

world before its destruction in the Great Wars and the tellers

were the few who had survived that frightening holocaust. But

Jair was the first to have use of the wishsong to aid in the telling,

to give substance to the images created from his words, to make

his tales come alive in the minds of those who heard them. The

tales were of the old days: of the legends of the Elven house of

Shannara; of the Druids and their Keep at Paranor; of Elves and

Dwarves; and of the magic that ruled their lives. The tales were

of Shea Ohmsford and his brother Flick and their search to find

the Sword of Shannara; of Wil Ohmsford and the beautiful,

tragic Elven girl Amberie and their struggle to banish the De-

mon hordes back into the Forbidding; of Jair Ohmsford and his

sister Brin and their journey into the fortress of Graymark and

confrontation with the Mord Wraiths and the Ddatch; of the

Druids Allanon and Bremen; of the Elven King Eventine Eles-

sedil; of warriors such as Balinor Buckhannah and Stee Jans; of

heroes many and varied. Those who had command of the wish-

song made use of its magic. Those who did not relied on simple

words. Ohmsfords had come and gone, many carrying the sto-

ries with them to distant lands. Yet for three generations now,

no member of the family had told the stories outside the Vale.

No one had wanted to risk being caught.

It was a considerable risk. The practice of magic in any form

was outlawed in the Four Lands-or at least anywhere the Fed-

eration governed, which was practically the same thing. It had

been so for the past hundred years. In all that time no Ohmsford

had left the Vale. Par was the first. He had grown tired of telling

the same stories to the same few listeners over and over. Others

needed to hear the stories as well, to know the truth about the

Druids and the magic, about the struggle that preceded the age

in which they now lived. His fear of being caught was out-

weighed by the calling he felt. He made his decision despite the

objections of his parents and Coil. Coil, ultimately, decided to

come with him-just as he always did whenever he thought Par

needed looking after. Varfleet was to be the beginning, a city

where magic was still practiced in minor forms, an open secret

defying intervention by the Federation. Such magic as was found

in Varfleet was small stuff really and scarcely worth the trouble.

Callahom was only a protectorate of the Federation, and Var-

fleet so distant as to be almost into the free territories. It was

not yet army occupied. The Federation so far had disdained to

bother with it.

But Seekers? Par shook his head. Seekers were another mat-

ter altogether. Seekers only appeared when there was a serious

intent on the part of the Federation to stamp out a practice of

magic. No one wanted any part of them.

' 'It grows too dangerous for us here,'' Coil said, as if reading

Par's mind. "We will be discovered."

Par shook his head. "We are but one of a hundred practicing

the art,'' he replied. ' 'Just one in a city of many.''

Coil looked at him. "One in a hundred, yes. But the only one

using real magic."

Par looked back. It was good money the ale house paid them,

the best they had ever seen. They needed it to help with the

taxes the Federation demanded. They needed it for their family

and the Vale. He hated to give up because of a rumor.

His jaw tightened. He hated to give up even more because it

meant the stories must be returned to the Vale and kept hidden

there, untold to those who needed to hear. It meant that the

repression of ideas and practices that clamped down about the

Four Lands like a vise had tightened one turn more.

"We have to go," Coil said, interrupting his thoughts.

Par felt a sudden rush of anger before realizing his brother

was not saying they must go from the city, but from the doorway

of the ale house to the performing stage inside. The crowd would

be waiting. He let his anger slip away and felt a sadness take its

place.

"I wish we lived in another age," he said softly. He paused,

watching the way Coil tensed. "I wish there were Elves and

Druids again. And heroes. I wish there could be heroes again-

even one."

He trailed off, thinking suddenly of something else.

Coil shoved away from the doorjamb, clapped one big hand

to his brother's shoulder, turned him about and started him back

down the darkened hallway. "If you keep singing about it, who

knows? Maybe there will be."

Par let himself be led away like a child. He was no longer

thinking about heroes though, or Elves or Druids, or even about

Seekers.

He was thinking about the dreams.

They told the story of the Elven stand at Halys Cut, how

Eventine Elessedil and the Elves and Stee Jans and the Legion

Free Corps fought to hold the Breakline against the onslaught

of the Demon hordes. It was one of Par's favorite stories, the

first of the great Elven battles in that terrible Westland war. They

stood on a low platform at one end of the main serving room,

Par in the forefront. Coil a step back and aside, the lights dimmed

against a sea of tightly packed bodies and watchful eyes. While

Coil narrated the story. Par sang to provide the accompanying

images, and the ale house came alive with the magic of his

voice. He invoked in the hundred or more gathered the feelings

of fear, anger, and determination that had infused the defenders

of the Cut. He let them see the fury of the Demons; he let them

hear their battle cries. He drew them in and would not let them

go. They stood in the pathway of the Demon assault. They saw

the wounding of Eventine and the emergence of his son Ander

as leader of the Elves. They watched the Druid Allanon stand

virtually alone against the Demon magic and turn it aside. They

experienced life and death with an intimacy that was almost

terrifying.

When Coil and he were finished, there was stunned silence,

then a wild thumping of ale glasses and cheers and shouts of

elation unmatched in any performance that had gone before. It

seemed for a moment that those gathered might bring the rafters

of the ale house down about their ears, so vehement were they

in their appreciation. Par was damp with his own sweat, aware

for the first time how much he had given to the telling. Yet his

mind was curiously detached as they left the platform for the

brief rest they were permitted between tellings, thinking still of

the dreams.

Coil stopped for a glass of ale by an open storage room and

Par continued down the hallway a short distance before coming

to an empty barrel turned upright by the cellar doors. He slumped

down wearily, his thoughts tight.

He had been having the dreams for almost a month now, and

he still didn't know why.

The dreams occurred with a frequency that was unsettling.

They always began with a black-cloaked figure that rose from a

lake, a figure that might be Allanon, a lake that might be the

Hadeshom. There was a shimmering of images in his dreams,

an ethereal quality to the visions that made them difficult to

decipher. The figure always spoke to him, always with the same

words. "Come to me; you are needed. The Four Lands are in

gravest danger; the magic is almost lost. Come now, Shannara

child."

There was more, although the rest varied. Sometimes there

were images of a world born of some unspeakable nightmare.

Sometimes there were images of the lost talismans-the Sword

of Shannara and the Elf stones. Sometimes there was a call for

Wren as well, little Wren, and sometimes a call for his uncle

Walker Boh. They were to come as well. They were needed,

too.

He had decided quite deliberately after the first night that the

dreams were a side effect of his prolonged use of the wishsong.

He sang the old stories of the Warlock Lord and the Skull Bear-

ers, of Demons and Mord Wraiths, of Allanon and a world

threatened by evil, and it was natural that something of those

stories and their images would carry over into his sleep. He had

tried to combat the effect by using the wishsong on lighter tell-

ings, but it hadn't helped. The dreams persisted. He had re-

frained from telling Coil, who would have simply used that as

a new excuse to advise him to stop invoking the magic of the

wishsong and return to the Vale.

Then, three nights ago, the dreams had stopped coming as

suddenly as they had started. Now he was wondering why. He

was wondering if perhaps he had mistaken their origin. He was

considering the possibility that instead of being self-induced,

they might have been sent.

But who would have sent them?

Allanon? Truly Allanon, who was three hundred years dead?

Someone else?

Something else? Something that had a reason of its own and

meant him no good?

He shivered at the prospect, brushed the matter from his mind,

and went quickly back up the hallway to find Coll.

The crowd was even larger for the second telling, the walls

lined with standing men who could not find chairs or benches

to sit upon. The Blue Whisker was a large house, the front

serving room over a hundred feet across and open to the rafters

above a stringing of oil lamps and fish netting that lent a sort of

veiled appearance that was apparently designed to suggest inti-

macy. Par couldn't have tolerated much more intimacy, so close

were the patrons of the ale house as they pressed up against the

platform, some actually sitting on it now as they drank. This

was a different group than earlier, although the Valeman was

hard-pressed to say why. It had a different feel to it, as if there

was something foreign in its makeup. Coil must have felt it, too.

He glanced over at Par several times as they prepared to per-

form, and there was uneasiness mirrored in his dark eyes.

A tall, black-bearded man wrapped in a dun-colored forest

cloak waded through the crowd to the platform's edge and eased

himself down between two other men. The two looked up as if

they intended to say something, then caught a close glimpse of

the other's face and apparently thought better of it. Par watched

momentarily and looked away. Everything felt wrong.

Coil leaned over as a rhythmic clapping began. The crowd

was growing restless. "Par, I don't like this. There's some-

thing . . ."

He didn't finish. The owner of the ale house came up and told

them in no uncertain terms to begin before the crowd got out of

hand and started breaking things. Coil stepped away wordlessly.

The lights dimmed, and Par started to sing. The story was the

one about Allanon and the battle with the Jachyra. Coil began

to speak, setting the stage, telling those gathered what sort of

day it was, what the glen was like into which the Druid came

with Brin Ohmsford and Rone Leah, how everything suddenly

grew hushed. Par created the images in the minds of his listen-

ers, instilling in them a sense of anxiety and expectation, trying

unsuccessfully not to experience the same feelings himself.

At the rear of the room, men were moving to block the doors

and windows, men suddenly shed of cloaks and dressed all in

black. Weapons glittered. There were patches of white on sleeves

and breasts, insignia of some sort. Par squinted, Elven vision

sharp.

A wolf's head.

The men in black were Seekers.

Par's voice faltered and the images shimmered and lost their

hold. Men began to grumble and look about. Coil stopped his

narration. There was movement everywhere. There was some-

one in the darkness behind them. There was someone all about.

Coil edged closer protectively.

Then the lights rose again, and a wedge of the black-garbed

Seekers pushed forward from the front door. There were shouts

and groans of protest, but the men making them were quick to

move out of the way. The owner of the Blue Whisker tried to

intervene, but was shoved aside.

The wedge of men came to a stop directly in front of the

platform. Another group blocked the exits. They wore black

from head to toe, their faces covered above their mouths, their

wolf-head insignia gleaming. They were armed with short

swords, daggers, and truncheons, and their weapons were held

ready. They were a mixed bunch, big and small, stiff and bent,

but there was a feral look to all of them, as much in the way

they held themselves as in their eyes.

Their leader was a huge, rangy man with tremendously long

arms and a powerful frame. There was a craggy cast to his face

where the mask ended, and a half-beard of coarse reddish hair

covered his chin. His left arm was gloved to the elbow.

"Your names?'' he asked. His voice was soft, almost a whis-

per.

Par hesitated. "What is it that we have done?"

"Is your name Ohmsford?" The speaker was studying him

intently.

Par nodded. "Yes. But we haven't..."

"You are under arrest for violating Federation Supreme

Law," the soft voice announced. There was a grumbling

sound from the patrons. "You have used magic in defiance

of. . ."

"They was just telling stories!" a man called out from a few

feet away.. One of the Seekers lashed out swiftly with his trun-

cheon and the man collapsed in a heap.

"You have used magic in defiance of Federation dictates and

thereby endangered the public.'' The speaker did not even bother

to glance at the fallen man. "You will be taken ..."

He never finished. An oil lamp dropped suddenly from the

center of the ceiling to the crowded ale house floor and exploded

in a shower of flames. Men sprang to their feet, howling. The

speaker and his companions turned in surprise. At the same

moment the tall, bearded man who had taken a seat on the

platform's edge earlier came to his feet with a lunge, vaulted

several other astonished patrons, and slammed into the knot of

Seekers, spilling them to the floor. The tall man leaped onto the

stage in front of Par and Coil and threw off his shabby cloak to

reveal a fully armed hunter dressed in forest green. One arm

lifted, the hand clenched in a fist.

"Free-born!" he shouted into the confusion.

It seemed that everything happened at once after that. The

decorative netting, somehow loosened, followed the oil lamp

to the floor, and practically everyone gathered at the Blue

Whisker was suddenly entangled. Yells and curses rose from

those trapped. At the doors, green-clad men pounced on the

bewildered Seekers and hammered them to the floor. Oil

lamps were smashed, and the room was plunged into dark-

ness.

The tall man moved past Par and Coil with a quickness they

would not have believed possible. He caught the first of the

Seekers blocking the back entrance with a sweep of one boot,

snapping the man's head back. A short sword and dagger ap-

peared, and the remaining two went down as well.

"This way, quick now!" he called back to Par and Coll.

They came at once. A dark shape clawed at them as they

rushed past, but Coil knocked the man from his feet into the

mass of struggling bodies. He reached back to be certain he had

not lost his brother, his big hand closing on Par's slender shoul-

der. Par yelled in spite of himself. Coil always forgot how strong

he was.

They cleared the stage and reached the back hallway, the tall

stranger several paces ahead. Someone tried to stop them, but

the stranger ran right over him. The din from the room behind

them was deafening, and flames were scattered everywhere now,

licking hungrily at the flooring and walls. The stranger led them

quickly down the hall and through the rear door into the alley-

way. Two more of the green-clad men waited. Wordlessly, they

surrounded the brothers and rushed them clear of the ale house.

Par glanced back. The flames were already leaping from the

windows and crawling up toward the roof. The Blue Whisker

had seen its last night.

They slipped down the alleyway past startled faces and

wide eyes, turned into a passageway Par would have sworn

he had never seen before despite his many excursions out that

way, passed through a scattering of doors and anterooms and

finally emerged into a new street entirely. No one spoke.

When at last they were beyond the sound of the shouting and

the glow of the fire, the stranger slowed, motioned his two

companions to take up watch and pulled Par and Coil into a

shadowed alcove.

All were breathing heavily from the run. The stranger

looked at them in turn, grinning. "A little exercise is good

for the digestion, they say. What do you think? Are you all

right?"

The brothers both nodded. "Who are you?" asked Par.

The grin broadened. "Why, practically one of the family,

lad. Don't you recognize me? Ah, you don't, do you? But,

then, why should you? After all, you and I have never

met. But the songs should remind you." He closed his left

hand into a fist, then thrust a single finger sharply at Par's

nose. "Remember now? "

Mystified, Par looked at Coil, but his brother appeared as

confused as he was. "I don't think . . ."he started.

"Well, well, it doesn't matter just at the moment. All in

good time.'' He bent close. ' 'This is no longer safe country

for you, lad. Certainly not here in Varfleet and probably not

in all of Callahom. Maybe not anywhere. Do you know who

that was back there? The ugly one with the whisper?"

Par tried to place the rangy speaker with the soft voice. He

couldn't. He shook his head slowly.

"Rimmer Dall," the stranger said, the smile gone now.

"First Seeker, the high mucky-muck himself. Sits on the Co-

alition Council when he's not out swatting flies. But you, he's

taken a special interest if he's come all the way to Varfleet to

arrest you. That's not part of his ordinary fly-swatting. That's

hunting bear. He thinks you are dangerous, lad-very dan-

gerous, indeed, or he wouldn't have bothered coming all the

way here. Good thing I was looking out for you. I was, you

know. Heard Rimmer Dall was going to come for you and

came to make sure he didn't get the job done. Mind now, he

won't give up. You slipped his grasp this time, but that will

make him just that much more determined. He'll keep com-

ing for you."

He paused, gauging the effect of what he was saying. Par

was staring at him speechlessly, so he went on. "That magic

of yours, the singing, that's real magic, isn't it? I've seen

enough of the other kind to know. You could put that magic

to good use, lad, if you had a mind to. It's wasted in these

ale houses and backstreets.''

"What do you mean?" Coil asked, suddenly suspicious.

The stranger smiled, charming and guileless. "The Move-

ment has need of such magic," he said softly.

Coil snorted. "You're one of the outlaws!"

The stranger executed a quick bow. "Yes, lad, I am proud

to say I am. More important, I am free-bom and I do not

accept Federation rule. No right-thinking man does." He

bent close. "You don't accept it yourself now, do you? Admit

it."

"Hardly," Coil answered defensively. "But I question

whether the outlaws are any better."

' 'Harsh words, lad!" the other exclaimed. ' 'A good thing for

you I do not take ofiense easily." He grinned roguishly.

"What is it you want?" Par interrupted quickly, his mind

clear again. He had been thinking of Rimmer Dall. He knew

the man's reputation and he was frightened of the prospect

of being hunted by him. "You want us to join you, is that

it?"

The stranger nodded. "You would find it worth your time, I

think."

But Par shook his head. It was one thing to accept the strang-

er's help in fleeing the Seekers. It was another to join the Move-

ment. The matter needed a great deal more thought. "I think

we had better decline for now," he said evenly. "That is, if

we're being given a choice.''

"Of course you are being given a choice!" The stranger

seemed offended.

"Then we have to say no. But we thank you for the offer and

especially for your help back there."

The stranger studied him a moment, solemn again. "You are

quite welcome, believe me. I wish only the best for you. Par

Ohmsford. Here, take this." He removed from one hand a ring

that was cast in silver and bore the insigne of a hawk. "My

friends know me by this. If you need a favor-or if you change

your mind-take this to Kiltan Forge at Reaver's End at the north

edge of the city and ask for the Archer. Can you remember

that?"

Par hesitated, then took the ring, nodding. "Butwhy. . . ?"

"Because there is much between us, lad," the other said

softly, anticipating his question. One hand reached out to rest

on his shoulder. The eyes took in Coil as well. "There is

history that binds us, a bond of such strength that it requires

I be there for you if I can. More, it requires that we stand

together against what is threatening this land. Remember that,

too. One day, we will do so, I think-if we all manage to

stay alive until then."

He grinned at the brothers and they stared back silently. The

stranger's hand dropped away. "Time to go now. Quickly, too.

The street runs east to the river. You can go where you wish

from there. But watch yourselves. Keep your backs well guarded.

This matter isn't finished."

' 'I know,'' Par said and extended his hand. ' 'Are you certain

you will not tell us your name?"

The stranger hesitated. "Another day," he said.

He gripped Par's hand tightly, then Coil's, then whistled his

companions to him. He waved once, then melted into the shad-

ows and was gone.

Par stared down momentarily at the ring, then glanced

questioningly at Coll. Somewhere close at hand, the sound of

shouting started up.

"I think the questions will have to wait," said Coil.

Par jammed the ring into his pocket. Wordlessly, they dis-

appeared into the night.

It was nearing midnight by the time Par and Coil reached

the waterfront section of Varfleet, and it was there that they

first realized how ill-prepared they were to make their es-

cape from Rimmer Dall and his Federation Seekers. Neither

had expected that flight would prove necessary, so neither had

brought anything that a lengthy journey might require. They had

no food, no blankets, no weapons save for the standard long

knives all Valemen wore, no camping gear or foul-weather

equipment, and worst of all, no money. The ale house keeper

hadn't paid them in a month. What money they had managed to

save from the month before had been lost in the fire along with

everything else they owned. They had only the clothes on their

backs and a growing fear that perhaps they should have stuck

with the nameless stranger a bit longer.

The waterfront was a ramshackle mass of boathouses, piers,

mending shops, and storage sheds. Lights burned along its

length, and dockworkers and fishermen drank and joked in the

light of oil lamps and pipes. Smoke rose out of tin stoves and

barrels, and the smell of fish hung over everything.

' 'Maybe they've given up on us for the night,'' Par suggested

at one point. "The Seekers, I mean. Maybe they won't bother

looking anymore until morning-or maybe not at all."

Coil glanced at him and arched one eyebrow meaningfully.

"Maybe cows can fly too." He looked away. "We should have

insisted we be paid more promptly for our work. Then we

wouldn't be in this fix."

Par shrugged. "It wouldn't have made any difference."

"It wouldn't? We'd at least have some money!"

' 'Only if we'd thought to carry it with us to the performance.

How likely is that?''

Coil hunched his shoulders and screwed up his face. "That

ale house keeper owes us."

They walked all the way to the south end of the docks without

speaking further, stopped finally as the lighted waterfront gave

way to darkness, and stood looking at each other. The night was

cooler now and their clothes were too thin to protect them. They

were shivering, their hands jammed down in their pockets, their

arms clamped tightly against their sides. Insects buzzed about

them annoyingly.

Coil sighed. "Do you have any idea where we're going. Par?

Do you have some kind of plan in mind?"

Par took out his hands and rubbed them briskly. "I do. But

it requires a boat to get there.''

"South, then-down the Mermidon?"

"All the way."

Coil smiled, misunderstanding. He thought they were headed

back to Shady Vale. Par decided it was best to leave him with

that impression.

"Wait here," Coil said suddenly and disappeared before Par

could object.

Par stood alone in the dark at the end of the docks for what

seemed like an hour, but was probably closer to half that. He

walked over to a bench by a fishing shack and sat down, hunched

up against the night air. He was feeling a mix of things. He was

angry, mostly-at the stranger for spiriting them away and then

abandoning them-all right, so Par had asked to have it that

way, that didn't make him feel any better-at the Federation for

chasing them out from the city like common thieves, and at

himself for being stupid enough to think he could get away with

using real magic when it was absolutely forbidden to do so. It

was one thing to play around with the magics of sleight of hand

and quick change; it was another altogether to employ the magic

of the wishsong. It was too obviously the real thing, and he

should have known that sooner or later word of its use would

get back to the authorities.

He put his legs out in front of him and crossed his boots.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Coil and he

would simply have to start over again. It never occurred to him

to quit. The stories were too important for that; it was his re-

sponsibility to see to it that they were not forgotten. He was

convinced that the magic was a gift he had received expressly

for that purpose. It didn't matter what the Federation said-that

magic was outlawed and that it was a source of great harm to

the land and its people. What did the Federation know of magic?

Those on the Coalition Council lacked any practical experience.

They had simply decided that something needed to be done to

address the concerns of those who claimed parts of the Four

Lands were sickening and men were being turned into some-

thing like the dark creatures of Jair Ohmsford's time, creatures

from some nether existence that defied understanding, beings

that drew their power from the night and from magics lost since

the time of the Druids.

They even had names, these creatures. They were called

Shadowen.

Suddenly, unpleasantly, Par thought again of the dreams and

of the dark thing within them that had summoned him.

He was aware then that the night had gone still; the voices of

the fishermen and dockworkers, the buzz of the insects, and

even the rustle of the night wind had disappeared. He could hear

the sound of his own pulse in his ears, and a whisper of some-

thing else . . .

Then a splash of water brought him to his feet with a start.

Coil appeared, clambering out of the Mermidon at the river's

edge a dozen feet away, shedding water as he came. He was

naked. Par recovered his composure and stared at him in dis-

belief.

"Shades, you frightened me! What were you doing?"

"What does it look like I was doing?" Coil grinned. "I was

out swimming!"

What he was really doing, Par discovered after applying a bit

more pressure, was appropriating a fishing skiff owned by the

keeper of the Blue Whisker. The keeper had mentioned it to

Coil once or twice when bragging about his fishing skills. Coil

had remembered it when Par had mentioned needing a boat,

remembered as well the description of the boat shed where the

man said it was kept, and gone off to find it. He'd simply swum

up to where it was stored, snapped the lock on the shed, slipped

the mooring lines and towed it away.

' 'It's the least he owes us after the kind of business we brought

in," he said defensively as he brushed himself dry and dressed.

Par didn't argue the point. They needed a boat worse than

the ale house keeper, and this was probably their only chance

to find one. Assuming the Seekers were still scouring the city

for them, their only other alternative was to strike out on foot

into the Runne Mountains-an undertaking that would require

more than a week. A ride down the Mermidon was a journey of

only a few days. It wasn't as if they were stealing the boat, after

all. He caught himself. Well, maybe it was. But they would

return it or provide proper compensation when they could.

The skiff was only a dozen feet in length, but it was equipped

with oars, fishing gear, some cooking and camping equipment,

a pair of blankets, and a canvas tarp. They boarded and pushed

off into the night, letting the current carry them out from the

shore and sweep them away.

They rode the river south for the remainder of the night, using

the oars to keep it in mid-channel, listening to the night sounds,

watching the shoreline, and trying to stay awake. As they trav-

eled, Coil offered his theory on what they should do next. It was

impossible, of course, to go back into Callahom any time in the

immediate future. The Federation would be looking for them.

It would be dangerous, in fact, to travel to any of the major

Southland cities because the Federation authorities stationed

there would be alerted as well. It was best that they simply return

to the Vale. They could still tell the stories-not right away

perhaps, but in a month or so after the Federation had stopped

looking for them. Then, later, they could travel to some of the

smaller hamlets, the more isolated communities, places the Fed-

eration seldom visited. It would all work out fine.

Par let him ramble. He was willing to bet that Coil didn't

believe a word of it; and even if he did, there was no point in

arguing about it now.

They pulled into shore at sunrise and made camp in a grove

of shade trees at the base of a windswept bluff, sleeping until

noon, then rising to catch and eat fish. They were back on the

river by early afternoon and continued on until well after sunset.

Again they pulled into shore and made camp. It was starting to

rain, and they put up the canvas to provide shelter. They made

a small fire, pulled the blankets close, and sat silently facing the

river, watching the raindrops swell its flow and form intricate

patterns on its shimmering surface.

They spoke then for a while about how things had changed

in the Four Lands since the time of Jair Ohmsford.

Three hundred years ago, the Federation governed only the

deep Southland cities, adopting a strict policy of isolationism.

The Coalition Council provided its leadership even then, a body

of men selected by the cities as representatives to its govern-

ment. But it was the Federation armies that gradually came to

dominate the Council, and in time the policy of isolationism

gave way to one of expansion. It was time to extend its sphere

of influence, the Federation determined-to push back its fron-

tiers and offer a choice of leadership to the remainder of the

Southland. It was logical that the Southland should be united

under a single government, and who better to do that than the

Federation?

That was the way it started. The Federation began a push

north, gobbling up bits and pieces of the Southland as it went.

A hundred years after the death of Jair Ohmsford, everything

south of Callahom was Federation governed. The other races,

the Elves, the Trolls, the Dwarves, and even the Gnomes cast

nervous glances south. Before long, Callahom agreed to be-

come a protectorate, its Kings long dead, its cities feuding and

divided, and the last buffer between the Federation and the other

lands disappeared.

It was about this same time that the rumors of the Shadowen

began to surface. It was said that the magic of the old days was

at fault, magic that had taken seed in the earth and nurtured

there for decades and was now coming to life. The magic took

many forms, sometimes as nothing more than a cold wind,

sometimes as something vaguely human. It was labeled, in any

case, as Shadowen. The Shadowen sickened the land and its

life, turning pockets of it into quagmires of decay and lifeless-

ness. They attacked mortal creatures, man or beast, and, when

they were sufficiently weakened, took them over completely,

stealing into their bodies and residing there, hidden wraiths.

They needed the life of others for their own sustenance. That

was how they survived.

The Federation lent credibility to those rumors by proclaim-

ing that such creatures might indeed exist and only it was strong

enough to protect against them.

No one argued that the magic might not be at fault or that the

Shadowen or whatever it was that was causing the problem had

nothing to do with magic at all. It was easier simply to accept

the explanation offered. After all, there hadn't been any magic

in the land since the passing of the Druids. The Ohmsfords told

their stories, of course, but only a few heard and fewer still

believed. Most thought the Druids just a legend. When Calla-

hom agreed to become a protectorate and the city ofTyrsis was

occupied, the Sword of Shannara disappeared. No one thought

much of it. No one knew how it happened, and no one much

cared. The Sword hadn't even been seen for over two hundred

years. There was only the vault that was said to contain it, the

blade set in a block of Tre-Stone, there in the center of the

People's Park-and then one day that was gone as well.

The Elfstones disappeared not long after. There was no rec-

ord of what became of them. Not even the Ohmsfords knew.

Then the Elves began to disappear as well, entire communi-

ties, whole cities at a time, until even Arborion was gone.

Finally, there were no more Elves at all; it was as if they had

never been. The Wesdand was deserted, save for a few hunters

and trappers from the other lands and the wandering bands of

Rovers. The Rovers, unwelcome anyplace else, had always been

there, but even the Rovers claimed to know nothing of what had

become of the Elves. The Federation quickly took advantage of

the situation. The Wesdand, it declared, was the seeding ground

for the magic that was at the root of die problems in die Four

Lands. It was the Elves, after all, who introduced magic into

the Lands years earlier. It was the Elves who first practiced it.

The magic had consumed them-an object lesson on what would

happen to all those who tried to do likewise.

The Federation emphasized the point by forbidding the prac-

tice of magic in any form. The Wesdand was made a protector-

ate, albeit an unoccupied one since the Federation lacked enough

soldiers to patrol so vast a territory unaided, but one dial would

be cleansed eventually, it was promised, of the ill effects of any

lingering magic.

Shortly after that, the Federation declared war on the

Dwarves. It did so ostensibly because die Dwarves had pro-

voked it, aldrough it was never made clear in what way. The

result was practically a forgone conclusion. The Federation had

the largest, most thoroughly equipped and best trained army in

the Four Lands by this time, and the Dwarves had no standing

army at all. The Dwarves no longer had the Elves as allies, as

they had all those years previous, and the Gnomes and Trolls

had never been friends. Nevertheless, the war lasted nearly five

years. The Dwarves knew die mountainous Eastiand far better

than the Federation, and even though Culhaven fell almost im-

mediately, the Dwarves continued to fight in the high country

until eventually they were starved into submission. They were

brought down out of the mountains and sent south to the Fed-

eration mines. Most died there. After seeing what happened to

the Dwarves, the Gnome tribes fell quickly into line. The Fed-

eration declared the Easdand a protectorate as well.

There remained a few pockets of isolated resistance. There

were still a handful of Dwarves and a scattering of Gnome tribes

that refused to recognize Federation rule and continued to fight

from the deep wilderness areas north and east. But they were

too few to make any difference.

To mark its unification of the greater portion of the Four Lands

and to honor those who had worked to achieve it, the Federation

constructed a monument at the north edge of the Rainbow Lake

where the Mermidon poured through the Runne. The monument

was constructed entirely of black granite, broad and square at

its base, curved inward as it rose over two hundred feet above

the cliffs, a monolithic tower that could be seen for miles in all

directions. The tower was called Southwatch.

That was almost a hundred years ago, and now only the Trolls

remained a free people, still entrenched deep within the moun-

tains of the Northland, the Chamals, and the Kershalt. That was

dangerous, hostile country, a natural fortress, and no one from

the Federation wanted much to do with it. The decision was

made to leave it alone as long as the Trolls did not interfere with

the other lands. The Trolls, very much a reclusive people for

the whole of their history, were happy to oblige.

"It's all so different now," Par concluded wistfully as they

continued to sit within their shelter and watch the rain fall into

the Mermidon. "No more Druids, no Paranor, no magic-

except the fake kind and the little we know. No Elves. Whatever

happened to them do you think?" He paused, but Coil didn't

have anything to say. "No monarchies, no Leah, no Buckhan-

nahs, no Legion Free Corps, no Callahom for all intents and

purposes."

"No freedom," Coil finished darkly.

"No freedom," Par echoed.

He rocked back, drawing his legs tight against his chest. "I

wish I knew how the Elfstones disappeared. And the Sword.

What happened to the Sword of Shannara?''

Coil shrugged. "Same thing that happens to everything even-

tually. It got lost."

"What do you mean? How could they let it get lost?"

' 'No one was taking care of it."

Par thought about that. It made sense. No one bothered much

with the magic after Allanon died, after the Druids were gone.

The magic was simply ignored, a relic from another time, a

thing feared and misunderstood for the most part. It was easier

to forget about it, and so they did. They all did. He had to

include the Ohmsfords as well-otherwise they would still have

the Elfstones. All that was left of their magic was the wishsong.

"We know the stories, the tales of what it was like; we have

all that history, and we still don't know anything,'' he said softly.

"We know the Federation doesn't want us talking about it,"

Coil offered archly. "We know that."

' 'There are times that I wonder what difference it makes any-

way. '' Par's face twisted into a grimace.' 'After all, people come

to hear us and the day after, who remembers? Anyone besides

us? And what if they do? It's all ancient history-not even that

to some. To some, it's legend and myth, a lot of nonsense."

"Not to everyone," Coil said quietly.

"What's the use of having the wishsong, if the telling of the

stories isn't going to make any difference? Maybe the stranger

was right. Maybe there are better uses for the magic."

"Like aiding the outlaws in their fight against the Federation?

Like getting yourself killed?" Coil shook his head. "That's as

pointless as not using it at all.''

There was a sudden splash from somewhere out in me river,

and the brothers turned as one to seek out its source. But there

was only the churning of rain-swollen waters and nothing else.

'' Everything seems pointless.'' Par kicked at the earth in front

of him. "What are we doing, Coil? Chased out of Varfleet as

much as if we were outlaws ourselves, forced to take that boat

like thieves, made to run for home like dogs with our tails be-

tween our legs.'' He paused, looking over at his brother.' 'Why

do you think we still have use of the magic?"

Coil's blocky face shifted slightly toward Par's. "What do

you mean?"

"Why do we have it? Why hasn't it disappeared along with

everything else? Do you think there's a reason?"

There was a long silence. "I don't know," Coil said finally.

He hesitated. "I don't know what it's like to have the magic."

Par stared at him, realizing suddenly what he had asked and

ashamed he had done so.

"Not that I'd want it, you understand," Coil added hastily,

aware of his brother's discomfort. ' 'One of us with the magic is

enough." He grinned.

Par grinned back. "I expect so." He looked at Coil appre-

ciatively for a moment, then yawned.' 'You want to go to sleep?''

Coil shook his head and eased his big frame back into the

shadows a bit. "No, I want to talk some more. It's a good night

for talking."

Nevertheless, he was silent then, as if he had nothing to say

after all. Par studied him for a few moments, then they both

looked back out over the Mermidon, watching as a massive tree

limb washed past, apparently knocked down by the storm. The

wind, which had blown hard at first, was quiet now, and the

rain was falling straight down, a steady, gentle sound as it passed

through the trees.

Par found himself thinking about the stranger who had res-

cued them from the Federation Seekers. He had puzzled over

the man's identity for the better part of the day, and he still hadn't

a clue as to who he was. There was something familiar about

him, though-something in the way he talked, an assurance, a

confidence. It reminded him of someone from one of the stories

he told, but he couldn't decide who. There were so many tales

and many of them were about men like that one, heroes in the

days of magic and Druids, heroes Par had thought were missing

from this age. Maybe he had been wrong. The stranger at the

Blue Whisker had been impressive in his rescue of them. He

seemed prepared to stand up to the Federation. Perhaps there

was hope for the Four Lands yet.

He leaned forward and fed another few sticks of deadwood

into the little fire, watching the smoke curl out from beneath the

canvas shelter into the night. Lightning flashed suddenly farther

east, and a long peal of thunder followed.

"Some dry clothes would be good right now," he muttered.

' 'Mine are damp just from the air.''

Coil nodded. "Some hot stew and bread, too."

"A bath and a warm bed."

' 'Maybe the smell of fresh spices.''

"And rose water."

Coil sighed. "At this point, I'd just settle for an end to this

confounded rain." He glanced out into the dark. "I could al-

most believe in Shadowen on a night like this, I think.''

Par decided suddenly to tell Coil about the dreams. He wanted

to talk about them, and there no longer seemed to be any reason

not to. He debated only a moment, then said, "I haven't said

anything before, but I've been having these dreams, the same

dream actually, over and over." Quickly he described it, focus-

ing on his confusion about the dark-robed figure who spoke to

him. "I don't see him clearly enough to be certain who he is,"

he explained carefully. "But he might be Allanon."

Coil shrugged. "He might be anybody. It's a dream, Par.

Dreams are always murky."

"But I've had this same dream a dozen, maybe two dozen

times. I thought at first it was just the magic working on me,

but ..." He stopped, biting his lip. "What if . . . ?" He

stopped again.

"What if what?"

"What if it isn't just the magic? What if it's an attempt by

Allanon-or someone-to send me a message of some sort?''

"A message to do what? To go traipsing off to the Hadeshom

or somewhere equally dangerous?" Coil shook his head. "I

wouldn't worry about it if I were you. And I certainly wouldn't

consider going." He frowned. "You aren't, are you? Consid-

ering going?"

"No," Par answered at once. Not until I think about it, at

least, he amended silently, surprised at the admission.

"That's a relief. We have enough problems as it is without

going off in search of dead Druids." Coil obviously considered

the matter settled.

Par didn't reply, choosing instead to poke at the fire with a

stray stick, nudging the embers this way and that. He was indeed

thinking about going, he realized. He hadn't considered it seri-

ously before, but all of a sudden he had a need to know what

the dreams meant. It didn't matter if they came from Allanon

or not. Some small voice inside him, some tiny bit of recogni-

tion, hinted that finding the source of the dreams might allow

him to discover something about himself and his use of the

magic. It bothered him that he was thinking like this, that he

was suddenly contemplating doing exactly what he had told him-

self he must not do right from the time the dreams had first

come to him. But that was no longer enough to deter him. There

was a history of dreams in the Ohmsford family and almost

always the dreams had a message.

"I just wish I was sure," he murmured.

Coil was stretched out on his back now, eyes closed against

the firelight. "Sure about what?"

"The dreams," he hedged. "About whether or not they were

sent."

Coil snorted. "I'm sure enough for the both of us. There

aren't any Druids. There aren't any Shadowen either. There

aren't any dark wraiths trying to send you messages in your

sleep. There's just you, overworked and under-rested, dreaming

bits and pieces of the stories you sing about."

Par lay back as well, pulling his blanket up about him. "I

suppose so," he agreed, inwardly not agreeing at all.

Coil rolled over on his side, yawning. "Tonight, you'll prob-

ably dream about floods and fishes, damp as it is."

Par said nothing. He listened for a time to the sound of the

rain, staring up at the dark expanse of the canvas, catching the

flicker of the firelight against its damp surface.

"Maybe I'll choose my own dream," he said softly.

Then he was asleep.

He did dream that night, the first time in almost two weeks.

It was the dream he wanted, the dream of the dark-robed figure,

and it was as if he were able to reach out and bring it to him. It

seemed to come at once, to slip from the depths of his subcon-

scious the moment sleep came. He was shocked at its sudden-

ness, but didn't wake. He saw the dark figure rise from the lake,

watched it come for him, vague yet faceless, so menacing that

he would have fled if he could. But the dream was master now

and would not let him. He heard himself asking why the dream

had been absent for so long, but there was no answer given. The

dark figure simply approached in silence, not speaking, not giv-

ing any indication of its purpose.

Then it came to a stop directly before him, a being that could

have been anything or anyone, good or evil, life or death.

Speak to me, he thought, frightened.

But the figure merely stood there, draped in shadow, silent

and immobile. It seemed to be waiting.

Then Par stepped forward and pushed back the cowl that hid

the other, emboldened by some inner strength he did not know

he possessed. He drew the cowl free and the face beneath was

as sharp as if etched in bright sunlight. He knew it instantly. He

had sung of it a thousand times. It was as familiar to him as his

own.

The face was Allanon's.

IV

When he came awake the next morning, Par decided

not to say anything to Coil about his dream, hi the

first place, he didn't know what to say. He couldn't

be sure if the dream had occurred on its own or because he had

been thinking so hard about having it-and even then he had no

way of knowing if it was the real thing. In the second place,

telling Coil would just start him off again on how foolish it was

for Par to keep thinking about something he obviously wasn't

going to do anything about. Was he? Then, if Par was honest

with him, they would fight about the advisability of going off

into the Dragon's Teeth in search of the Hadeshom and a three-

hundred-year-dead Druid. Better just to let the matter rest.

They ate a cold breakfast of wild berries and some stream

water, lucky to have that. The rains had stopped, but the sky

was overcast, and the day was gray and threatening. The wind

had returned, rather strong out of the northwest, and tree limbs

bent and leaves rustled wildly against its thrust. They packed

up their gear, boarded the skiff, and pushed off onto the river.

The Mermidon was heavily swollen, and the skiff tossed and

twisted roughly as it carried them south. Debris choked the

waters, and they kept the oars at hand to push off any large

pieces that threatened damage to the boat. The cliffs of the Runne

loomed daddy on either'side, wrapped in trailers of mist and

low-hanging clouds. It was cold in their shadow, and the broth-

ers felt their hands and feet grow quickly numb.

They pulled into shore and rested when they could, but it

accomplished little. There was nothing to eat and no way to get

warm without taking time to build a fire. By early afternoon, it

was raining again. It grew quickly colder in the rainfall, the wind

picked up, and it became dangerous to continue on the river.

When they found a small cove in the shelter of a stand of old

pine, they quickly maneuvered the skiff ashore and set camp for

the night.

They managed a fire, ate the fish Coil caught and tried their

best to dry out beneath the canvas with rain blowing in from

every side. They slept poorly, cold and uncomfortable, the wind

blowing down the canyon of the mountains and the river chum-

ing against its banks. That night, Par didn't dream at all.

Morning brought a much-needed change in the weather. The

storm moved east, the skies cleared and filled with bright sun-

light, and the air warmed once more. The brothers dried out

their clothing as their craft bore them south, and by midday it

was balmy enough to strip off tunics and boots and enjoy the

feel of the sun on their skin.

"As the saying goes, things always get better after a storm,"

Coil declared in satisfaction. "There'll be good weather now,

Par-you watch. Another three days and we'll be home."

Par smiled and said nothing.

The day wore on, turning lazy, and the summer smells of

trees and flowers began to fill the air again.

They sailed beneath Southwatch, its black granite bulk jutting

skyward out of the mountain rock at the edge of the river, silent

and inscrutable. Even from as far away as it was, the tower

looked forbidding, its stone grainy and opaque, so dark that it

seemed to absorb the light. There were all sorts of rumors about

Southwatch. Some said it was alive, that it fed upon the earth in

order to live. Some said it could move. Almost everyone agreed

that it seemed to keep getting bigger through some form of

ongoing construction. It appeared to be deserted. It always ap-

peared that way. An elite unit of Federation soldiers were sup-

posed to be in service to the tower, but no one ever saw them.

Just as well, Par thought as they drifted past undisturbed.

By late afternoon, they reached the mouth of the river where

it opened into the Rainbow Lake. The lake spread away before

them, a broad expanse of silver-tipped blue water turned golden

at its western edge by the sun as it slipped toward the horizon.

The rainbow from which it took its name arched overhead, faint

now in the blaze of sunlight, the blues and purples almost in-

visible, the reds and yellows washed of their color. Cranes glided

silently in the distance, long graceful bodies extended against

the light.

The Ohmsfords pulled their boat to the shore's edge and

beached it where a stand of shade trees fronted a low bluff. They

set their camp, hanging the canvas in the event of a change back

in the weather, and Coil fished while Par went off to gather wood

for an evening fire.

Par wandered the shoreline east for a ways, enjoying the bright

glaze of the lake's waters and the colors in the air. After a time,

he moved back up into the woods and began picking up pieces

of dry wood. He had gone only a short distance when the woods

turned dank and filled with a decaying smell. He noticed that

many of the trees seemed to be dying here, leaves wilted and

brown, limbs broken off, bark peeling. The ground cover looked

unwell, too. He poked and scraped at it with his boot and looked

about curiously. There didn't appear to be anything living here;

there were no small animals scurrying about and no birds calling

from the trees. The forest was deserted.

He decided to give up looking for firewood in this direction

and was working his way back toward the shoreline when he

caught sight of the house. It was a cottage, really, and scarcely

that. It was badly overgrown with weeds, vines, and scrub.

Boards hung loosely from its walls, shutters lay on the ground,

and the roof was caving hi. The glass in the windows was broken

out, and the front door stood open. It sat at the edge of a cove

that ran far back into the trees from the lake, and the water of

the cove was still and greenish with stagnation. The smell that

it gave off was sickening.

Par would have thought it deserted if not for the tiny column

of smoke that curled up from the crumbling chimney.

He hesitated, wondering why anyone would live in such sur-

roundings. He wondered if there really was someone there or if

the smoke was merely a residue. Then he wondered if whoever

was there needed help.

He almost went over to see, but there was something so odi-

ous about the cottage and its surroundings that he could not

make himself do so. Instead, he called out, asking if anyone

was home. He waited a moment, then called out again. When

there was no reply, he turned away almost gratefully and con-

tinued on his way.   '

Coil was waiting with the fish by the time he returned, so

they hastily built a fire and cooked dinner. They were both a

little tired of fish, but it was better than nothing and they were

more hungry than either would have imagined. When the dinner

was consumed, they sat watching as the sun dipped into the

horizon and the Rainbow Lake turned to silver. The skies dark-

ened and filled with stars, and the sounds of the night rose out

of dusk's stillness. Shadows from die forest trees lengthened and

joined and became dark pools that enveloped the last of the

daylight.

Par was in the process of trying to figure out a way to tell

Coil that he didn't think they should return to Shady Vale when

the woodswoman appeared.

She came out of the trees behind them, shambling from the

daik as if one of its shadows, all bent over and hunched down

against the fire's faint light. She was clothed in rags, layers of

them, all of which appeared to have been wrapped about her at

some time in the distant past and left there. Her head was bare,

and her rough, hard face peered out through long wisps of dense,

colorless hair. She might have been any age. Par thought; she

was so gnarled it was impossible to tell.

She edged out of the forest cautiously and stopped just beyond

the circle of the fire's yellow light, leaning heavily on a walking

stick worn with sweat and handling. One rough arm raised as

she pointed at Par. "You the one called me?" she asked, her

voice cracking like brittle wood.

Par stared at her in spite of himself. She looked like some-

thing brought out of the earth, something that had no right to be

alive and walking about. There was dirt and debris hanging from

her as if it had settled and taken root while she slept.

"Was it?" she pressed.

He finally figured out what she was talking about. "At the

cottage? Yes, that was me."

The woodswoman smiled, her face twisting with the effort,

her mouth neariy empty of teeth. "You ought to have come in,

not just stood out there," she whined. "Door was open "

"I didn't want. .."

"Keep it that way to be certain no one goes past without a

welcome. Fire's always on."

"I saw your smoke, but. . ."

' 'Gathering wood, were you? Come down out of Callahom?''

Her eyes shifted as she glanced past them to where the boat sat

beached. "Come a long way, have you?'' The eyes shifted back.

"Running from something, maybe?"

Par went instantly still. He exchanged a quick look with Coll.

The woman approached, the walking stick probing me ground

in front of her. "Lots run this way. All sorts. Come down out

of the outlaw country looking for something or other." She

stopped. "That you? Oh, there's those who'd have no part of

you, but I'm not one. No, not me!"

"We're not running," Coil spoke up suddenly.

"No? That why you're so well fitted out?" She swept the air

with the walking stick. "What's your names?"

' 'What do you want?'' Par asked abruptly. He was liking this

less and less.

The woodswoman edged forward another step. There was

something wrong with her, something that Par hadn't seen be-

fore. She didn't seem to be quite solid, shimmering a bit as if

she were walking through smoke or out of a mass of heated air.

Her body didn't move right either, and it was more than her age.

It was as if she were fastened together like one of the marionettes

they used in shows at the fairs, pinned at the joints and pulled

by strings.

The smell of the cove and the crumbling cottage clung to the

woodswoman even here. She sniffed the air suddenly as if aware

of it. "What's that?" She fixed her eyes on Par. "Do I smell

magic?"

Par went suddenly cold. Whoever this woman was, she was

no one they wanted anything to do with.

"Magic! Yes! Clean and pure and strong with life!" The

woodswoman's tongue licked out at the night air experimentally.

"Sweet as blood to wolves!"

That was enough for Coll. "You had better find your way

back to wherever you came from," he told her, not bothering

to disguise his antagonism. "You have no business here. Move

along."

But the woodswoman stayed where she was. Her mouth curled

into a snarl and her eyes suddenly turned as red as the fire's

coals.

"Come over here to me!" she whispered with a hiss. "You,

boy!" She pointed at Par. "Come over to me!"

She reached out with one hand. Par and Coil both moved

back guardedly, away from the fire. The woman came forward

several steps more, edging past the light, backing them further

toward the dark.

"Sweet boy?" she muttered, half to herself. "Let me taste

you, boy!"

The brothers held their ground against her now, refusing to

move any further from the light. The woodswoman saw the

determination in their eyes, and her smile was wicked. She came

forward, one step, another step . . .

Coil launched himself at her while she was watching Par,

trying to grasp her and pin her arms. But she was much quicker

than he, the walking stick slashing at him and catching him

alongside the head with a vicious whack mat sent him sprawling

to the earth. Instantly, she was after him, howling like a mad-

dened beast. But Par was quicker. He used the wishsong, almost

without thinking, sending forth a string of terrifying images.

She fell back, surprised, trying to fend the images off with her

hands and the stick. Par used the opportunity to reach Coil and

haul him to his feet. Hastily he pulled his brother back from

where his attacker clawed at me air.

The woodswoman stopped suddenly, letting the images play

about her, turning toward Par with a smile that froze his blood.

Par sent an image of a Demon wraith to frighten her, but this

time the woman reached out for the image, opened her mouth

and sucked in the air about her. The image evaporated. The

woman licked her lips and whined.

Par sent an armored warrior. The woodswoman devoured it

greedily. She was edging closer again, no longer slowed by the

images, actually anxious that he send more. She seemed to rel-

ish the taste of the magic; she seemed eager to consume it. Par

tried to steady Coil, but his brother was sagging in his arms,

still stunned. "Coil, wake up!" he whispered urgently.

"Come, boy," the woodswoman repeated softly. She beck-

oned and moved closer. "Come feed me!"

Then the fire exploded in a flash of light, and the clearing

was turned as bright as day. The woodswoman shrank away

from the brightness, and her sudden cry ended in a snarl of rage.

Par blinked and peered through the glow.

An old man emerged from the trees, white-haired and gray-

robed, with skin as brown as seasoned wood. He stepped from

the darkness into the light like a ghost come into being. There

was a fierce smile on his mouth and a strange brightness in his

eyes. Par wheeled about guardedly, fumbling for the long knife

at his belt. Two of them, he thought desperately, and again he

shook Coil in an effort to rouse him.

But the old man paid him no notice. He concentrated instead

on the woodswoman. "I know you," he said softly. "You

frighten no one. Begone from here or you shall deal with me!"

The woodswoman hissed at him like a snake and crouched as

if to spring. But she saw something in the old man's face that

kept her from attacking. Slowly, she began to edge back around

the fire.

"Go back into the dark," whispered the old man.

The woodswoman hissed a final time, then turned and dis-

appeared into the trees without a sound. Her smell lingered on

a moment longer, then faded. The old man waved almost ab-

sently at the fire, and it returned to normal. The night filled

again with comforting sounds, and everything was as before.

The old man snorted and came forward into the firelight.

"Bah. One of nighttime's little horrors come out to play," he

muttered in disgust. He looked at Par quizzically.' 'You all right,

young Ohmsford? And this one? Coil, is it? That was a nasty

blow he took."

Par eased Coil to the ground, nodding. "Yes, thanks. Could

you hand me that cloth and a little water?''

The old man did as he was asked, and Par wiped the side of

Coil's head where an ugly bruise was already beginning to form.

Coil winced, sat forward, and put his head down between his

legs, waiting for the throbbing to ease off. Par looked up. It

dawned on him suddenly that the old man had used Coil's name.

' 'How do you know who we are?" he asked, his tone guarded.

The old man kept his gaze steady. "Well, now. I know who

you are because I've come looking for you. But I'm not your

enemy, if that's what you're thinking."

Par shook his head. ' 'Not really. Not after helping us the way

you did. Thank you."

"No need for thanks."

Par nodded again. "That woman, or whatever she was-she

seemed frightened of you." He didn't make it a question, he

made it a statement of fact.

The old man shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Do you know her?"

"I know of her."

Par hesitated, uncertain whether to press the matter or not.

He decided to let it drop. "So. Why are you looking for us?"

"Oh, that's rather a long story, I'm afraid," the old man

answered, sounding very much as if the effort required to tell it

was entirely beyond him. "I don't suppose we might sit down

while we talk about it? The fire's warmth provides some relief

for these ageing bones. And you wouldn't happen to have a

touch of ale, would you? No? Pity. Well, I suppose there was

no chance to procure such amenities, the way you were hustled

out of Varfleet. Lucky to escape with your skins under the cir-

cumstances."

He ambled in close and lowered himself gingerly to the grass,

folding his legs before him, draping his gray robes carefully

about. "Thought I'd catch up with you there, you know. But

then that disruption by the Federation occurred, and you were

on your way south before I could stop you."

He reached for a cup and dipped it into the water bucket,

drinking deeply. Coil was sitting up now, watching, the damp

cloth still held to the side of his head. Par sat down next to him.

The old man finished his water and wiped his mouth on his

sleeve. "Allanon sent me," he declared perfunctorily.

There was a long silence as the Ohmsford brothers stared first

at him, then at each other, then back again at him.

"Allanon?" Par repeated.

"Allanon has been dead for three hundred years," Coil in-

terjected bluntly.

The old man nodded. "Indeed. I misspoke: It was actually

Allanon's ghost, his shade-but Allanon, still, for all intents and

purposes."

"Allanon's shade?" Coil took the cloth from the side of his

head, his injury forgotten. He did not bother to hide his disbe-

lief.

The old man rubbed his bearded chin. "Now, now, you will

have to be patient for a moment or two until I've had a chance

to explain. Much of what I am going to tell you will be hard for

you to accept, but you must try. Believe me when I tell you that

it is very important."

He rubbed his hands briskly in the direction of the fire.

"Think of me as a messenger for the moment, will you? Think

of me as a messenger sent by Allanon, for that's all I am to you

just now. You, Par. Why have you been ignoring the dreams?"

Par stiffened. "You know about that?"

' 'The dreams were sent by Allanon to bring you to him. Don't

you understand? That was his voice speaking to you, his shade

come to address you. He summons you to the Hadeshom-you,

your cousin Wren, and ..."

"Wren?" Coil interrupted, incredulous.

The old man looked perturbed. "That's what I said, didn't I?

Am I going to have to repeat everything? Your cousin, Wren

Ohmsford. And Walker Boh as well.''

"Uncle Walker," Par said softly. "I remember."

Coil glanced at his brother, then shook his head in disgust.

' 'This is ridiculous. No one knows where either of them is!" he

snapped. "Wren lives somewhere in the Wesdand with the Rov-

ers. She lives out of the back of a wagon! And Walker Boh hasn't

been seen by anyone for almost ten years. He might be dead,

for all we know!"

"He might, but he isn't," the old man said testily. He gave

Coil a meaningful stare, then returned his gaze to Par. "All of

you are to come to the Hadeshom by the close of the present

moon's cycle. On the first night of the new moon, Allanon will

speak with you there.''

Par felt a chill go through him. "About magic?"

Coil seized his brother's shoulders. "About Shadowen?" he

mimicked, widening his eyes.

The old man bent forward suddenly, his face gone hard.

"About what he chooses! Yes, about magic! And about Shad-

owen! About creatures like the one that knocked you aside just

now as if you were a baby! But mostly, I think, young Coil,

about this!"

He threw a dash of dark powder into the fire with a sudden-

ness that caused Par and Coil to jerk back sharply. The fire flared

as it had when the old man had first appeared, but this time the

light was drawn out of the air and everything went dark.

Then an image formed in the blackness, growing in size until

it seemed to be all around them. It was an image of the Four

Lands, the countryside barren and empty, stripped of life and

left ruined. Darkness and a haze of ash-filled smoke hung over

everything. Rivers were filled with debris, the waters poisoned.

Trees were bent and blasted, shorn of life. Nothing but scrub

grew anywhere. Men crept about like animals, and animals fled

at their coming. There were shadows with strange red eyes cir-

cling everywhere, dipping and playing within those humans who

crept, twisting and turning them until they lost their shape and

became unrecognizable.

It was a nightmare of such fury and terror that it seemed to

Par and Coil Ohmsford as if it were happening to them, and that

the screams emanating from the mouths of the tortured humans

were their own.

Then the image was gone, and they were back again about

the fire, the old man sitting there, watching them with hawk's

eyes.

"That was a part of my dream," Par whispered.

"That was the future," the old man said.

"Or a trick," a shaken Coil muttered, stiffening against his

own fear.

The old man glared. "The future is an ever-shifting maze of

possibilities until it becomes the present. The future I have shown

you tonight is not yet fixed. But it is more likely to become so

with the passing of every day because nothing is being done to

turn it aside. If you would change it, do as I have told you. Go

to Allanon! Listen to what he will say!"

Coil said nothing, his dark eyes uneasy with doubt.

"Tell us who you are," Par said softly.

The old man turned to him, studied him for a moment, then

looked away from them both, staring out into the darkness as if

there were worlds and lives hidden there that only he could see.

Finally, he looked back again, nodding.

"Very well, though I can't see what difference it makes. I

have a name, a name you should both recognize quickly enough.

My name is Cogline."

For an instant, neither Par nor Coil said anything. Then both

began speaking at once.

"Cogline, the same Cogline who lived in the Eastland

with . . . ?"

"You mean the same man Kimber Boh . . . ?"

He cut them short irritably. "Yes, yes! How many Coglines

can there possibly be!" He frowned as he saw the looks on their

faces. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Par took a deep breath. "Cogline was an old man in the time

of Brin Ohmsford. That was three hundred years ago."

Unexpectedly, the other laughed. "An old man! Ha! And

what do you know of old men. Par Ohmsford? Fact is, you don't

know a whisker's worth!" He laughed, then shook his head

helplessly.' 'Listen. Allanon was alive five hundred years before

he died! You don't question that, do you? I think not, since you

tell the story so readily! Is it so astonishing then that I have been

alive for a mere three hundred years?" He paused, and there

was a surprisingly mischievous look in his eye. "Goodness,

what would you have said if I had told you I had been alive

longer even than that?"

Then he waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, don't bother

to answer. Answer me this instead. What do you know about

me? About the Cogline of your stories? Tell me."

Par shook his head, confused. "That he was a hermit, living

off in the Wilderun with his granddaughter, Kimber Boh. That

my ancestor, Brin Ohmsford, and her companion. Rone Leah,

found him there when they ..."

' 'Yes, yes, but what about the man? Think now of what you've

seen of me!"

Par shrugged. "That he . . ." He stopped. "That he used

powders that exploded. That he knew something of the old sci-

ences, that he'd studied them somewhere." He was remember-

ing the specifics of the tales of Cogline now, and in remembering

found himself thinking that maybe this old man's claim wasn't

so farfetched. "He employed different forms of power, the sorts

that the Druids had discarded in their rebuilding of the old world.

Shades! If you are Cogline, you must still have such power. Do

you? Is it magic like my own?"

Coil looked suddenly worried. "Par!"

"Like your own?" the old man asked quickly. "Magic like

the wishsong? Hah! Never! Never so unpredictable as that! That

was always the trouble with the Druids and their Elven magics-

too unpredictable! The power I wield is grounded in sciences

proven and tested through the years by reliable study! It doesn't

act of its own accord; it doesn't evolve like something alive!"

He stopped, a fierce smile creasing his aged face. "But then,

too. Par Ohmsford, my power doesn't sing either!"

"Are you really Cogline?" Par asked softly, his amazement

at it being possible apparent in his voice.

"Yes," the old man whispered back. "Yes, Par." He swung

quickly then to face Coil, who was about to interrupt, placing a

narrow, bony finger to his lips. "Shhhh, young Ohmsford, I

know you still disbelieve, and your brother as well, but just

listen for a moment. You are children of the Elven house of

Shannara. There have not been many and always much has been

expected of them. It will be so with you as well, I think. More

so, perhaps. I am not permitted to see. I am just a messenger,

as I have told you-a poor messenger at best. An unwilling

messenger, truth is. But I am all that Allanon has."

' 'But why you?'' Par managed to interject, his lean face trou-

bled now and intense.

The old man paused, his gnarled, wrinkled face tightening

even further as if the question demanded too much of him. When

he spoke finally, it was in a stillness that was palpable.

"Because I was a Druid once, so long ago I can scarcely

remember what it felt like. I studied the ways of the magic and

the ways of the discarded sciences and chose the latter, forsak-

ing thereby any claim to the former and the right to continue

with the others. Allanon knew me, or if you prefer, he knew

about me, and he remembered what I was. But, wait. I embel-

lish a bit by claiming I actually was a Druid. I wasn't; I was

simply a student of the ways. But Allanon remembered in any

case. When he came to me, it was as one Druid to another,

though he did not say as much. He lacks anyone but myself to

do what is needed now, to come after you and the others, to

advise them of the legitimacy of their dreams. All have had them

by now, you understand-Wren and Walker Boh as well as you.

All have been given a vision of the danger the future holds. No

one responds. So he sends me."

The sharp eyes blinked away the memory. "I was a Druid

once, in spirit if not in practice, and I practice still many of the

Druid ways. No one knew. Not my grandchild Kimber, not your

ancestors, no one. I have lived many different lives, you see.

When I went with Brin Ohmsford into the country of the Mael-

mord, it was as Cogline the hermit, half-crazed, half-able, car-

rying magic powders filled with strange notions. That was who

I was then. That was the person I had become. It took me years

afterward, long after Kimber had gone, to recover myself, to act

and talk like myself again."

He sighed. "It was the Druid Sleep that kept me alive for so

long. I knew its secret; I had carried it with me when I left them.

I thought many times not to bother, to give myself over to death

and not cling so. But something kept me from giving way, and

I think now that perhaps it was Allanon, reaching back from his

death to assure that the Druids might have at least one spokes-

man after he was gone.''

He saw the beginning of the question in Par's eyes, anticipated

its wording, and quickly shook his head. "No, no, not me! I

am not the spokesman he needs! I barely have time enough left

me to carry the message I have been given. Allanon knows that.

He knew better than to come to me to ask that I accept a life I

once rejected. He must ask that of someone else.''

"Me?" asked Par at once.

The old man paused. "Perhaps. Why don't you ask him

yourself?"

No one said anything, hunched forward toward the firelight

as the darkness pressed close all about. The cries of the night

birds echoed faintly across the waters of the Rainbow Lake, a

haunting sound that somehow seemed to measure the depth of

the uncertainty Par felt.

"I want to ask him," he said finally. "I need to, I think."

The old man pursed his thin lips. "Then you must."

Coil started to say something, then thought better of it. ' 'This

whole business needs some careful thought," he said finally.

"There is little time for that," the old man grumbled.

"Then we shouldn't squander what we have," Coil replied

simply. He was no longer abrasive as he spoke, merely insistent.

Par looked at his brother a moment, then nodded. "Coil is

right. I will have to think about this.''

The old man shrugged as if to indicate that he realized there

was nothing more he could do and came to his feet. "I have

given you the message I was sent to give, so I must be on my

way. There are others to be visited."

Par and Coil rose with him, surprised. "You're leaving now,

tonight?" Par asked quickly. Somehow he had expected the old

man to stay on, to keep trying to persuade him of the purpose

of the dreams.

"Seems best. The quicker I get on with my journey, the

quicker it ends. I told you, I came first to you."

"But how will you find Wren or Walker?" Coil wanted to

know.

"Same way I found you." The old man snapped his fingers

and there was a brief flash of silver light. He grinned, his face

skeletal in the firelight. "Magic!"

He reached out his bony hand. Par took it first and found the

old man's grip like iron. Coil found the same. They glanced at

each other.

"Let me offer you some advice," the old man said abruptly.

"Not that you'll necessarily take it, of course-but maybe. You

tell these stories, these tales of Druids and magic and your an-

cestors, all of it a kind of litany of what's been and gone. That's

fine, but you don't want to lose sight of the fact that what's

happening here and now is what counts. All the telling in the

world won't mean a whisker if that vision I showed you comes

to pass. You have to live in this world-not in some other. Magic

serves a lot of purposes, but you don't use it any way but one.

You have to see what else it can do. And you can't do that until

you understand it. I suggest you don't understand it at all, either

one of you."

He studied them a moment, then turned and shambled off

into the dark. "Don't forget, first night of the new moon!" He

stopped when he was just a shadow and glanced back. "Some-

thing else you'd better remember and that's to watch your-

selves." His voice had a new edge to it. "The Shadowen aren't

just rumors and old wives' tales. They're as real as you and I.

You may not have thought so before tonight, but now you know

different. They'll be out there, everywhere you're likely to go.

That woman, she was one of them. She came sniffing around

because she could sense you have the magic. Others will do the

same."

He started moving away again. "Lots of things are going to

be hunting you," he warned softly.

He mumbled something further to himself that neither of them

could hear as he disappeared slowly into the darkness.

Then he was gone.

v

Par and Coil Ohmsford did not get much sleep that night.

They stayed awake long after the old man was gone,

talking and sometimes arguing, worrying without al-

ways saying as much, eyes constantly scanning the darkness

against the promise that things, Shadowen or otherwise, were

likely to be hunting them. Even after that, when there was noth-

ing left to say, when they had rolled themselves wearily into

their blankets and closed their eyes against their fears, they did

not sleep well. They rolled and tossed in their slumber, waking

themselves and each other with distressing regularity until dawn.

They rose then, dragged themselves from the warmth of their

coverings, washed in the chilling waters of the lake, and

promptly began talking and arguing all over again. They contin-

ued through breakfast, which was just as well because once

again there wasn't much to eat and it took their minds off their

stomachs. The talk, and more often now the arguments, cen-

tered around the old man who claimed to be Cogline and the

dreams mat might or might not have been sent and if sent might

or might not have been sent by Allanon, but included such pe-

ripheral topics as Shadowen, Federation Seekers, the stranger

who had rescued them in Varfleet, and whether there was sense

to the world anymore or not. They had established their posi-

tions on these subjects fefiriy well by this time, positions that,

for the most part, weren't within a week's walk of each other.

That being the case, they were reduced to communicating with

each other across vast stretches of intractability.

Before their day was even an hour old, they were already

thoroughly fed up with each other.

"You cannot deny that the possibility exists that the old man

really is Cogtine!" Par insisted for what must have been the

hundredth time as they carried the canvas tarp down to the skiff

for stowing.

Coil managed a quick shrug. "I'm not denying it."

' 'And if he really is Cogline, then you cannot deny the pos-

sibility that everything he told us is the truth!"

"I'm not denying that either."

"What about the woodswoman? What was she if not a Shad-

owen, a night thing with magic stronger than our own?''

"Your own."

Par fumed. "Sorry. My own. The point is, she was a Shad-

owen! She had to be! That makes at least part of what the old

man told us the truth, no matter how you view it!''

' 'Wait a minute.'' Coil dropped his end of the tarp and stood

there with his hands on his hips, regarding his brother with

studied dismay. "You do this all the time when we argue. You

make these ridiculous leaps in logic and act as if they make

perfect sense. How does it follow that, if that woman was a

Shadowen, the old man was telling the truth?"

' 'Well, because, if. . ."

"I won't even question your assumption that she was a Shad-

owen," Coil interrupted pointedly. "Even though we haven't

the faintest idea what a Shadowen is. Even though she might

just as easily have been something else altogether."

"Something else? What sort of, . . ?"

' 'Like a companion to the old man, for instance. Like a decoy

to give his tale validity.''

Par was incensed. "That's ridiculous! What would be the

purpose of that?"

Coil pursed his lips thoughtfully.' 'To persuade you to go with

him to the Hadeshom, naturally. To bring you back into Calla-

hom. Think about it. Maybe the old man is interested in the

magic, too-just like the Federation."

Par shook his head vehemently. "I don't believe it."

"That's because you never like to believe anything that you

haven't thought of first," Coil declared pointedly, picking up

his end of the tarp again. "You decide something and that's the

end of it. Well, this time you had better not make your decision

too quickly. There are other possibilities to consider, and I've

just given you one of them."

They walked down to the shoreline in silence and deposited

the tarp in the bottom of the skiff. The sun was barely above the

eastern horizon, and already the day was beginning to feel warm.

The Rainbow Lake was smooth, the air windless and filled with

the scent of wildflowers and long grass.

Coil turned. "You know, it's not that I mind you being de-

cisive about things. It's just that you then assume I ought simply

to agree. I shouldn't argue, I should acquiesce. Well, I am not

going to do that. If you want to strike out for the Hadeshom and

the Dragon's Teeth-fine, you go right ahead. But quit acting as

if I ought to jump at the chance to go along.''

Par didn't say anything back right away. Instead, he thought

about what it had been like for them growing up. Par was the

older by two years and while physically smaller than Coil, he

had always been the leader. He had me magic, after all, and that

had always set him apart. It was true, he was decisive; it had

been necessary to be decisive when faced with the temptation

to use the magic to solve every situation. He had not been as

even-tempered as he should have; he wasn't any better now. Coil

had always been the more controlled of the two-slower to an-

ger, thoughtful and deliberate, a bom peacemaker in the neigh-

borhood fights and squabbles because no one else had the

physical and emotional presence. Or was as well liked, he

added-because Coil was always that, the sort of fellow that

everyone takes to instantly. He spent his time looking after ev-

eryone, smoothing over hard feelings, restoring injured pride.

Par was always charging around, oblivious to such things, busy

searching for new places to explore, new challenges to engage,

new ideas to develop. He was visionary, but he lacked Coil's

sensitivity. He foresaw so clearly life's possibilities, but Coil

was the one who understood best its sacrifices.

There had been a good many times when they had covered for

each other's mistakes. But Par had the magic to fall back on and

covering up for Coil had seldom cost him anything. It hadn't been

like that for Coil. Covering up for Par had sometimes cost him a

great deal. Yet Par was his brother, whom he loved, and he never

complained. Sometimes, thinking back on those days, Par was

ashamed of how much he had let his brother do for him.

He brushed the memories aside. Coil was looking at him,

waiting for his response. Par shifted his feet impatiently and

thought about what that response ought to be. Then he said

simply, "All right. What do you think we should do?"

"Shades, I don't know what we should do!" Coil said at

once. "I just know that there are a lot of unanswered questions,

and I don't think we should commit ourselves to anything until

we've had a chance to answer some of mem!''

Par nodded stoically.' 'Before the time of the new moon, you

mean."

"That's better than three weeks away and you know it!"

Par's jaw tightened. "That's not as much time as you make

it seem! How are we supposed to answer all the questions we

have before then?"

Coil stared at him. "You are impossible, you know that?"

He turned and walked back from the shoreline to where the

blankets and cooking gear were stacked and began carrying them

down to the skiff. He didn't look at Par. Par stood where he was

and watched his brother in silence. He was remembering how

Coil had pulled him half-drowned from the Rappahalladran when

he had fallen in the rapids on a camping trip. He had gone under

and Coil had been forced to dive down for him. He became sick

afterward and Coil had carried him home on his back, shaking

with fever and half-delirious. Coil was always looking out for

him, it seemed. Why was that, he wondered suddenly, when he

was the one with the magic?

Coil finished packing the skiff, and Par walked over to him.

"I'm sorry," he said and waited.

Coil looked down at him solemnly a moment, then grinned.

"No, you're not. You're just saying that."

Par grinned back in spite of himself. "I am not!"

"Yes, you are. You just want to put me off my guard so you

can start in again with your confounded decision-making once

we're out in the middle of that lake where I can't walk away

from you!" His brother was laughing openly now.

Par did his best to look mortified. "Okay, it's true. I'm not

sorry.''

"I knew it!" Coil was triumphant.

"But you're wrong about the reason for the apology. It has

nothing to do with getting you out in the middle of the lake. I'm

just trying to shed the burden of guilt I've always felt at being

the older brother.''

' 'Don't worry!'' Coil was doubled over.' 'You've always been

a terrible older brother!''

Par shoved him, Coil shoved back, and for the moment their

differences were forgotten. They laughed, took a final look about

the campsite and pushed the skiff out onto the lake, clambering

aboard as it reached deeper water. Coil took up the oars without

asking and began to row.

They followed the shoreline west, listening contentedly as the

distant sounds of birds rose out of the trees and rushes, letting

the day grow pleasantly warm about them. They didn't talk for

a while, satisfied with the renewed feeling of closeness they had

found on setting out, anxious to avoid arguing again right away.

Nevertheless, Par found himself rehashing matters in his

mind-much the same as he was certain Coil was doing. His

brother was right about one thing- there were a lot of unan-

swered questions. Reflecting on the events of the previous eve-

ning, Par found himself wishing he had thought to ask the old

man for a bit more information. Did the old man know, for

instance, who the stranger was who had rescued them in Var-

fleet? The old man had known about their trouble there and must

have had some idea how they escaped. The old man had man-

aged to track them, first to Varfleet, then down the Mermidon,

and he had frightened off the woodswoman-Shadowen or what-

ever-without much effort. He had some form of power at his

command, possibly Druid magic, possibly old world science-

but he had never said what it was or what it did. Exactly what

was his relationship with Allanon? Or was that simply a claim

without any basis in fact? And why was it that he had given up

on Par so easily when Par had said he must think over the matter

of going off to the Hadeshom for a meeting with Allanon?

Shouldn't he have worked harder at persuading Par to go?

But the most disturbing question was one that Par could not

bring himself to discuss with Coil at all-because it concerned

Coil himself. The dreams had told Par that he was needed and

that his cousin Wren and his uncle Walker Boh were needed as

well. The old man had said the same-that Par, Wren, and

Walker had been called.

Why was there no mention of Coil?

It was a question for which he had no answer at all. He had

thought at first that it was because he had the magic and Coil

didn't, that the summons had something to do with the wish-

song. But then why was Wren needed? Wren had no magic

either. Walker Boh was different, of course, since it had always

been rumored that he knew something of magic that none of the

others did. But not Wren. And not Coll. Yet Wren had been

specifically named and Coil hadn't.

It was this more than anything that made him question what

he should do. He wanted to know the reason for the dreams; if

the old man was right about Allanon, Par wanted to know what

the Druid had to say. But he did not want to know any of it if it

meant separating from Coll. Coil was more than his brother; he

was his closest friend, his most trusted companion, practically

his other self. Par did not intend to become involved in some-

thing where both were not wanted. He simply wasn't going to

doit.

Yet the old man had not forbidden Coil to come. Nor had the

dreams. Neither had warned against it.

They had simply ignored him.

Why would that be?

The morning lengthened, and a wind came up. The brothers

rigged a sail and mast using the canvas tarp and one of the oars,

and soon they were speeding across the Rainbow Lake, the wa-

ters slapping and foaming about them. Several times they almost

went over, but they stayed alert to sudden shifts in the wind and

used their body weight to avoid capsizing. They set a southwest

course and by early afternoon had reached the mouth of the

Rappahalladran.

There they beached the skiff in a small cove, covered it with

rushes and boughs, left everything within but the blankets and

cooking gear, and began hiking upriver toward the Duln for-

ests. It soon became expedient to cut across country to save

time, and they left the river, moving up into the Highlands of

Lean. They hadn't spoken about where they were going since

the previous evening, when the tacit understanding had been

that they would debate the matter later. They hadn't, of course.

Neither had brought the subject up again, Coil because they

were moving in the direction he wanted to go anyway, and Par

because he had decided that Coil was right that some thinking

needed to be done before any trip back north into Callahom was

undertaken. Shady Vale was as good a place as any to complete

that thinking.

Oddly enough, though they hadn't talked about the dreams or

the old man or any of the rest of it since early that morning,

they had begun separately to rethink their respective positions

and to move closer together-each inwardly conceding that

maybe the other made some sense after all.

By the time they began discussing matters again, they were

no longer arguing. It was midaflemoon, the summer day hot

and sticky now, the sun a blinding white sphere before them as

they walked, forcing them to shield their eyes protectively. The

country was a mass of rolling hills, a carpet of grasses and

wildflowers dotted with stands of broad-leafed trees and patches

of scrub and rock. The mists that blanketed the Highlands year-

round had retreated to the higher elevations in the face of the

sun's brightness and clung to the tips of the ridgelines and bluffs

like scattered strips of linen.

' 'I think that woodswoman was genuinely afraid of the old

man," Par was saying as they climbed a long, gradual slope

into a stand of ash. "I don't think she was pretending. No one's

that good an actor.''

Coil nodded. "I think you're right. I just said all that earlier

about the two of them being in league to make you think. I can't

help wondering, though, if the old man is telling us everything

he knows. What I mostly remember about Allanon in the stories

is that he was decidedly circumspect in his dealings with the

Ohmsfords."

"He never told them everything, that's true."

' 'So maybe the old man is the same way.''

They crested the hill, moved into the shade of the ash trees,

dropped their rolled-up blankets wearily and stood looking out

at the Highlands. Both were sweating freely, their tunics damp

against their backs.

"We won't make Shady Vale tonight," Par said, settling to

the ground against one of the trees.

' 'No, it doesn't look like it.'' Coil joined him, stretching until

his bones cracked.

"I was thinking."

"Good for you."

"I was thinking about where we might spend the night. It

would be nice to sleep in a bed for a change.''

Coil laughed. "You won't get any argument out of me. Got

any idea where we can find a bed out here in the middle of

nowhere?"

Par turned slowly and looked at him. "Matter-of-fact, I do.

Morgan's hunting lodge is just a few miles south. I bet we could

borrow it for the night.''

Coil frowned thoughtfully. "Yes, I bet we could."

Morgan Leah was the eldest son in a family whose ancestors

had once been Kings of Leah. But the monarchy had been over-

thrown almost two hundred years ago when the Federation had

expanded northward and simply consumed the Highlands in a

single bite. There had been no Leah kings since, and the family

had survived as gentlemen farmers and craftsmen over the years.

The current head of the family, Kyle Leah, was a landholder

living south of the city who bred beef cattle. Morgan, his oldest

son. Par and Coil's closest friend, bred mostly mischief.

"You don't think Morgan will be around, do you?" Coil

asked, grinning at the possibility.

Par grinned back. The hunting lodge was really a family pos-

session, but Morgan was the one who used it the most. The last

time the Ohmsford brothers had come into the Highlands they

had stayed for a week at the lodge as Morgan's guests. They had

camped, hunted and fished, but mostly they had spent their time

recounting tales of Morgan's ongoing efforts to cause distress to

the members of the Federation govemment-in-residence at Lean.

Morgan Leah had the quickest mind and the fastest pair of hands

in the Southland, and he harbored an abiding dislike for the army

that occupied his land. Unlike Shady Vale, Leah was a major

city and required watching. The Federation, after abolishing the

monarchy, had installed the provisional governor and cabinet

and stationed a garrison of soldiers to insure order. Morgan

regarded that as a personal challenge. He took every opportunity

that presented itself, and a few that didn't, to make life miserable

for the officials that now lodged comfortably and without regard

for proper right of ownership in his ancestral home. It was never

a contest. Morgan was a positive genius at disruption and much

too sharp to allow the Federation officials to suspect he was the

mom in their collective sides that they could not even find, let

alone remove. On the last go-around, Morgan had trapped the

governor and vice-governor in a private bathing court with a

herd of carefully muddied pigs and jammed all the locks on the

doors. It was a very small court and a whole lot of pigs. It took

two hours to free them all, and Morgan insisted solemnly that

by then it was hard to tell who was who.

The brothers regained their feet, hoisted their packs in place,

and set off once more. The afternoon slipped away as the sun

followed its path westward, but the air stayed quiet and the heat

grew even more oppressive. The land at this elevation at mid-

summer was so dry that the grass crackled where they walked,

the once-green blades dried to a brownish gray crust. Dust curled

up in small puffs beneath their boots, and their mouths grew

dry.

It was nearing sunset by the time they caught sight of the

hunting lodge, a stone and timber building set back in a group-

ing of pines on a rise that overlooked the country west. Hot and

sweating, they dumped their gear by the front door and went

directly to the bathing springs nestled in the trees a hundred

yards back. When they reached the springs, a cluster of clear

blue pools that filled from beneath and emptied out into a slug-

gish little stream, they began stripping off their clothes imme-

diately, heedless of anything but their by now overwhelming

need to sink down into the inviting water.

Which was why they didn't see the mud creature until it was

almost on top of them.

It rose up from the bushes next to them, vaguely manlike,

encrusted in mud and roaring with a ferocity that shattered the

stillness like glass. Coil gave a howl, sprang backward, lost his

balance and tumbled headfirst into the springs. Par jerked away,

tripped and rolled, and the creature was on top of him.

"Ahhhh! A tasty Valeman!" the creature rasped in a voice

that was suddenly very familiar.

"Shades, Morgan!" Par twisted and turned and shoved the

other away. "You scared me to death, confound it!"

Coil pulled himself out of the springs, still wearing boots and

pants halfway off, and said calmly, "I thought it was only the

Federation you intended to drive out of Leah, not your friends.''

He heaved himself up and brushed the water from his eyes.

Morgan Leah was laughing merrily from within his mud co-

coon. "I apologize, I really do. But it was an opportunity no

man could resist. Surely you can understand that!''

Par tried to wipe the mud from his clothes and finally gave

up, stripping bare and carrying everything into the springs with

him. He gave a sigh of relief, then glanced back at Morgan.

"What in the world are you doing anyway?"

"Oh, the mud? Good for your skin." Morgan walked to the

springs and lowered himself into the water gingerly. "There are

mud baths about a mile back. I found them the other day quite

by accident. Never knew they were here. I can tell you honestly

that there is nothing like mud on your body on a hot day to cool

you down. Better even than the springs. So I rolled about quite

piglike, then hiked back here to wash off. That was when I heard

you coming and decided to give you a proper Highlands greet-

ing."

He ducked down beneath the water; when he surfaced, the

mud monster had been replaced by a lean, sinewy youth ap-

proximately their own age with skin so sun-browned it was al-

most the color of chocolate, shoulder-length reddish hair, and

clear gray eyes that looked out of a face that was at once both

clever and guileless. "Behold!" he exclaimed and grinned.

"Marvelous," Par replied tonelessly.

"Oh, come now! Not every trick can be earth-shattering.

Which reminds me." Morgan bent forward questioningly. He

spent much of his time wearing an expression that suggested he

was secretly amused about something, and he showed it to them

now. "Aren't you two supposed to be up in Callahom some-

where dazzling the natives? Wasn't that the last I heard of your

plans? What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" Coil shot back.

"Me? Oh, just another little misunderstanding involving the

governor-or more accurately, I'm afraid, the governor's wife.

They don't suspect me, of course-they never do. Still, it seemed

a good time for a vacation.'' Morgan's grin widened. "But come

on now, I asked you first. What's going on?"

He was not to be put off and there had never been any un-

shared secrets among the three in any case, so Par, with consid-

erable help from Coil, told him what had happened to them since

that night in Varfleet when Rimmer Dall and the Federation

Seekers had come looking for them. He told nun of the dreams

that might have been sent by AUanon, of their encounter with

the frightening woodswoman who might have been one of the

Shadowen, and of the old man who had saved them and might

have been Cogline.

"There are a good number of 'might have beens' in that

story," the Highlander observed archly when they were fin-

ished. "Are you certain you're not making this all up? It would

be a fine joke at my expense.''

"I just wish we were," Coil replied ruefully.

"Anyway, we thought we'd spend the night here in a bed,

then go on to the Vale tomorrow," Par explained.

Morgan trailed one finger through the water in front of him

and shook his head. "I don't think I'd do that if I were you."

Par and Coil looked at each other.

' 'If the Federation wanted you badly enough to send Rimmer

Dall all the way to Varfleet," Morgan continued, his eyes com-

ing up suddenly to meet their own, "then don't you think it

likely they might send him to Shady Vale as well?"

There was a long silence before Par finally said, "I admit, I

hadn't thought of that.''

Morgan stroked over to the edge of the springs, heaved him-

self out, and began wiping the water from his body. "Well,

thinking has never been your strong point, my boy. Good thing

you've got me for a friend. Let's walk back up to the lodge and

I'll fix you something to eat-something besides fish for a

change-and we'll talk about it."

They dried, washed out their clothes and returned to the lodge

where Morgan set about preparing dinner. He cooked a won-

derful stew filled with meat, carrots, potatoes, onions, and broth,

and served it with hot bread and cold ale. They sat out under

the pines at a table and benches and consumed the better pan

of their food and drink, the day finally beginning to cool as

night approached and an evening breeze rustled down out of the

hills. Morgan brought out pears and cheese for dessert, and they

nibbled contentedly as the sky turned red, then deep purple, and

finally darkened and filled with stars.

"I love the Highlands," Morgan said after they had been

silent for a time. They were seated on the stone steps of the

lodge now. "I could leam to love the city as well I expect, but

not while it belongs to the Federation. I sometimes find myself

wondering what it would have been like to live in the old home,

before they took it from us. That was a long time ago, of course-

six generations ago. No one remembers what it was like any-

more. My father won't even talk about it. But here-well, this

is still ours, this land. The Federation hasn't been able to take

that away yet. There's just too much of it. Maybe that's why I

love it so much-because it's the last thing my family has left

from the old days."

"Besides the sword," Par reminded.

"Do you still carry that battered old relic?" Coil asked. "I

keep thinking you will discard it in favor of something newer

and better made."

Morgan glanced over. "Do you remember the stories that

said the Sword of Leah was once magic?''

"Allanon himself was supposed to have made it so," Par

confirmed.

' 'Yes, in the time of Rone Leah.'' Morgan furrowed his brow.

"Sometimes I think it still is magic. Not as it once was, not as

a weapon that could withstand Mord Wraiths and such, but in a

different way. The scabbard has been replaced half-a-dozen times

over the years, the hilt once or twice at least, and both are worn

again. But the blade-ah, that blade! It is still as sharp and true

as ever, almost as if it cannot age. Doesn't that require magic

of a sort?"

The brothers nodded solemnly. "Magic sometimes changes

in the way it works," Par said. "It grows and evolves. Perhaps

that has happened with the Sword of Leah." He was thinking

as he said it how the old man had told him he did not understand

the magic at all and wondering if that were true.

"Well, truth is, no one wants the weapon in any case, not

anymore." Morgan stretched like a cat and sighed. "No one

wants anything that belongs to the old days, it seems. The re-

minders are too painful, I think. My father didn't say a word

when I asked for the blade. He just gave it to me."

Coil reached over and gave the other a friendly shove. ' 'Well,

your father ought to be more careful to whom he hands out his

weapons."

Morgan managed to look put upon. "Am I the one being

asked to join the Movement?" he demanded. They laughed.

* 'By the way. You mentioned the stranger gave you a ring. Mind

if I take a look?"

Par reached into his tunic, fished out the ring with the hawk

insigne and passed it over. Morgan took it and examined it

carefully, then shrugged and handed it back. "I don't recognize

it. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything. I hear there are

a dozen outlaw bands within the Movement and they all change

their markings regularly to confuse the Federation."

He took a long drink from his ale glass and leaned back again.

"Sometimes I think I ought to go north and join them-quit

wasting time here playing games with those fools who live in

my house and govern my land and don't even know the history.''

He shook his head sadly and for a moment looked old.

Then he brightened. "But now about you." He swung his

legs around and sat forward. "You can't risk going back until

you're certain it's safe. So you'll stay here for a day or so and

let me go ahead. I'll make certain the Federation hasn't gotten

there before you. Fair enough?"

"More than fair," Par said at once. "Thanks, Morgan. But

you have to promise to be careful.''

"Careful? Of those Federation fools? Ha!" The Highlander

grinned ear to ear. "I could step up and spit in their collective

eye and it would still take them days to work it out! I haven't

anything to fear from them!"

Par wasn't laughing. "Not in Leah, perhaps. But there may

be Seekers in Shady Vale."

Morgan quit grinning. "Your point is well-taken. I 'll be care-

ful."

He drained the last of his ale and stood up. "Time for bed.

I'll want to leave early."

Par and Coil stood up with him. Coil said, "What was it

exactly that you did to the governor's wife?"

Morgan shrugged. "Oh, that? Nothing much. Someone said

she didn't care for the Highlands air, that it made her queasy.

So I sent her a perfume to sweeten her sense of smell. It was

contained in a small vial of very delicate glass. I had it placed

in her bed, a surprise for her. She accidently broke it when she

lay on it.''

His eyes twinkled. ' 'Unfortunately, I somehow got the per-

fume mixed up with skunk oil."

The three of them looked at each other in the darkness and

grinned like fools.

The Ohmsfords slept well that night, wrapped in the comfort

and warmth of real beds with clean blankets and pillows. They

could easily have slept until noon, but Morgan had them awake

at dawn as he prepared to set out for Shady Vale. He brought

out the Sword of Leah and showed it to them, its hilt and scab-

bard badly worn, but its blade as bright and new as the High-

lander had claimed. Grinning in satisfaction at the looks on their

faces, he strapped the weapon across one shoulder, stuck a long

knife in the top of one boot, a hunting knife m his belt, and

strapped an ash bow to his back.

He winked. "Never hurts to be prepared."

They saw him out the door and down the hill west for a short

distance where he bade them goodbye. They were still sleepy-

eyed and their own goodbyes were mixed with yawns.

"Go on back to bed," Morgan advised. "Sleep as long as

you like. Relax and don't worry. I'll be back in a couple of

days." He waved as he moved off, a tall, lean figure silhouetted

against the still-dark horizon, brimming with his usual self-

confidence.

' 'Be careful!'' Par called after him.

Morgan laughed. "Be careful yourself!"

The brothers took the Highlander's advice and went back to

bed, slept until afternoon, then wasted the remainder of the day

just lying about. They did better the second day, rising eariy,

bathing in the springs, exploring the countryside in a futile effort

to find the mud baths, cleaning out the hunting lodge, and pre-

paring and eating a dinner of wild fowl and rice. They talked a

long time that night about the old man and the dreams, the magic

and the Seekers, and what they should do with their immediate

future. They did not argue, but they did not reach any decisions

either.

The third day turned cloudy and by nightfall it was raining.

They sat before the fire they had built in the great stone hearth

and practiced the storytelling for a long time, working on some

of the more obscure tales, trying to make the images of Par's

song and the words of Coil's story mesh. There was no sign of

Morgan Lean. hi spite of their unspoken mutual resolve not to

do so, they began to worry.

On the fourth day, Morgan returned. It was late afternoon

when he appeared, and the brothers were seated on the floor in

front of the fire repairing the bindings on one of the dinner table

chairs when the door opened suddenly and he was there. It had

been raining steadily all day, and the Highlander was soaked

through, dripping water everywhere as he lowered his backpack

and weapons to the floor and shoved the door closed behind

him.

' 'Bad news,'' he said at once. His rust-colored hair was plas-

tered against his head, and the bones of his chiseled features

glistened with rainwater. He seemed heedless of his condition

as he crossed the room to confront them.

Par and Coil rose slowly from where they had been working.

"You can't go back to the Vale," Morgan said quietly. "There

are Federation soldiers everywhere. I can't be certain if there

are Seekers as well, but I wouldn't be surprised. The village is

under 'Federation Protection'-that's the euphemism they use

for armed occupation. They're definitely waiting for you. I asked

a few questions and found out right away; no one's making any

secret of it. Your parents are under house arrest. I think they're

okay, but I couldn't risk trying to talk to them. I'm sorry. There

would have been too many questions."

He took a deep breath. "Someone wants you very badly, my

friends."

Par and Coil looked at each other, and there was no attempt

by either to disguise the fear. "What are we going to do?" Par

asked softly.

"I've been thinking about that the whole way back,'' Morgan

said. He reached over and put a hand on his friend's slim shoul-

der. "So I'll tell you what we're going to do-and I do mean

'we' because I figure I'm in this thing with you now."

His hand tightened. "We're going east to look for Walker

Boh "

VI

Morgan Leah could be very persuasive when he chose,

and he proved it that night in the rain-shrouded

Highlands to Par and Coll.

He obviously had given the matter a great deal of thought,

just as he claimed he had, and his reasoning was quite thorough.

Simply stated, it was all a matter of choices. He took just enough

time to strip away his wet clothing and dry off before seating the

brothers cross-legged before the warmth of the fireplace with

glasses of ale and hot bread in hand to hear his explanation.

He started with what they knew. They knew they could not

go back to Shady Vale-not now and maybe not for a long time.

They could not go back to Callahom either. Matter of fact, they

could not go much of anywhere they might be expected to go

because, if the Federation had expended this much time and

effort to find them so far, they were hardly likely to stop now.

Rimmer Dall was known to be a tenacious enforcer. He had

personally involved himself in this hunt, and he would not give

it up easily. The Seekers would be looking for the brothers ev-

erywhere Federation rule extended-and that was a long, long

way. Par and Coil could consider themselves, for all intents and

purposes, to be outlaws.

So what were they to do? Since they could not go anyplace

where they were expected, they must go someplace they were

not expected. The trick, of course, was not to go just anywhere,

but to go where they might accomplish something useful.

"After all, you could stay here if you chose, and you might

not be discovered for who-knows-how-long because the Feder-

ation wouldn't know enough to look for you in the Highlands.

He shrugged. "It might even be fun for a while. But what would

it accomplish? Two months, four months, whatever, you would

still be outlaws, you would still be unable to go home, and

nothing would have changed. Doesn't make sense, does it? What

you need to do is to take control of things. Don't wait for events

to catch up with you; go out and meet them head-on!"

What he meant was that they should attempt to solve the

riddle of the dreams. There was nothing they could do about the

fact that the Federation was hunting them, that soldiers occupied

Shady Vale, or that they were perceived to be outlaws. One day,

all that might change-but not in the immediate future. The

dreams, on the other hand, were something with which they

might be able to come to grips. If the dreams were the real thing,

they were worth knowing more about. The old man had told

them to come to the Hadeshom on the first night of the new

moon. They hadn't wanted to do that before for two very sound

reasons. First, they didn't know enough about the dreams to be

certain they were real, and second, there were only the two of

them and they might be placing themselves in real danger by

going.

"So why not do something that might ease those concerns,"

the Highlander finished. ' 'Why not go east and find Walker Boh.

You said the old man told you the dreams had been sent to

Walker as well. Doesn't it make sense to find out what he thinks

about all this? Is he planning on going? The old man was going

to talk to him, too. Whether that's happened or not, Walker is

certain to have an opinion on whether the dreams are real or

not. I always thought your uncle was a strange bird, I'll admit,

but I never thought he was stupid. And we all know the stories

about him. If he has the use of any part of the Shannara magic,

now might be a good time to find out.''

He took a long drink and leaned forward, jabbing his finger

at them. "If Walker believes in the dreams and decides to go to

the Hadeshom, then you might be more inclined to go as well.

There would be four of us then. Anything out there that might

cause trouble would have to think twice."

He shrugged. "Even if you decide not to go, you'll have

satisfied yourselves better than you would have by just hiding

out here or somewhere like here. Shades, the Federation won't

think to look for you in the Anar! That's just about the last place

they'll think to look for you!''

He took another drink, bit off a piece of fresh bread and sat

back, eyes questioning. He had that look on his face again, that

expression that suggested he knew something they didn't and it

amused him no end. "Well?" he said finally.

The brothers were silent. Par was thinking about his uncle,

remembering the whispered stories about Walker Boh. His un-

cle was a self-professed student of life who claimed he had vi-

sions; he insisted he could see and feel things others could not.

There were rumors that he practiced magic of a sort different

from any known. Eventually, he had gone away from them,

leaving the Vale for the Eastland. That had been almost ten years

ago. Par and Coil had been very young, but Par still remem-

bered.

Coil cleared his throat suddenly, eased himself forward and

shook his head. Par was certain his brother was going to tell

Morgan how ridiculous his idea was, but instead he asked,' 'How

do we go about finding Walker?"

Par looked at Morgan and Morgan looked at Par, and there

was an instant of shared astonishment. Both had anticipated that

Coil would prove intractable, that he would set himself squarely

in the path of such an outrageous plan, and that he would dismiss

it as foolhardy. Neither had expected this.

Coil caught the look that passed between them and said, "I

wouldn't say what I was thinking, if I were you. Neither of you

knows me as well as he thinks. Now how about an answer to

my question?"

Morgan quickly masked the nicker of guilt that passed across

his eyes. "We'll go first to Culhaven. I have a friend there who

will know where Walker is."

"Culhaven?" Coil frowned. "Culhaven is Federation-

occupied."

"But safe enough for us," Morgan insisted. "The Federation

won't be looking for you there, and we need only stay a day or

two. Anyway, we won't be out in the open much."

"And our families? Won't they wonder what's happened to

us?"

"Not mine. My father is used to not seeing me for weeks at

a time. He's already made up his mind that I'm undependable.

And Jaralan and Mirianna are better off not knowing what you're

about. They're undoubtedly worried enough as it is."

' 'What about Wren?'' Par asked.

Morgan shook his head. "I don't know how to find Wren. If

she's still with the Rovers, she could be anywhere." He paused.

"Besides, I don't know how much help Wren would be to us.

She was only a girl when she left the Vale, Par. We don't have

time to find both. Walker Boh seems a better bet."

Par nodded slowly. He looked uncertainly at Coil and Coil

looked back. "What do you think?" he asked.

Coil sighed. "I think we should have stayed in Shady Vale in

the first place. I think we should have stayed in bed."

"Oh, come now, Coil Ohmsford!'' Morgan exclaimed cheer-

fully. "Think of the adventure! I'll look out for you, I promise!"

Coil glanced at Par. "Should I feel comforted by that?"

Par took a deep breath. "I say we go."

Coil studied him intently, then nodded. "I say what have we

got to lose?"

So the issue was decided. Thinking it over later. Par guessed

he was not surprised. After all, it was indeed a matter of choices,

and any way you looked at it the other choices available had

little to recommend them.

They slept that night at the lodge and spent the following

morning outfitting themselves with foodstuffs stored in the cold

lockers and provisions from the closets. There were weapons,

blankets, travel cloaks, and extra clothing (some of it not a bad

fit) for the brothers. There were cured meats, vegetables and

fruits, and cheese and nuts. There were cooking implements,

water pouches and medications. They took what they needed,

since the lodge was well-stocked, and by noon they were ready

to set out.

The day was gray and clouded when they stepped through the

front door and secured it behind them; the rain had turned to

drizzle, the ground beneath their feet no longer hard and dusty,

but as damp and yielding as a sponge. They made their way

north again toward the Rainbow Lake, intent on reaching its

shores by nightfall. Morgan's plan for making the first leg of

their journey was simple. They would retrieve the skiff the broth-

ers had concealed earlier at the mouth of the Rappahalladran

and this time follow the southern shoreline, staying well clear

of the Lowlands ofClete, the Black Oaks, and the Mist Marsh,

all of which were filled with dangers best avoided. When they

reached the far shore, they would locate the Silver River and

follow it east to Culhaven.

It was a good plan, but not without its problems. Morgan

would have preferred to navigate the Rainbow Lake at night

when they would be less conspicuous, using the moon and stars

to guide them. But it quickly became apparent as the day drew

to a close and the lake came in sight that there would be no

moon or stars that night and as a result no light at all to show

them the way. If they tried to cross in this weather, there was a

very real possibility of them drifting too far south and becoming

entangled in the clangers they had hoped to avoid.

So, after relocating the skiff and assuring themselves that she

was still seaworthy, they spent their first night out in a chill,

sodden campsite set close back against the shoreline of the lake,

dreaming of warmer, more agreeable times. Morning brought

a slight change in the weather. It stopped raining entirely and

grew warm, but the clouds lingered, mixing with a mist that

shrouded everything from one end of the lake to the other.

Par and Coil studied the morass dubiously.

"It will bum off," Morgan assured them, anxious to be off.

They shoved the skiff out onto the water, rowed until they

found a breeze, and hoisted their makeshift sail. The clouds

lifted a few feet and the skies brightened a shade, but the mist

continued to cling to the surface of the lake like sheep's wool

and blanketed everything in an impenetrable haze. Noon came

and went with little change, and finally even Morgan admitted

he had no idea where they were.

By nightfall, they were still on the lake and the light was gone

completely. The wind died and they sat unmoving in the still-

ness. They ate a little food, mostly because it was necessary

and not so much because anyone was particularly hungry, then

they took turns trying to sleep.

' 'Remember the stories about Shea Ohmsford and a thing that

lived in the Mist Marsh?" Coil whispered to Par at one point.

"I fully expect to discover firsthand whether or not they were

true!"

The night crept by, filled with silence, blackness, and a sense

of impending doom. But morning arrived without incident, the

mist lifted, the skies brightened, and the friends found that they

were safely in the middle of the lake pointing north. Relaxed

now, they joked about their own and the others' fears, turned

the boat east again, and took turns rowing while they waited for

a breeze to come up. After a time, the mist burned away alto-

gether, the clouds broke up, and they caught sight of the south

shore. A northeasterly breeze sprang up around noon, and they

stowed the oars and set sail.

Time drifted, and the skiff sped east. Daylight was disap-

pearing into nightfall when they finally reached the far shore

and beached their craft in a wooded cove close to the mouth of

the Silver River. They shoved the skiff into a reed-choked inlet,

carefully secured it with stays, and began their walk inland. It

was nearing sunset by now, and the skies turned a peculiar pink-

ish color as the fading light reflected off a new mix of low-

hanging clouds and trailers of mist. It was still quiet in the forest,

the night sounds waiting expectantly for the day to end before

beginning their symphony. The river churned beside them slug-

gishly as they walked, choked with rainwater and debris. Shad-

ows reached out to them, the trees seemed to draw closer together

and the light faded. Before long, they were enveloped in dark-

ness.

They talked briefly of the King of the Silver River.

"Gone like all the rest of the magic," Par declared, picking

his way carefully along the rain-slicked trail. They could see

better this night, though not as well as they might have liked;

the moon and stars were playing hide-and-seek with the clouds.

"Gone like the Druids, the Elves-everything but the stories."

"Maybe, maybe not," Morgan philosophized. "Travelers

still claim they see him from time to time, an old man with a

lantern, lending guidance and protection. They admit his reach

is not what it was, though. He claims only the river and a small

part of the land about it. The rest belongs to us."

"The rest belongs to the Federation, like everything else!"

Coil snorted.

Morgan kicked at a piece of deadwood and sent it spinning

into the dark. "I know a man who claims to have spoken to the

King of the Silver River-a drummer who sells fancy goods

between the Highlands and the Anar. He comes through this

country all the time, and he said that once he lost his way in the

Battlemound and this old man appeared with his lantern and

took him clear.'' Morgan shook his head.' 'I never knew whether

to believe the man or not. Drummers make better storytellers

than truth-sayers."

"I think he's gone," Par said, filled with a sense of sadness

at his own certainty. ' 'The magic doesn't last when it isn't prac-

ticed or believed in. The King of the Silver River hasn't had the

benefit of either. He's just a story now, just another legend that

no one but you and I and Coil and maybe a handful of others

believe was ever real.''

"We Ohmsfords always believe," Coil finished softly.

They walked on in silence, listening to the night sounds,

following the trail as it wound eastward. They would not reach

Culhaven that night, but they were not yet ready to stop either,

so they simply kept on without bothering to discuss it. The woods

thickened as they moved farther inland, deeper into the lower

Anar, and the pathway narrowed as scrub began to inch closer

from the darkness. The river turned angry as it passed through

a series of rapids, and the land grew rough, a maze of gullies

and hillocks peppered with stray boulders and stumps.

' "The road to Culhaven isn't what it once was,'' Morgan mut-

tered at one point. Par and Coil had no idea if that was so or

not since neither had ever been to the Anar. They glanced at

each other, but gave no reply.

Then the trail ended abruptly, blocked by a series of fallen

trees. A secondary pathway swung away from the river and ran

off into the deep woods. Morgan hesitated, then took it. The

trees closed about overhead, their branches shutting out all but

a trickle of moonlight, and the three friends were forced to

grope their way ahead. Morgan was muttering again, inaudibly

this time, although the tone of his voice was unmistakable. Vines

and overhanging brush were slapping at them as they passed,

and they were forced to duck their heads. The woods began to

smell oddly fetid, as if the undergrowth was decaying. Par tried

to hold his breath against the stench, irritated by its pervasive-

ness. He wanted to move faster, but Morgan was in the lead and

already moving as fast as he could.

"It's as if something died in here," Coil whispered from

behind him.

Something triggered in Par's memory. He remembered the

smell that had emanated from the cottage of the woodswoman

the old man had warned them was a Shadowen. The smell here

was exactly the same.

In me next instant, they emerged from the tangle of the forest

into a clearing that was ringed by the lifeless husks of trees and

carpeted with mulch, deadwood and scattered bones. A single

stagnant pool of water bubbled at its center in the fashion of a

cauldron heated by fire. Gimlet-eyed scavengers peered out at

them from the shadows.

The companions came to an uncertain halt. "Morgan, this is

just like it was ..." Par began and then stopped.

The Shadowen stepped noiselessly from the trees and faced

them. Par never questioned what it was; he knew instinctively.

Skepticism and disbelief were erased in an instant's time, the

discarded trappings of years of certainty that Shadowen were

what practical men said they were-rumors and fireside tales.

Perhaps it was the old man's warning whispering in his ear that

triggered his conversion. Perhaps it was simply the look of the

thing. Whatever it was, the truth that was left him was chilling

and unforgettable.

This Shadowen was entirely different than the last. It was a

huge, shambling thing, manlike but twice the size of a normal

man, its body covered in coarse, shaggy hair, its massive limbs

ending in paws that were splayed and clawed, its body hunched

over at the shoulders like a gorilla. There was a face amid all

that hair, but it could scarcely be called human. It was wrinkled

and twisted about a mouth from which teeth protruded like

stunted bones, and it hid within leathery folds eyes that peered

out with insistent dislike and burned like fire. It stood looking

at them, studying them in the manner of a slow-witted brute.

"Oh-oh," Morgan said softly.

The Shadowen came forward a step, a hitching movement

that suggested a stalking cat. "Why are you here?" it rasped

from some deep, empty well within.

"We took a wrong ..." Morgan began.

"You trespass on what is mine!" the other cut him short,

teeth snapping wickedly. "You cause me to be angered!"

Morgan glanced back at Par and the Valeman quickly mouthed

the word "Shadowen" and glanced in turn at Coll. Coil was

pale and tense. Like Par, he was no longer questioning.

' 'I will have one of you in payment!'' the Shadowen growled.

"Give me one of you! Give me!"

The three friends looked at each other once more. They knew

there was only one way out of this. There was no old man to

come to their aid this time. There was no one but themselves.

Morgan reached back and slid the Sword of Leah from its

scabbard. The blade reflected brightly in the eyes of the monster.

"Either you let us pass safely . . ."he began.

He never finished. The Shadowen launched itself at him with

a shriek, bounding across the little clearing with frightening

swiftness. He was on top of Morgan almost at once, claws rip-

ping. Even so, the Highlander managed to bring the flat of the

blade about in time to deflect the blow and knock the creature

off-balance, driving it sideways so that its attack missed. Coil

slashed at it with the short sword he was carrying as he leaped

past toward the pool, and Par struck at it with the magic of the

wishsong, clouding its vision with a swarm of buzzing insects.

The Shadowen surged back to its feet with a roar of anger,

flailed madly at the air, then rushed them once more. It caught

Morgan a stinging blow as the Highlander jumped aside and

knocked him sprawling. The Shadowen turned, and Coil struck

it so hard with the short sword that he severed one arm above

the elbow. The Shadowen reeled away, then darted back,

snatched up its severed limb and retreated again. Carefully, it

placed its arm back against its shoulder. There was sudden

movement, an entwining of sinew and muscle and bone, like

snakes moving. The limb had reattached itself.

The Shadowen hissed in delight.

Then it came at them. Par tried to slow it with images of

wolves, but the Shadowen barely saw them. It slammed into

Morgan, shoving past the blade of his sword, throwing the High-

lander back. He might have been lost then if not for the Ohms-

fords, who flung themselves on the beast and bore it to the

ground. They held it there for only an instant. It heaved upward,

freed itself, and sent them flying. One great arm caught Par

across the face, snapping his head back, causing flashes to cloud

his vision as he tumbled away. He could hear the thing coming

for him, and he threw out every image he could muster, rolling

and crawling to regain his feet. He could hear Coil's cry of

warning and a series of grunts. He pushed himself upright, forc-

ing his vision to clear.

The Shadowen was right in front of him, clawed forelimbs

spread wide to embrace him. Coil lay slumped against a tree a

dozen paces to his left. There was no sign of Morgan. Par backed

away slowly, searching for an escape. There was no time for the

magic now. The creature was too close. He felt the rough bark

of a tree trunk jammed against his back.

Then Morgan was there, launching himself from the dark-

ness, crying out "Leah, Leah" as he hammered into the Shad-

owen. There was blood on his face and clothing, and his eyes

were bright with anger and determination. Down came the Sword

of Leah, an arc of glittering metal-and something wondrous

happened. The sword struck the Shadowen full on and burst

into fire.

Par flinched and threw one arm across his face protectively.

No, he thought in amazement, it wasn't fire he was seeing, it

was magic!

The magic happened 'all at once, without warning, and it

seemed to freeze the combatants in the circle of its light. The

Shadowen stiffened and screamed, a shriek of agony and dis-

belief. The magic spread from the Sword of Leah into the crea-

ture's body, ripping through it like a razor through cloth. The

Shadowen shuddered, seemed to sag inward against itself, lost

definition, and began to disintegrate. Quickly Par dropped under

the thing and rolled free. He saw it heave upward desperately,

then flare as brightly as the weapon that was killing it and dis-

appear into ash.

The Sword of Leah winked instantly into darkness. The air

was a blanket of sudden silence. Smoke floated in a cloud across

the little clearing, its smell thick and pungent. The stagnant pool

bubbled once and went still.

Morgan Leah dropped to one knee, the sword falling to the

ground before him, striking the little mound of ash and flaring

once. He flinched and then shuddered. "Shades!" he whis-

pered, his voice choked with astonishment. "The power I felt,

it was... I never thought it possible ..."

Par came to him at once, knelt beside him and saw the other's

face, cut and bruised and drained of blood. He took the High-

lander in his arms and held him.

"It still has the magic, Morgan!" he whispered, excited that

such a thing could be. "All these years, and no one has known

it, but it still has the magic!" Morgan looked at him uncompre-

hendingly. "Don't you see? The magic has been sleeping since

the time of Allanon! There's been no need for it! It took another

magic to bring it awake! It took a creature like the Shadowen!

That's why nothing happened until the magics touched ..."

He trailed off as Coil stumbled over to them and dropped

down as well. One arm hung limply. "Think I broke it," he

muttered.

He hadn't, but he had bruised it severely enough that Par felt

it wise to bind it against his body in a cradle for a day or so.

They used their drinking water to wash themselves, bandaged

their cuts and scrapes, picked up their weapons, and stood look-

ing at each other. "The old man said there would be lots of

things hunting us," Par whispered.

' I don't know if that thing was hunting us or if we were just

unlucky enough to stumble on it." Coil's voice was ragged. "I

do know I don't want to run across any more like it."

"But if we do," Morgan Leah said quietly and stopped. "If

we do, we have the means now to deal with them." And he

fingered the blade of the Sword of Leah as he might have the

soft curve of a woman's face.

Par would never forget what he felt at that moment. The mem-

ory of it would overshadow even that of their battle with the

Shadowen, a tiny piece of time preserved in perfect still life.

What he felt was jealousy. Before, he had been the one who had

possessed real magic. Now it was Morgan Leah. He still had

the wishsong, of course, but its magic paled in comparison to

that of the Highlander's sword. It was the sword that had de-

stroyed the Shadowen. Par's best images had proven to be little

more than an irritation.

It made him wonder if the wishsong had any real use at all.

vii

Par remembered something later that night that forced

him to come to grips with what he was feeling toward

Morgan. They had continued on to Culhaven, anxious

to complete their journey, willing to walk all night and another

day if need be rather than attempt one moment's sleep in those

woods. They had worked their way back to the main pathway

where it ran parallel to the Silver River and pushed eastward. As

they trudged on, nudged forward by apprehension one step,

dragged backward by weariness the next, buffeted and tossed,

their thoughts strayed like grazing cattle to sweeter pastures, and

Par Ohmsford found himself thinking of the songs.

That was when he remembered that the legends had it that

the power of the Sword of Leah was literally two-edged. The

sword had been made magic by Allanon in the time of Brin

Ohmsford while the Druid was journeying east with the Vale girl

and her would-be protector, Morgan's ancestor. Rone Leah. The

Druid had dipped the sword's blade into the forbidden waters of

the Hadeshom and changed forever its character. It became more

than a simple blade; it became a talisman that could withstand

even the Mord Wraiths. But the magic was like all the magics

of old; it was both blessing and curse. Its power was addictive,

causing the user to become increasingly dependent. Brin Ohms-

fold had recognized the danger, but her warnings to Rone Leah

had gone unheeded. In their final confrontation with the dark

magic, it was her own power and Jair's that had saved them and

put an end to further need for the magic of the sword. There

was no record of what had become of the weapon after-only

that it was not required and therefore not used again.

Until now. And now it seemed it might be Par's obligation to

warn Morgan of the danger of further use of the sword's magic.

But how was he to do that? Shades, Morgan Leah was his best

friend next to Coil, and this newfound magic Par envied so had

just saved their lives! He was knotted up with guilt and frustra-

tion at the jealousy he was feeling. How was he supposed to tell

Morgan that he shouldn't use it? It didn't matter that there might

be good reason to do so; it still sounded impossibly grudging.

Besides, they would need the magic of the Sword of Leah if they

encountered any further Shadowen. And there was every reason

to expect that they might.

He struggled with his dilemma only briefly. He simply could

not ignore his discomfort and the vivid memory of that creature

breathing over him. He decided to keep quiet. Perhaps there

would be no need to speak out. If there was, he would do so

then. He put the matter aside.

They talked little that night, and when they did it was mostly

about the Shadowen. There was no longer any doubt in their

minds that these beings were real. Even Coil did not equivocate

when speaking of what it was that had attacked them. But ac-

ceptance did not bring enlightenment. The Shadowen remained

a mystery to them. They did not know where they had come

from or why. They did not even know what they were. They had

no idea as to the source of their power, though it seemed it must

derive from some form of magic. If these creatures were hunting

them, they did not know what they could do about it. They knew

only that the old man had been right when he had warned them

to be careful.

It was just after dawn when they reached Culhaven, emerging

aching and sleepy-eyed from the fading night shadows of the

forest into the half-light of the new day. Clouds hung across the

Eastiand skies, scraping the treetops as they eased past, lending

the Dwarf village beneath a gray and wintry cast. The compan-

ions stumbled to a halt, stretched, yawned, and looked about.

The trees had thinned before them and there was a gathering of

cottages with smoke curling out of stone chimneys, sheds filled

with tools and wagons, and small yards with animals staked and

penned. Vegetable gardens the size of thumbprints fought to

control tiny patches of earth as weeds attacked from every-

where. Everything seemed crammed together, the cottages and

sheds, the animals, the gardens and the forest, each on top of

the other. Nothing looked cared for; paint was peeling and

chipped, mortar and stone were cracked, fences broken and

sagging, animals shaggy and unkempt, and gardens and the

weeds grown so much into each other as to be almost indistin-

guishable.

Women drifted through doors and past windows, old mostly,

some with laundry to hang, some with cooking to tend, all with

the same ragged, disheveled look. Children played in the yards,

on the pathways, and in the roads, as shabby and wild as moun-

tain sheep.

Morgan caught Par and Coil staring and said, "I forgot-the

Culhaven you're familiar with is the one you tell about in your

stories. Well, all that's in the past. I know you're tired, but, now

that you're here, there are things you need to see."

He took them down a pathway that led into the village. The

housing grew quickly worse, the cottages replaced by shacks,

the gardens and animals disappearing entirely. The path became

a roadway, rutted and pocked from lack of repair, filled with

refuse and stones. There were more children here, playing as

the others had, and there were more women working at house-

hold chores, exchanging a few words now and then with each

other and the children, but withdrawn mostly into themselves.

They watched guardedly as the three strangers walked past, sus-

picion and fear mirrored in their eyes.

"Culhaven, the most beautiful city in the Eastland, the heart

and soul of the Dwarf nation,'' Morgan mused quietly. He didn't

look at them. "I know the stories. It was a sanctuary, an oasis,

a haven of gentle souls, a monument to what pride and hard

work could accomplish." He shook his head. "Well, this is the

way it is now."

A few of the children came up to them and begged for coins.

Morgan shook his head gently, patted one or two, and moved

past.

They turned off into a lane that led down to a stream clogged

with trash and sewage. Children walked the banks, poking idly

at what floated past. A walkway took them across to the far

bank. The air was fetid with the smell of rotting things.

"Where are all the men?" Par asked.

Morgan looked over. "The lucky ones are dead. The rest are

in the mines or in work camps. That's why everything looks the

way it does. There's no one left in this city but children, old

people, and a few women." He stopped walking. "That's how

it has been for fifty years. That's how the Federation wants it.

Come this way."

He led them down a narrow pathway behind a series of cot-

tages that seemed better tended. These homes were freshly

painted, the stone scrubbed, the mortar intact, the gardens and

lawns immaculate. Dwarves worked the yards and rooms here

as well, younger women mostly, the tasks the same, but the

results as different from before as night is to day. Everything

here was bright and new and clean.

Morgan took them up a rise to a small park, easing carefully

into a stand of fir. "See those?" he pointed to the well-tended

cottages. Par and Coil nodded. "That's where the Federation

soldiers and officials garrisoned here live. The younger, stronger

Dwarf women are forced to work for them. Most are forced to

live with them as well." He glanced at them meaningfully.

They walked from the park down a hillside that led toward

the center of the community. Shops and businesses replaced

homes, and the foot traffic grew thick. The Dwarves they saw

here were engaged in selling and buying, but again they were

mostly old and few in number. The streets were clogged with

outlanders come to trade. Federation soldiers patrolled every-

where.

Morgan steered the brothers down byways where they

wouldn't be noticed, pointing out this, indicating that, his voice

at once both bitter and ironic. "Over there. That's the silver

exchange. The Dwarves are forced to extract the silver from the

mines, kept underground most of the time-you know what that

means-then compelled to sell it at Federation prices and turn

the better part of the proceeds over to their keepers in the form

of taxes. And the animals belong to the Federation as well-

on loan, supposedly. The Dwarves are strictly rationed. Down

there, that's the market. All the vegetables and fruits are grown

and sold by the Dwarves, and the profits of sale disposed of

in the same manner as everything else. That's what it's like here

now. That's what being a 'protectorate' means for these peo-

ple."

He stopped them at the far end of the street, well back from

a ring of onlookers crowded about a platform on which young

Dwarf men and women chained and bound were being offered

for sale. They stood looking for a moment and Morgan said,

' 'They sell off the ones they don't need to do the work.''

He took them from the business district to a hillside that rose

above the city in a broad sweep. The hillside was blackened and

stripped of life, a vast smudge against a treeless skyline. It had

been terraced once, and what was left of the buttressing poked

out of the earth like gravestones.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked them softly. They

shook their heads. "This is what is left of the Meade Gardens.

You know the story. The Dwarves built the Gardens with special

earth hauled in from the farmlands, earth as black as coal. Every

flower known to the races was planted and tended. My father

said it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was

here once, when he was a boy."

Morgan was quiet a moment as they surveyed the ruin, then

said, "The Federation burned the Gardens when the city fell.

They bum them anew every year so that nothing will ever grow

again."

As they walked away, veering back toward the outskirts of

the village, Par asked, "How do you know all this, Morgan?

Your father?"

Morgan shook his head. "My father hasn't been back since

that first visit. I think he prefers not to see what it looks like

now, but to remember it as it was. No, I have friends here who

tell me what life for the Dwarves is like-that part of life I can't

see for myself whenever I come over. I haven't told you much

about that, have I? Well, it's only been recently, the last half

year or so. I'll tell you about it later."

They retraced their steps to the poorer section of the village,

following a new roadway that was nevertheless as worn and

rutted as the others. After a short walk, they turned into a walk-

way that led up to a rambling stone and wood structure that

looked as if once it might have been an inn of some sort. It rose

three stories and was wrapped by a covered porch filled with

swings and rockers. The yard was bare, but clear of debris and

filled with children playing.

"A school?" Par guessed aloud.

Morgan shook his head. "An orphanage."

He led them through the groups of children, onto the porch

and around to a side door settled well back in the shadows of an

alcove. He knocked on the door and waited. When the door

opened a crack, he said, "Can you spare a poor man some

food?"

"Morgan!" The door flew open. An elderly Dwarf woman

stood in the opening, gray-haired and aproned, her face bluff

and squarish, her smile working its way past lines of weariness

and disappointment. "Morgan Lean, what a pleasant surprise!

How are you, youngster?"

"I am my father's pride and joy, as always," Morgan replied

with a grin. "May we come in?"

"Of course. Since when have you needed to ask?" The

woman stepped aside and ushered them past, hugging Morgan

and beaming at Par and Coil, who smiled back uncertainly. She

shut the door behind them and said, "So you would like some-

thing to eat, would you?"

"We would gladly give our lives for the opportunity," Mor-

gan declared with a laugh. "Granny Elise, these are my friends,

Par and Coil Ohmsford of Shady Vale. They are temporarily

. . . homeless," he finished.

"Aren't we all," Granny Elise replied gruffly. She extended

a callused hand to the brothers, who each gripped it in his own.

She examined them critically. "Been wrestling with bears, have

you, Morgan?"

Morgan touched his face experimentally, tracing the cuts and

scrapes. "Something worse than that, I'm afraid. The road to

Culhaven is not what it once was.''

"Nor is Culhaven. Have a seat, child-you and your friends.

I'll bring you a plate of muffins and fruit."

There were several long tables with benches in the center of

the rather considerable kitchen and the three friends chose the

nearest and sat. The kitchen was large but rather dark, and the

furnishings were poor. Granny Elise bustled about industri-

ously, providing the promised breakfast and glasses of some sort

of extracted juice. "I'd oner you milk, but I have to ration what

I have for the children," she apologized.

They were eating hungrily when a second woman appeared,

a Dwarf as well and older still, small and wizened, with a sharp

face and quick, birdlike movements that never seemed to cease.

She crossed the room matter-of-facdy on seeing Morgan, who

rose at once and gave her a small peck on the cheek.

"Auntie Jilt," Morgan introduced her.

"Most pleased," she announced in a way that suggested they

might need convincing. She seated herself next to Granny Elise

and immediately began work on some needlepoint she had

brought with her into the room, fingers flying.

"These ladies are mothers to the world," Morgan explained

as he returned to his-meal. "Me included, though I'm not an

orphan like their other charges. They adopted me because I'm

irresistibly charming."

"You begged like the rest of them the first time we saw you,

Morgan Leah!" Auntie Jilt snapped, never looking up from her

wo&. "That is the only reason we took you in-the only reason

we take any of them in.''

* 'Sisters, though you'd never know it,'' Morgan quickly went

on. "Granny Elise is like a goose-down comforter, all soft and

warm. But Auntie Jilt-well, Auntie Jilt is more like a stone

pallet!"

Auntie Jilt sniffed. "Stone lasts a good deal longer than goose

down in these times. And both longer still than Highland syrup!"

Morgan and Granny Elise laughed. Auntie Jilt joined in after

a moment, and Par and Coil found themselves smiling as well.

It seemed odd to do so, their thoughts still filled with images of

the village and its people, the sounds of the orphaned children

playing outside a pointed reminder of how things really stood.

But there was something indomitable about these old women,

something that transcended the misery and poverty, something

that whispered of promise and hope.

When breakfast was finished. Granny Elise busied herself at

the sink and Auntie Jilt departed to check on the children. Mor-

gan whispered, "These ladies have been operating the orphan-

age for almost thirty years. The Federation lets them alone

because they help keep the children out from underfoot. Nice,

huh? There are hundreds of children with no parents, so the

orphanage is always full. When the children are old enough,

they are smuggled out. If they are allowed to stay too long, the

Federation sends them to the work camps or sells them. Every

so often, the ladies guess wrong." He shook his head. "I don't

know how they stand it. I would have gone mad long ago."

Granny Elise came back and sat with them. "Has Morgan

told you how we met?" she asked the Ohmsfords. "Oh, well,

it was quite something. He brought us food and clothes for the

children, he gave us money to buy what we could, and he helped

guide a dozen children north to be placed with families in the

free territories."

"Oh, for goodness sake. Granny!" Morgan interjected, em-

barrassed.

"Exactly! And he works around the house now and then when

he visits, too," she added, ignoring him. "We have become his

own private little charity, haven't we, Morgan?"

"That reminds me-here." Morgan reached into his tunic

and extracted a small pouch. The contents jingled as he passed

it over. "I won a wager a week or so back about some per-

fume." He winked at the Valemen.

"Bless you, Morgan." Granny Elise rose and came around

to kiss him on the cheek. "You seem quite exhausted-all of

you. There are spare beds in the back and plenty of blankets.

You can sleep until dinner-time."

She ushered them from the kitchen to a small room at the rear

of the big house where there were several beds, a wash basin,

blankets, and towels. Par glanced around, noticing at once that

the windows were shuttered and the curtains carefully drawn.

Granny Elise noticed the look that the Valeman exchanged

with his brother. "Sometimes, my guests don't wish to draw

attention to themselves," she said quietly. Her eyes were sharp.

"Isn't that the case with you?"

Morgan went over and kissed her gently. "Perceptive as al-

ways, old mother. We'll need a meeting with Steff. Can you

take care of it?"

Granny Elise looked at him a moment, then nodded word-

lessly, kissed him back and slipped from the room.

It was twilight when they woke, the shuttered room filled with

shadows and silence. Granny Elise appeared, her bluff face gen-

tle and reassuring, slipping through the room on cat's feet as she

touched each and whispered that it was time, before disappear-

ing back the way she had come. Morgan Leah and the Ohms-

fords rose to find their clothes clean and fresh-smelling again.

Granny Elise had been busy while they slept.

While they were dressing, Morgan said, "We'll meet with

Steff tonight. He's part of the Dwarf Resistance, and the Resis-

tance has eyes and ears everywhere. If Walker Boh still lives in

the Eastland, even in the deepest part of the Anar, Steff will

know.''

He finished pulling on his boots and stood up. "Steff was

one of the orphans Granny took in. He's like a son to her. Other

than Auntie Jilt, he's the only family she has left."

They went out from the sleeping room and down the hall to

the kitchen. The children had already finished dinner and retired

to their rooms on the upper two stories, save for a handful of

tiny ones that Auntie Jilt was in the process of feeding, patiently

spooning soup to first one mouth, then the next and so on until

it was time to begin the cycle all over again. She looked up as

they entered and nodded wordlessly.

Granny Elise sat them down at one of the long tables and

brought them plates of food and glasses of harsh ale. From

overhead came the sounds of thumping and yelling as the chil-

dren played. "It is hard to supervise so many when there is only

the two of us," she apologized, serving Coil a second helping

of meat stew. "But the women we hire to help out never seem

to stay very long."

"Were you able to get a message to Steff?" Morgan asked

quietly.

Granny Elise nodded, her smile suddenly sad. "I wish I could

see more of that child, Morgan. I worry so about him."

They finished their meal and sat quietly in the evening shad-

ows as Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt finished with the children

and saw them all off to bed. A pair of candles burned on the

table where the three sat, but the remainder of the room was left

dark. The voices upstairs faded away one by one, and the silence

deepened.

Auntie Jilt came back into the kitchen after a time and sat

with them. She didn't speak, her sharp face lowered as she con-

centrated on her needlepoint, her head bobbing slightly. Out-

side, somewhere, a bell rang three times and went still. Auntie

Jilt looked up briefly. "Federation curfew," she muttered. "No

one is allowed out after it sounds."

The room went silent again. Granny Elise appeared and

worked quietly at the sink. One of the children upstairs began

to cry and she went out again. The Ohmsfords and Morgan Leah

looked at each other and the room and waited.

Then, suddenly, there was a soft tapping at the kitchen door.

Three taps. Auntie Jilt looked up, her fingers stilled, and waited.

The seconds slipped away. Then the tapping came again, three

times, a pause, three times again.

Auntie Jilt rose quickly, walked to the door, unlatched it

and peeked out. Then she opened the door wide for an instant

and a shadowy figure slipped into the room. Auntie Jilt pushed

the door closed again. Granny Elise appeared at the same

instant from the hall, motioned Morgan and the Ohmsford

brothers to their feet and led them over to where the stranger

stood.

"This is Teel," said Granny Elise. "She will take you to

Steff."

It was hard to tell much of anything about Teel. She was a

Dwarf, but smaller than most, rather slight, clothed in dark,

nondescript forest clothing including a short cloak and hood.

Her features were hidden by a strange leather mask that wrapped

the whole of her face, save for her right jaw and her mouth. A

glimmer of dusky blond hair was visible within the covering of

the hood.

Granny Elise reached up and hugged Morgan. "Be careful,

youngster," she cautioned. She smiled, patted Par and Coil

gently on the shoulder, and hastened to the door. She peeked

through the curtains for a moment, then nodded. Teel went out

through the door without a word. The Ohmsfords and Morgan

Leah went with her.

Outside, they slipped silently along the side of the old house

and through a back fence onto a narrow pathway. They fol-

lowed the pathway to an empty road, then turned right. The

mix of cottages and shacks that lined the roadway were dark,

their silhouettes ragged and broken against the sky. Teel

moved them down the road quickly and into a patch of fir.

She stopped then and dropped into a crouch, motioning them

down with her. Moments later, a Federation patrol of five

appeared. They joked and talked among themselves as they

passed, unconcerned with any who might hear them. Then

their voices faded and they were gone. Teel stood up, and

they were off again.

They stayed on the road for another hundred yards, then turned

into the forest. They were on the very edge of the village now,

almost due north, and the sounds of insects began to break

through the stillness. They slipped along silently through the

trees, Teel pausing now and then to listen before continuing on.

The smell of wildflowers filled the air, sweet and strong against

the reek of garbage.

Then Teel stopped at a line of thick brush, pushed the branches

aside, reached down to grip a hidden iron ring and pulled. A

trapdoor lifted clear of the earth to reveal a stairway. They felt

their way along its walls until they were completely inside and

crouched there in the dark. Teel secured the trapdoor behind

them, lit a candle and took the lead once more. The company

started down.

It was a short descent. The stairs ended after two dozen steps

and became a tunnel, the walls and ceiling shored by thick

wooden beams and pinned by iron bolts. Teel offered no expla-

nation for the tunnel, but simply moved ahead into it. Twice the

tunnel branched in several directions, and each time she made

her choice without hesitating. It occurred to Par that if they had

to find their ,way out again without Teel, they probably couldn't

doit.

The tunnel ended minutes later at an iron door. Teel struck

the door sharply with the hilt of her dagger, paused, then struck

it twice more. The locks on the other side snapped free and the

door swung open.

The Dwarf who stood there was no older than they, a stout,

muscular fellow with a shading of beard and long hair the color

of cinnamon, a face that was scarred all over, and the biggest

mace Par had ever seen strapped across his back. He had the

top half of one ear missing and a gold ring dangling from the

remainder.

' 'Morgan!'' he greeted and embraced the Highlander warmly.

His smile brightened his fierce countenance as he pulled the

other inside and looked past him to where Par and Coil stood

nervously waiting. "Friends?"

"The best," Morgan answered at once. "Steff, this is Par

and Coil Ohmsford from Shady Vale."

The Dwarf nodded. "You are welcome here, Valemen." He

broke away from Morgan and reached out to grip their hands.

"Come take a seat, tell me what brought you."

They were in an underground room filled with stores, boxed,

crated and wrapped, that surrounded a long table with benches.

Steff motioned them onto the benches, then poured each a cup

of ale and joined them. Teel took up a position by the door,

settling carefully onto a small stool.

' 'Is this where you live now?'' Morgan asked, glancing about.

"It needs work."

Steff's smile wrinkled his rough face. "I live a lot of places,

Morgan, and they all need work. This one is better than most.

Underground, though, like the others. We Dwarves all live un-

derground these days, either here or in the mines or in our graves.

Sad."

He hoisted his mug. "Good health to us and misfortune to

our enemies," he toasted. They all drank but Teel, who sat

watching. Steff placed his mug back on the table.' 'Is your father

well?" he asked Morgan.

The Highlander nodded. "I brought Granny Elise a little

something to buy bread with. She worries about you. How long

since you've been to see her?"

The Dwarf's smile dropped away. "It's too dangerous to go

just now. See my face?" He pointed, tracing the scars with his

finger. "The Federation caught me three months back." He

glanced at Par and Coil conspiratorially. "Morgan wouldn't

know, you see. He hasn't been to see me of late. When he comes

to Culhaven, he prefers the company of old ladies and chil-

dren."

Morgan ignored him. "What happened, Steff?"

The Dwarf shrugged. "I got away-parts of me, at least."

He held up his left hand. The last two fingers were missing,

sheared off. "Enough of that, Highlander. Leave off. Instead,

tell me what brings you east.''

Morgan started to speak, then took a long look at Teel and

stopped. Steff saw the direction his gaze had taken, glanced

briefly over his shoulder and said, "Oh, yes. Teel. Guess I'll

have to talk about it after all."

He looked back at Morgan. "I was taken by the Federation

while raiding their weapons stores in the main compound in

Culhaven. They put me in their prisons to discover what I

could tell them. That was where they did this." He touched

his face. "Teel was a prisoner in the cell next to mine. What

they did to me is nothing compared to what they did to her.

They destroyed most of her face and much of her back pun-

ishing her for killing the favorite dog of one of the members

of the provisional government quartered in Culhaven. She

killed the dog for food. We talked through the walls and came

to know each other. One night, less than two weeks after I

was taken, when it became apparent that the Federation had

no further interest in me and I was to be killed, Teel managed

to lure the jailor on watch into her cell. She killed him, stole

his keys, freed me, and we escaped. We have been together

ever since."

He paused, his eyes as hard as flint. "Highlander, I think

much of you, and you must make your own decision in this

matter. But Teel and I share everything."

There was a long silence. Morgan glanced briefly at Par and

Coll. Par had been watching Teel closely during Steff's narra-

tion. She never moved. There was no expression on her face,

nothing mirrored in her eyes. She might have been made of

stone.

"I think we must rely on Steff's judgment in this matter,"

Par said quietly, looking to Coil for approval. Coil nodded word-

lessly.

Morgan stretched his legs beneath the table, reached for his

ale mug and took a long drink. He was clearly making up his

own mind. "Very'well," he said finally. "But nothing I say

must leave this room.''

"You haven't said anything as yet worth taking out," Steff

declared pointedly and waited.

Morgan smiled, then placed the ale mug carefully back on

the table. "Steff, we need you to help us find someone, a man

we think is living somewhere in the deep Anar. His name is

Walker Boh."

Steff blinked. "Walker Boh," he repeated quietly, and the

way he spoke the name indicated he recognized it.

"My friends, Par and Coil, are his nephews."

Steff looked at the Valemen as if he were seeing them for the

first time. "Well, now. Tell me the rest of it."

Quickly, Morgan related the story of the journey that had

brought them to Culhaven, beginning with the Ohmsford broth-

ers' flight from Varfleet and ending with their battle with the

Shadowen at the edge of the Anar. He told of the old man and

his warnings, of the dreams that had come to Par that summoned

him to the Hadeshom, and of his own discovery of the dormant

magic of the Sword of Lean. Steff listened to it all without com-

ment. He sat unmoving, his ale forgotten, his face an expres-

sionless mask.

When Morgan was finished, Steff grunted and shook his head.

"Druids and magic and creatures of the night. Highlander, you

constantly surprise me." He rose, walked around the table, and

stood looking at Teel momentarily, his rough face creased in

thought. Then he said, "I know of Walker Boh." He shook his

head.

"And?" Morgan pressed.

He wheeled back slowly. "And the man scares me." He

looked at Par and Coll. ' 'Your uncle, is he? And how long since

you've seen him-ten years? Well, listen close to me, then.

The Walker Boh I know may not be the uncle you remember.

This Walker Boh is more whispered rumor than truth, and very

real all the same-someone that even the things that live out in

the darker parts of the land and prey on travelers, wayfarers,

strays, and such are said to avoid."

He sat down again, took up the ale mug and drank. Mor-

gan Leah and the Ohmsfords looked at one another in silence.

At last. Par said, "I think we are decided on the matter.

Whoever or whatever Walker Boh is now, we share a common

bond beyond our kinship-our dreams of Allanon. I have to

know what my uncle intends to do. Will you help us find

him?"

Steff smiled faintly, unexpectedly. "Direct. I like that."

He looked at Morgan. "I assume he speaks for his brother.

Does he speak for you as well?" Morgan nodded. "I see."

He studied them for long moments, lost in thought. "Then I

will help," he said finally. He paused, judging their reaction.

"I will take you to Walker Boh-if he can be found. But I

will do so for some reasons of my own, and you'd best know

what they are.''

His face lowered momentarily into shadow, and the scars

seemed like strands of iron mesh pressed against his skin. ' 'The

Federation has taken your homes from you, from all of you,

taken them and made them their own. Well, the Federation has

taken more than that from me. It has taken everything-my

home, my family, my past, even my present. The Federation

has destroyed everything that was and is and left me only what

might be. It is the enemy of my life, and I would do anything

to see it destroyed. Nothing I do here will accomplish that end

in my lifetime. What I do here merely serves to keep me alive

and to give me some small reason to stay that way. I have had

enough of that. I want something more.''

His face lifted, and his eyes were fierce. "If there is magic

that can be freed from time's chains, if there are Druids yet,

ghosts or otherwise, able to wield it, then perhaps there are ways

of freeing my homeland and my people-ways that have been

kept from us all. If we discover those ways, if the knowledge of

them passes into our hands, they must be used to help my people

and my homeland." He paused. "I'll want your promise on

this."

There was a long moment of silence as his listeners looked

at one another.

Then Par said softly, "I am ashamed for the Southland when

I see what has happened here. I don't begin to understand it.

There is nothing that could justify it. If we discover anything

that will give the Dwarves back their freedom, we will put it to

use."

"We will," Coil echoed, and Morgan Leah nodded his

agreement as well.

Steff took a deep breath. "The possibility of being free-

just the possibility-is more than the Dwarves dare hope for

in these times." He placed his thick hands firmly on the

table. "Then we have a bargain. I will take you to find Walker

Boh-Teel and I, for she goes where I go." He glanced at

each of them quickly for any sign of disapproval and found

none. "It will take a day or so to gather up what we need

and to make an inquiry or two. I need not remind you, but I

will anyway, how difficult and dangerous this journey is likely

to be. Go back to Granny's and rest. Teel will take you. When

all is in place, I will send word."

They rose, and the Dwarf embraced Morgan, then smiled

unexpectedly and slapped him on the back. "You and I, High-

lander-let the worst that's out there be wary!" He laughed and

the room rang with the sound of it.

Teel stood apart from them and watched with eyes like chips

of ice.

VIII

Two days passed, and they did not hear from Steff. Par

and Coil Ohmsford and Morgan Lean passed the time

at the orphanage completing some much-needed re-

pairs on the old home and helping Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt

with the children. The days were warm, lazy ones, filled with

the sounds of small voices at play. It was a different world within

the confines of the rambling house and the shaded grounds, a

world quite apart from the one that crouched begging a dozen

yards in any direction beyond the enclosing fence. There was

food here, warm beds, comfort and love. There was a sense of

security and future. There wasn't a lot of anything, but there

was some of everything. The remainder of the city faded into a

series of unpleasant memories-the shacks, the broken old peo-

ple, the ragged children, the missing mothers and fathers, the

grime and the wear, the desperate and defeated looks, and the

sense that there was no hope. Several times. Par thought to leave

the orphanage and walk again through the city of Culhaven,

unwilling to leave without seeing once more sights he felt he

should never forget. But the old ladies discouraged it. It was

dangerous for him to walk about. He might unwittingly draw

attention to himself. Better to stay where he was, let the world

outside stay where it was, and the both of them get on the best

they could.

"There is nothing to be done for the misery of the Dwarves,''

Auntie Jilt declared bitterly. "It's a misery that's put down deep

roots."

Par did as he was told, feeling at once both unhappy and

relieved. The ambiguity bothered him. He couldn't pretend he

didn't know what was happening to the people of the city-

didn't want to, in fact-but at the same time it was a difficult

knowledge to face. He could do as the old ladies said and let the

wodd without get along as best as it could, but he couldn't forget

that it was there, pressed up against the gate like some starving

beast waiting for food.

On the third day of waiting, the beast snapped at them. It was

early morning, and a squad of Federation soldiers marched up

the roadway and into the yard. A Seeker was leading them.

Granny Elise sent the Valemen and the Highlander to the attic

and with Auntie Jilt in tow went out to confront their visitors.

From the attic, the three in hiding watched what happened next.

The children were forced to line up in front of the porch. They

were all too small to be of any use, but three were selected

anyway. The old women argued, but there was nothing they

could do. In the end, they were forced to stand there helplessly

while the three were led away.

Everyone was subdued after that, even the most active among

the children. Auntie Jilt retired to a windowseat overlooking the

front yard where she could sit and watch the children and work

on her needlepoint, and she didn't say a word to anyone. Granny

Elise spent most of her time in the kitchen baking. Her words

were few, and she hardly smiled at all. The Ohmsfbrds and

Morgan went about their work as unobtrusively as they could,

feeling as if they should be somewhere else, secretly wishing

that they were.

Late that afternoon, Par could stand his discomfort no longer

and went down to the kitchen to talk to Granny Elise. He found

her sitting at one of the long tables, sipping absently at a cup of

amber tea, and he asked her quite directly why it was that the

Dwarves were being treated so badly, why it was that soldiers

of the Federation-Southlanders like himself, after all-could

be a part of such cruelty.

Granny Elise smiled sadly, took his hand and pulled him

down next to her. "Par," she said, speaking his name softly.

She had begun using his name the past day or so, a clear indi-

cation that she now considered him another of her children.

"Par, there are some things that cannot ever be explained-not

properly, not so as we might understand them the way we need

to. I think sometimes that there must be a reason for what's

happening and other times that there cannot be because it lacks

any semblance of logic. It has been so long since it all started,

you see. The war was fought over a hundred years ago. I don't

know that anyone can remember the beginning of it anymore,

and if you cannot remember how it began, how can you deter-

mine why it began?"

She shook her squarish head and hugged him impulsively.

"I'm sorry. Par, but I don't have any better answer to give you.

I suppose I gave up trying to find one a long time ago. All my

energy these days is given over to caring for the children. I guess

I don't believe questions are important anymore, so I don't look

for answers. Someone else will have to do that. All that matters

to me is saving the life of one more child, and one more after

that, and another, and another, until the need to save them

doesn't exist anymore."

Par nodded silently and hugged her back, but the answer

didn't satisfy him. There was a reason for everything that hap-

pened, even if the reason wasn't immediately apparent. The

Dwarves had lost the war to the Federation; they were a threat

to no one. Why, then, were they being systematically ground

down? It would have made better sense to heal the wounds that

the war had opened than to throw salt into them. It almost seemed

as if the Dwarves were being intentionally provoked, as if a

cause for them to resist was being provided. Why would that

be?

' 'Perhaps the Federation wants an excuse to exterminate them

altogether,'' Coil suggested blackly when Par asked his opinion

that night after dinner.

"You mean you think the Federation believes the Dwarves

are of no further use, even in the mines?'' Par was incredulous.

' 'Or that they're too much trouble to supervise or too dangerous,

so they ought to simply be done away with? The entire nation?''

Coil's blocky face was impassive. "I mean, I know what I've

seen here-what we've both seen. It seems pretty clear to me

what's happening!"

Par wasn't so sure. He let the matter drop because for the

moment he didn't have any better answer. But he promised him-

self that one day he would.

He slept poorly that night and was already awake when

Granny Elise slipped into the sleeping room before dawn to

whisper that Teel had come for them. He rose quickly and

dragged the covers from Coil and Morgan. They dressed,

strapped on their weapons and went down the hall to the kitchen

where Teel was waiting, a shadow by the door, masked and

wrapped in a drab forest cloak that gave her the look of a beggar.

Granny Elise gave them hot tea and cakes and kissed each of

them. Auntie Jilt warned them sternly to keep safe from what-

ever dangers might lie in wait for them, and Teel led them out

into the night.

It was dark still, the dawn not yet even a small glimmer in

the distant trees, and they slipped silently through the sleeping

village, four ghosts in search of a haunt. The morning air was

chill, and they could see their breath cloud the air before them

in small puffs. Teel took them down back pathways and through

dense groves of trees and gatherings of brush, keeping to the

shadows, staying away from the roads and lights. They moved

north out of the village without seeing anyone. When they

reached the Silver River, Teel took them downstream to a shal-

lows, avoiding the bridges. They crossed water like ice as it

lapped at their legs. They were barely into the trees again when

StefF appeared out of the shadows to join them. He wore a brace

of long knives at his waist, and the giant mace was slung across

his back. He said nothing, taking the lead from Teel and guiding

them ahead. A few faint streaks of daylight appeared in the east,

and the sky began to brighten. The stars winked out and the

moon disappeared. Frost glimmered on leaves and grasses like

scattered bits of crystal.

A bit farther on, they reached a clearing dominated by a mas-

sive old willow, and Steff brought them to a halt. Backpacks,

rolled blankets, foul-weather gear, cooking implements, water

bags, and forest cloaks for each of them were concealed in an

old hollow tree trunk that had fallen into the brush. They

strapped everything in place without speaking and were off

again.

They walked the remainder of the day at a leisurely pace,

bearing directly north. There was little discussion, none what-

soever as to where they were going. Steff offered no explanation,

and neither the Valemen nor the Highlander were inclined to

ask. When the Dwarf was ready to tell them, he would. The day

passed quickly and by midaftemoon they had reached the foot-

hills south of the Wolfsktaag. They continued on for what was

perhaps another hour, following the forestline upward to where

it began to thin before the wall of the mountains, then StefF

called a halt in a pine-sheltered clearing close to a small stream

that trickled down out of the rocks. He led them over to a fallen

log and seated himself comfortably, facing them.

"If the rumors are to be believed-and in this case, rumors

are all we have-Walker Boh will be found in Darklin Reach.

To get there, we will travel north through the Wolfsktaag-in

through the Pass of Noose, out through the Pass of Jade, and

from there east into the Reach.''

He paused, considering what he saw in their faces. "There

are other ways, of course-safer ways, some might argue-but

I disagree. We could skirt the Wolfsktaag to the east or west,

but either way we risk an almost certain encounter with Feder-

ation soldiers or Gnomes. There will be neither in the Wolfsk-

taag. Too many spirits and things of old magic live in the

mountains; the Gnomes are superstitious about such and stay

away. The Federation used to send patrols in, but most of them

never came out. Truth is, most of them just got lost up there

because they didn't know the way. I do."

His listeners remained silent. Finally Coil said, "I seem to

remember that a couple of our ancestors got into a good bit of

trouble when they took this same route some years back.''

Steff shrugged. "I wouldn't know about that. I do know that

I have been through these mountains dozens of times and know

what to look for. The trick is to stay on the ridgelines and out

of the deep forests. What lives in the Wolfsktaag prefers the

dark. And there's nothing magic about most of it.''

Coil shook his head and looked at Par. "I don't like it."

"Well, the choice is between the devil we know and the one

we suspect," Steff declared bluntly. "Federation soldiers and

their Gnome allies, which we know are out there, or spirits and

wraiths, which we don't."

"Shadowen," Par said softly.

There was a moment of silence. Steff smiled grimly. "Haven't

you heard, Valeman-there aren't any Shadowen. That's all a ru-

mor. Besides, you have the magic to protect us, don't you? You

and the Highlander here? What would dare challenge that?"

He looked about, sharp eyes darting from one face to the next.

"Come now. No one ever suggested that this journey would be

a safe one. Let us have a decision. But you have heard my

warning about the choices left us if we forgo the mountains. Pay

heed."

There wasn't much any of them could say after that, and they

left it to the Dwarf's best judgment. This was his country after

all, not theirs, and he was the one who knew it. They were

relying on him to find Walker Boh, and it seemed foolish to

second-guess the way he thought best to go about it.

They spent the night in the clearing of pines, smelling needles

and wildflowers and the crispness of air, sleeping undisturbed

and dreamless in a silence that stretched far beyond where they

could see. At dawn, Steff took them up into the Wolfsktaag.

They slipped into the Pass of Noose, where Gnomes had once

tried to trap Shea and Flick Ohmsford, crossed the rope walk-

way that bridged the chasm at its center, wound their way stead-

ily upward through the ragged, blunted peaks of slab-sided stone

and forested slopes, and watched the sun work its way across

the cloudless summer sky. Morning passed into afternoon, and

they reached the ridgelines running north and began follow-

ing their twists and bends. Travel was easy, the sun warm and

reassuring, and the fears and doubts of the night before began

to fade. They watched for movement in the shadows of rock and

wood, but saw nothing. Birds sang in the trees, small animals

scampered through the brush, and the forests here seemed very

much the same as forests everywhere in the Four Lands. The

Valemen and the Highlander found themselves smiling at one

another; Steff hummed tonelessly to himself, and only Teel

showed nothing of what she was feeling.

When nightfall approached, they made camp in a small

meadow nestled between two ridgelines cropped with fir and

cedar. There was little wind, and the day's warmth lingered in

the sheltered valley long after the sun was gone. Stars glim-

mered faintly in the darkening skies, and the moon hung full

against the western horizon. Par recalled again the old man's

admonition to them-that they were to be at the Hadeshom on

the first day of the new moon. Time was slipping past.

But it wasn't of the old man or Allanon that Par found himself

thinking that night as the little company gathered around the fire

Steff had permitted them and washed down their dinner with

long draughts of spring water. It was of Walker Boh. Par hadn't

seen his uncle in almost ten years, but what he remembered of

him was strangely clear. He had been just a boy then, and his

uncle had seemed rather mysterious-a tall, lean man with dark

features and eyes that could see right through you. The eyes-

mat was what Par remembered most, though he remembered

them more for how remarkable they had seemed than for any

discomfort they might have caused him. In fact, his uncle had

been very kind to him, but always rather introspective or perhaps

just withdrawn, sort of there but at the same time somewhere

else.

There were stories about Walker Boh even then, but Par could

recall few of them. It was said he used magic, although it was

never made clear exactly what sort of magic. He was a direct

descendent of Brin Ohmsford, but he had not had use of the

wishsong. No one on his side of the family had, not in ten

generations. The magic had died with Brin. It had worked dif-

ferently for her than for her brother Jair, of course. Where Jair

had only been able to use the wishsong to create images, his

sister had been able to use it to create reality. Her magic had

been by far the stronger of the two. Nevertheless, hers had dis-

appeared with her passing, and only Jair's had survived.

Yet there had always been stories of Walker Boh and the

magic. Par remembered how sometimes his uncle could tell him

things that were happening at other places, things he could not

possibly have known yet somehow did. There were times when

his uncle could make things move by looking at them, even

people. Sometimes he could tell what you were thinking, too.

He would look at you and tell you not to worry, that this or that

would happen, and it would turn out that it was exactly what

you were thinking about.

Of course, it was possible that his uncle had simply been

astute enough to reason out what he was thinking, and that it

had simply appeared that the older man could read his thoughts.

But there was the way he could turn aside trouble, too-make

it disappear almost as fast as it came. Anything threatening al-

ways seemed to give way when it encountered him. That seemed

a sort of magic.

And he was always encouraging to Par when he saw the boy

attempting to use the wishsong. He had warned Par to leam to

control the images, to be cautious about their use, to be selective

in the ways in which he exposed the magic to others. Walker

Boh had been one of the few people in his life who had not been

afraid of its power.

So as he sat there with the others in the silence of the moun-

tain night, the memories of his uncle skipping through his mind,

his curiosity to know more was piqued anew, and finally he gave

in to it and asked Steff what tales the other had heard of Walker

Boh.

Steff looked thoughtful. "Most of them come from woods-

men, hunters, trackers and such-a few from Dwarves who fight

in the Resistance like myself and who pass far enough north to

hear of the man. They say the Gnome tribes are scared to death

of him. They say they think of Walker Boh in the same way they

think of spirits. Some of them believe that he's been alive for

hundreds of years, that he's the same as the Druids of legend."

He winked. ' 'Guess that's just talk, though, if he's your uncle.''

Par nodded. "I don't remember anyone ever suggesting he

hadn't lived the same number of years as any normal man."

"One fellow swore to me that your uncle talked with animals

and that the animals understood. He said he saw it happen, that

he watched your uncle walk right up to a moor cat the size of a

plains bull and speak with it the same way I'm speaking with

you."

"It was said that Cogline could do that," Coil interjected,

suddenly interested. "He had a cat called Whisper that followed

him. The cat protected his niece, Kimber. Her name was Boh

as well, wasn't it. Par?"

Par nodded, remembering that his uncle had taken the name

Boh from his mother's side of the family. Strange, now that he

thought about it, but he could never remember his uncle using

the Ohmsford name.

"There was one story," Steff said, pausing then to mull the

details over in his mind. "I heard it from a tracker who knew

the deep Anar better than most and, I think, knew Walker Boh

as well, though he'd never admit to it. He told me that something

born in the days of the old magic wandered down out of Ra-

venshom into Darklin Reach two years back and started living

on the life it found there. Walker Boh went out to find it, con-

fronted it, and the creature turned around and went back to

wherever it had come from-just like that.'' Steff shook his head

and rubbed his chin slowly. "It makes you think, doesn't it?"

He stretched his hands toward the fire. "That's why he scares

me-because there doesn't appear to be much of anything that

scares him. He comes and goes like a ghost, they say-here one

minute, gone me next, just a shadow out of night. I wonder if

even the Shadowen frighten him. I'd guess not."

"Maybe we should ask him," Coil offered with a sly grin.

Steff brightened. "Well, now, maybe we should," he agreed.

' 'I suggest you be the one to do it!'' He laughed. "That reminds

me, has the Highlander told you yet how we happened on each

other that first time?"

The Ohmsford brothers shook their heads no, and despite

some loud grumbling from Morgan, Steff proceeded to tell the

tale. Morgan was fishing the eastern end of the Rainbow Lake

at the mouth of the Silver River some ten months earlier when

a squall capsized his craft, washed away his gear, and left him

to make his way ashore as best he could. He was drenched and

freezing and trying without success to start a fire when Steff

came across him and dried him out.

"He would have died of exposure, I expect, if I hadn't taken

pity on him," Steff finished. "We talked, exchanged informa-

tion. Before you know it, he was on his way to Culhaven to see

whether life in the homeland of the Dwarves was as grim as I

had described it." Steff cast an amused look at the chagrined

Highlander. "He kept coming back after that-each time with

a little something to help out Granny and Auntie and the Resis-

tance as well. His conscience won't allow him to stay away, I

suppose."

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Morgan huffed, embarrassed.

Steff laughed, his voice booming out through the stillness,

filling up the night. "Enough, then, proud Highland Prince! We

will talk of someone else!'' He shifted his weight and looked at

Par. "That stranger, the one who gave you the ring-let's talk

about him. I know something of the outlaw bands that serve in

the Movement. A rather worthless bunch, for the most part: they

lack leadership and discipline. The Dwarves have offered to

work with them, but the offer hasn't been accepted as yet. The

problem is that me whole Movement has been too fragmented.

In any case, that ring you were given-does it bear the emblem

of a hawk?"

Par sat bolt upright. "It does, Steff. Do you know whose it

is?"

Steff smiled. "I do and I don't, Valeman. As I said, the South-

land outlaws have been a fragmented bunch in the past-but that

may be changing. There are rumors of one among them who

seems to be taking control, uniting the bands together, giving

them the leadership they have been lacking. He doesn't use his

name to identify himself; he uses the symbol of a hawk."

"It must be the same man," Par declared firmly. "He was

reluctant to give his name to us as well.''

Steff shrugged. "Names are often kept secret in these times.

But the way in which he managed your escape from me Seek-

ers-well, that sounds like the man I have been hearing about.

They say he would dare anything where the Federation is con-

cerned."

' 'He was certainly bold enough that night,'' Par agreed, smil-

ing.

They talked a bit longer of the stranger, the outlaw bands m

both Southland and Easdand, and the way in which the Four

Lands festered like an open sore under Federation rule. They

never did get back to the subject of Walker Boh, but Par was

content with where they had left it. He had his mind made up

where his uncle was concerned. It did not matter how fright-

ening Walker Boh appeared to others, to Steff or anyone else;

he would remain for Par the same man he had been when the

Valeman was a boy until something happened to change his

mind-and he had a curious feeling that nothing would.

Their talk dwindled finally, interrupted by frequent yawns

and distracted looks, and one by one they began to roll into their

blankets. Par offered to build the fire up one final time before

they went to sleep and walked to the edge of the trees in search

of deadwood. He was in the process of gathering some pieces

of an old cedar that had been blown down by the winds last

winter when he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Teel.

She seemed to materialize right in front of him, her masked face

intent, her eyes quite steady as she looked at him.

"Can you make the magic for me?" she asked quietly.

Par stared. He had never heard her speak, not once, not a

single time since he had encountered her that first night in

Granny Elise's kitchen. As far as he had been able to determine,

she couldn't. She had traveled with them as if she were Steff's

faithful dog, obedient to him, watchful of them, unquestioning

and aloof. She had sat there all evening listening and not speak-

ing, keeping what she knew and what she thought carefully to

herself. Now, this.

"Can you make the images?" she pressed. Her voice was

low and rough. ' 'Just one or two, so I can see them? I would

like it very much if you could.''

He saw her eyes then, where he hadn't seen them before. They

were a curious azure, the way the sky had been that day so high

up in the mountains, clear and depthless. He was startled by

how bright they were, and he remembered suddenly that her

hair was a honey color beneath the covering hood, behind the

concealing mask. She had seemed rather unpleasant before in

the way in which she chose to distance herself from them, but

now, standing here amid the silence and shadows, she just

seemed small.

"What images would you like to see?" he asked her.

She thought for a moment. "I would like to see what Cul-

haven was like in the days of Allanon."

He started to tell her he wasn't sure what Culhaven had been

like that long ago, then caught himself and nodded. "I can try,"

he said.

He sang softly to her, alone in the trees, reaching out with

the magic of the wishsong to fill her mind with images of the

village as it might have looked three hundred years ago. He sang

of the Silver River, of the Meade Gardens, of the cottages and

homes all carefully tended and kept, of life in the home city of

the Dwarves before the war with the Federation. When he was

finished, she studied him expressionlessly for a moment, then

turned without a word and disappeared back into the night.

Par stared after her in confusion for a moment, then shrugged,

finished picking up the deadwood and went off to sleep.

They struck out again at dawn, working their way along the

upper stretches of the Wolfsktaag where the forests thinned and

the sky hovered close. It was another warm, bright day filled

with good smells and a sense of endless possibilities. Breezes

blew gently against their faces, the woods and rocks were filled

with tiny creatures that darted and flew, and the mountains were

at peace.

Despite all of that. Par was uneasy. He hadn't felt that way

the previous two days, but he did so on this one. He tried to

dispel the uneasiness, telling himself it lacked any discernible

cause, that it was probably the result of needing something to

worry about when it appeared that Steff had been right about

this being the safest way after all. He tried studying the faces of

the others to see if they were experiencing any discomfort, but

the others seemed quite content. Even Teel, who seldom showed

anything, walked with an air of total unconcern.

The morning slipped away into afternoon, and the uneasiness

grew into a certainty that something was following them. Par

found himself glancing back on any number of occasions, not

knowing what it was he was looking for, but knowing neverthe-

less that it was back there. He hunted through the distant trees

and across the rocks and there was nothing to be seen. Above,

to their right, the ridgeline rose into the cliffs and defiles where

the rock was too barren and dangerous to traverse. Below, to

their left, the forest was thick with shadows that gathered in

pools amid a tangle of heavy brush and close-set black trunks.

Several times, the .trail branched downward into the murk.

Steff, who was in the lead with Teel, motioned that way once

and said, "That is what might have happened to those missing

Federation parties. You don't want to wander into the dark places

in these mountains."

It was Par's hope that this was the source of his discomfort.

Identifying the source should allow him to dismiss it, he told

himself. But just as he was prepared to believe that the matter

had resolved itself, he glanced over his shoulder one final time

and saw something move in the rocks.

He stopped where he was. The others walked on a few steps,

then turned and looked at him. "What is it?" Steff asked at

once.

"There's something back there," Par said quietly, not shift-

ing his eyes from where he had last seen the movement.

Steff walked back to him. "There, in the rocks," Par said

and pointed.

They stood together and looked for a long time and saw noth-

ing. The afternoon was waning, and the shadows were length-

ening in the mountains as the sun dropped low against the

western horizon, so it was difficult to discern much of anything

in the mix of half-light. Par shook his head finally, frustrated.

"Maybe I was mistaken," he admitted.

"Maybe you weren't," Steff said.

Ignoring the surprised look Par gave him, he started them

walking again with Teel in the lead and himself trailing with

Par. Once or twice, he told Par to glance back, and once or

twice he did so himself. Par never saw anything, although he

still had a sense of something being back there. They crossed a

ridgeline that ran from east to west and started down. The far

side was cloaked in shadow, the sun's fading light blocked away

entirely, and the trail below wound its way through a maze of

rocks and scrub that were clustered on the mountainside like

huddled sheep. The wind was at their backs now, and the sound

of Steff's voice, when he spoke, carried ahead to them.

"Whatever's back there is tracking us, waiting for dark or at

least twilight before showing itself. I don't know what it is, but

it's big. We have to find a place where we can defend ourselves.''

No one said anything. Par experienced a sudden chill. Coil

glanced at him, then at Morgan. Teel never turned.

They were through the maze of rocks and brush and back on

an open trail leading up again when the thing finally emerged

from the shadows and let them see what it was. Steff saw it first,

called out sharply and brought them all about. The creature was

still more than a hundred yards back, crouched on a flat rock

where a narrow shaft of sunlight sliced across its blunted face

like a lance. It looked like some sort of monstrous dog or wolf

with a massive chest and neck thick with fur and a face that was

all misshapen. It had oddly fat legs, a barrel body, small ears

and tail, and the look of something that had no friends. Its jaws

parted once, the biggest jaws Par had ever seen on anything,

and spittle drooled out. The jaws snapped shut, and it started

toward them in a slow amble.

"Keep moving,'' Steff said quietly, and they did. They walked

ahead steadily, following the weave of the trail, trying not to

look back.

"What is it?" Morgan asked, his voice low.

"They call it a Gnawl,'' Steff answered calmly. ' 'It lives east

in the deepest part of the Anar, beyond the Ravenshom. Very

dangerous." He paused. "I never heard of one being seen in

the central Anar, though-let alone in the Wolfsktaag."

"Until now, you mean," muttered Coil.

They made their way through a broad split in the mountains

where the trail began to dip sharply downward into a hollows.

The sun was gone, and gray twilight hung over everything like

a shroud. It was getting hard to see. The thing behind them

appeared and disappeared in fits and starts, causing Par to won-

der what would happen when they lost sight of it altogether.

"I never heard of one stalking men either," Steff declared

suddenly from just behind him.

The strange hunt continued, the Gnawl trailing them at a

distance of about a hundred yards, apparently content to wait

for darkness to descend completely. Steff urged them on, search-

ing for a spot where they could make a stand.

"Why don't you simply let me go after it!'' Morgan snapped

back at him at one point.

"Because you would be dead quicker than I could say your

name, Highlander," the Dwarf answered, his voice cold. "Don't

be fooled. This creature is more than a match for the five of us

if it catches us unprepared. All the magic in the world won't

make a difference if that happens!''

Par froze, wondering suddenly if the magic in Morgan's sword

was of any use against this beast. Wasn't the sword's magic

triggered only by an encounter with similar magic? Wasn't it

simply a common sword when otherwise employed? Wasn't that

what Allanon had intended when he had given the blade its

power? Hfe struggled to remember the particulars of the story

and failed. But the other magics, those of the Sword of Shannara

and of the Elfstones, had been effective only against things of

magic-he remembered that well enough. It was very likely the

same with . . .

"Ahead, down by that hollows," Steff said abruptly, ending

his speculation. "That's where we will..."

He never finished. The Gnawl came at them, hurtling through

the darkness, a huge, black shape bounding across the broken

rock and scrub with a speed that was astonishing. "Go!" Steff

shouted at them, pointed hurriedly down the trail and turned to

face the beast.

They went without thinking, all but Morgan who wrenched

free the Sword of Leah and rushed to stand with his friend. Teel,

Coil, and Par dashed ahead, glancing back just as the Gnawl

reached their companions. The creature lunged at Steff, but the

Dwarf was waiting, the huge mace held ready. He caught the

beast full against the side of its head with a blow that would

have dropped anything else. But the Gnawl shrugged the blow

aside and came at the Dwarf again. Steff hammered it a second

time, men broke past it, pulling the Highlander after him. They

came down the trail in a spring, quickly catching the fleeing

Valemen and Teel.

"Down the slope!" Steff yelled, literally shoving them off the

trail. They rushed into the scrub and rocks, skidding and slid-

ing. Par went down, tumbled head-over-heels, and came back

to his feet all in the same motion. He was disoriented, and there

was blood in his eyes. Steff jerked him about and dragged him

forward, down the slide, the sound of labored breathing and

shouting all about him.

Then he was aware of the Gnawl. He heard it before he saw

it, its heavy body churning up the ground behind them, scatter-

ing rocks and dirt as it came, its cry an ugly whine of hunger.

The magic. Par thought, distracted - I have to use the magic.

The wishsong will work, confuse it, at least. . .

Steff pulled him onto a flat rock, and he felt the others bunch

around him. "Stay together!" the Dwarf ordered. "Don't leave

the rock!"

He stepped out to meet the Gnawl's rush.

Par would never forget what happened next. Steff took the

Gnawl's charge on the slope just to the left of the rock. He let

the creature come right up against him, then suddenly fell back,

mace jamming upward into the Gnawl's throat, booted feet

thrusting against its massive chest. Steff went down, and the

Gnawl went right over him, the momentum of its lunge carrying

it past. The Gnawl could not catch itself. It tumbled past Steff,

rolled wildly down the slope into the hollows below, right up

against the fringe of the trees. It came to its feet instantly, growl-

ing and snarling. But then something huge shot out of the trees,

snapped up the Gnawl in a single bite and pulled back again into

the murk. There was a sharp cry, a crunching of bones, and

silence.

Steff came to his feet, put a finger to his lips, and beckoned

them to follow. Silently, or as nearly so as they could keep it,

they climbed back up to the trail and stood looking downward

into the impenetrable dark.

"In the Wolfsktaag, you have to learn what to look out for,''

Steff whispered with a grim smile. "Even if you're a Gnawl."

They brushed themselves off and straightened their packs.

Their cuts and bruises were slight. The Pass of Jade, which

would take them clear of the mountains, was no more than an-

other hour or two ahead, Steff advised.

They decided to keep walking.

IX

It took longer than Steff had estimated to reach the Pass of

Jade, and it was almost midnight when the little company

finally broke clear of the Wolfsktaag. They slept in a nar-

row canyon screened by a tangle of fir and ancient spruce, so

exhausted that they did not bother with either food or fire, but

simply rolled into their blankets and dropped off to sleep. Par

dreamed that night, but not about Allanon or the Hadeshom.

He dreamed instead of the Gnawl. It tracked him relentlessly

through the landscape of his mind, chasing him from one dark

comer to the next, a vaguely distinguishable shadow whose

identity was nevertheless as certain as his own. It came for him

and he ran from it, and the terror he felt was palpable. Finally

it cornered him, backing him into a shallow niche of rock and

forest, and just as he was about to attempt to spring past it,

something monstrous lunged from the dark behind him and took

him into its maw, dragging him from sight as he screamed for

the help that wouldn't come.

He came awake with a start.

It was dark, though the sky was beginning to lighten in the

east, and his companions still slept. The scream was only in his

mind, it seemed. There was sweat on his face and body, and his

breathing was quick and ragged. He lay back quietly, but did

not sleep again.

They walked east that morning into the central Anar, winding

through a maze of forested hills and ravines, five pairs of eyes

searching the shadows and dark places about them as they went.

There was little talking, the encounter of the previous day having

left them uneasy and watchful. The day was clouded and gray,

and the forests about them seemed more secretive somehow. By

noon, they came upon the falls of the Chard Rush, and they

followed the river in until nightfall.

It rained the next day, and the land was washed in mist and

damp. Travel slowed, and the warmth and brightness of the

previous few days faded into memory. They passed the Rooker

Line Trading Center, a tiny waystation for hunters and traders

in the days of Jair Ohmsford that had built itself into a thriving

fur exchange until the war between the Dwarves and the Fed-

eration disrupted and finally put an end altogether to Eastland

commerce north of Culhaven. Now it stood empty, its doors and

windows gone, its roof rotted and sagging, its shadows filled

with ghosts from another time.

At lunch, huddled beneath the canopy of a massive old willow

that overhung the banks of the river, Steff talked uneasily of the

Gnawl, insisting again that one had never before been seen west

of the Ravenshom. Where did this one come from? How did it

happen to be here? Why had it chosen to track them? There

were answers to his questions, of course, but none that any of

them cared to explore. Chance, they all agreed outwardly, and

inwardly thought just the opposite.

The rain slowed with the approach of nightfall, but continued

in a steady drizzle until morning, when it changed to a heavy

mist. The company pushed on, following the Chard Rush as it

wound its way down into Darklin Reach. Travel grew increas-

ingly difficult, the forests thick with brush and fallen timber, the

pathways almost nonexistent. When they left the river at mid-

day, the terrain transformed itself into a series of gullies and

ravines, and it became almost impossible to determine their

direction. They slogged through the mud and debris, Steff in the

lead, grunting and huffing rhythmically. The Dwarf was like a

tireless machine when he traveled, tough and seemingly inex-

haustible. Only Teel was his equal, smaller than Steff but more

agile, never slowing or complaining, always keeping pace. It

was the Valemen and the Highlander who grew tired, their mus-

cles stiffened, their wind spent. They welcomed every chance

to rest that the Dwarf offered them, and when it was time to

start up again it was all they could do to comply. The dreariness

of their travel was beginning to affect them as well, especially

the Valemen. Par and Coil had been running either from or

toward something for weeks now, had spent much of that time

in hiding, and had endured three very frightening encounters

with creatures best left to one's imagination. They were tired of

keeping constant watch, and the darkness, mist, and damp just

served to exhaust them further. Neither said anything to the

other, and neither would have admitted it if the other had asked,

but both were starting to wonder if they really knew what they

were doing.

It was late afternoon when the rain finally stopped, and the

clouds suddenly broke apart to let through a smattering of sun-

light. They crested a ridge and came upon a shallow, forested

valley dominated by a strange rock formation shaped like a

chimney. It rose out of the trees as if a sentinel set at watch,

black and still against the distant skyline. Steff brought the oth-

ers to a halt and pointed down.

"There," he said quietly. "If Walker Boh's to be found, this

is the place he's said to be."

Par shoved aside his exhaustion and despondency, staring in

disbelief. "I know this place!" he exclaimed. "This is Hearth-

stone! I recognize it from the stories! This is Cogline's home!"

"Was," Coil corrected wearily.

"Was, is, what's the difference?" Par was animated as he

confronted them. "The point is, what is Walker Boh doing here?

I mean, it makes sense that he would be here because this was

once the home of the Bohs, but it was Cogline's home as well.

If Walker lives here, then why didn't the old man tell us? Unless

maybe the old man isn't Cogline after all or unless for some

reason he doesn't know Walker is here, or unless Walker ..."

He stopped suddenly, confused to the point of distraction. "Are

you sure this is where my uncle is supposed to live?" he de-

manded of Steff.

The Dwarf had been watching him during all this the same

way he might have watched a three-headed dog. Now he simply

shrugged. "Valeman, I am sure of very little and admit to less.

I was told this was where the man makes his home. So if you're

all done talking about it, why don't we simply go down there

and see?"

Par shut his mouth, and they began their descent. When they

reached the valley floor, they found the forest surprisingly clear

of scrub and deadwood. The trees opened into clearings that

were crisscrossed with streams and laced with tiny wildflowers

colored white, blue, and deep violet. The day grew still, the

wind calmed, and the lengthening shadows that draped the way

forward seemed soft and unthreatening. Par forgot about the

dangers and hardships of his journey, put aside his weariness

and discomfort, and concentrated instead on thinking further

about the man he had come to find. He was admittedly con-

fused, but at least he understood the reason. When Brin Ohms-

ford had come into Darklin Reach three hundred years earlier,

Hearthstone had been the home of Cogline and the child he

claimed as his granddaughter, Kimber Boh. The old man and

the little girl had guided Brin into the Maelmord where she had

confronted the Ildatch. They had remained friends afterward,

and that friendship had endured for ten generations. Walker

Boh's father had been an Ohmsford and his mother a Boh. He

could trace his father's side of the family directly back to Brin

and his mother's side to Kimber. It was logical that he would

choose to come back here-yet illogical that the old man, the

man who claimed to be Cogline, the very same Cogline of three

hundred years earlier, would know nothing about it.

Or say nothing, if in fact he knew.

Par frowned. What had the old man said about Walker Boh

when they had talked with him? His frown deepened. Only that

he knew Walker was alive, he answered himself. That and noth-

ing else.

But was there more between them than what the old man had

revealed? Par was certain of it. And he meant to discover what

it was.

The brief flurry of late sunlight faded and twilight cloaked

the valley in darkening shades of gray. The sky remained clear

and began to fill with stars, and the three-quarter moon, waning

now toward the end of its cycle, bathed the forest in milky light.

The little company walked cautiously ahead, working its way

steadily in the direction of the chimney-shaped rock formation,

crossing the dozens of little streams and weaving through the

maze of clearings. The forest was still, but its silence did not

feel ominous. Coil nudged Par at one point when he caught sight

of a gray squirrel sitting up on its hind legs and regarding them

solemnly. There were night sounds, but they seemed distant and

far removed from the valley.

"It feels sort of ... protected here, don't you think?" Par

asked his brother quietly, and Coil nodded.

They continued on for almost an hour without encountering

anyone. They had reached the approximate center of the valley

when a sudden glimmer of light winked at them through the

forest trees. Steff slowed, signaled for caution, then led them

forward. The light drew closer, flickering brightly through the

dark, changing from a single pinprick of brightness to a cluster.

Lamps, Par thought. He pushed ahead to reach Steff, his sharp

Elven senses picking out the source. "It's a cottage," he whis-

pered to the Dwarf.

They broke clear of the trees and stepped into a broad, grassy

clearing. There was indeed a cottage. It stood before them,

precisely at the center of the clearing, a well-kept stone and

timber structure with front and rear porches, stone walkways,

gardens, and flowering shrubs. Spruce and pine clustered about

it like miniature watchtowers. Light streamed forth from its

windows and mingled with moonglow to brighten the clearing

as if it were midday.

The front door stood open.

Par started forward at once, but Steff quickly yanked him

back. "A little caution might be in order, Valeman," he lec-

tured.

He said something to Teel, then left them all to go on alone,

sprinting across the open spaces between the spruce and pine,

keeping carefully to the shadows between, eyes fixed on the

open door. The others watched him make his way forward,

crouched down now at Teel's insistence at the edge of the forest.

Steff reached the porch, hunkered down close to it for a long

time, then darted up the steps and through the front door. There

was a moment of silence, then he reappeared and waved them

forward.

When they reached him, he said, "No one is here. But it

appears we are expected."

They discovered his meaning when they went inside. A pair

of chimneys bracketed the central room, one for a seating area

in which chairs and benches were drawn up, the other for a

cooking grill and oven. Fires burned brightly in both. A kettle

of stew simmered over the grill and hot bread cooled on a cutting

board. A long trestle table was carefully set with plates and cups

for five. Par stepped forward for a closer look. Cold ale had

been poured into all five cups.

The members of the little company looked at each other si-

lently for a moment, then glanced once more about the room.

The wood of the walls and beams was polished and waxed.

Silver, crystal, carved wooden pieces, and clothwork hangings

gleamed in the light of oil lamps and hearth flames. There was

a vase of fresh flowers on the trestle table, others in the sitting

area. A hall led back into the sleeping rooms. The cottage was

bright and cheerful and very empty.

"Is this Walker's?" Morgan asked doubtfully of Par. Some-

how it didn't fit the image he had formed of the man.

Par shook his head. ' 'I don't know. There isn't anything here

I recognize."

Morgan moved silently to the back hall, disappeared from

sight for a moment and returned. "Nothing," he reported,

sounding disappointed.

Coil walked over to stand with Par, sniffed the stew experi-

mentally, and shrugged. "Well, obviously our coming here isn't

such a surprise after all. I don't know about the rest of you, but

that stew smells awfully good. Since someone has gone to the

trouble of making it-Walker Boh or whoever-I think the least

we can do is sit down and eat it.''

Par and Morgan quickly agreed, and even Teel seemed inter-

ested. Steff was again inclined to be cautious, but since it was

apparent Coil was probably right in his analysis of the situation

he quickly gave in. Nevertheless, he insisted on checking first

to make certain neither food nor drink was tainted in any way.

When he had pronounced the meal fit, they seated themselves

and eagerly consumed it.

When dinner was over, they cleared and washed the dishes

and put them carefully away in a cabinet built to contain them.

Then they searched the cottage a second time, the grounds

around it, and finally everything for a quarter-mile in every di-

rection. They found nothing.

They sat around the fire after that until midnight, waiting. No

one came. There were two small bedrooms in back with two

beds in each. The beds were turned down and the linens and

blankets fresh. They took turns sleeping, one keeping watch for

the others. They slept the night undisturbed, the forest and the

valley at peace about them. Dawn brought them awake feeling

much refreshed. Still no one came.

That day, they searched the entire valley from one end to the

other, from the cottage to the odd, chimney-shaped rock, from

north wall to south, from east to west. The day was warm and

bright, filled with sunshine and gentle breezes and the smell of

growing things. They took their time, wandering along the

streams, following the pathways, exploring the few dens that

burrowed the valley slopes like pockets. They found scattered

prints, all of them made by animals, and nothing else. Birds

flew overhead, sudden flashes of color in the trees, tiny woods

creatures watched with darting eyes, and insects buzzed and

hummed. Once a badger lumbered into view as Par and Coil

hunted the west wall by the rock tower, refusing to give way to

them. Other than that, none of them saw anything.

They had to fix their own meal that night, but there was fresh

meat and cheese in a cold locker, day-old bread from the pre-

vious evening, and vegetables in the garden. The Valemen helped

themselves, forcing the others to partake as well despite Steff's

continued misgivings, convinced that this was what was ex-

pected of them. The day faded into a warm and pleasant night,

and they began to grow comfortable with their surroundings.

Steff sat with Teel before the gathering fire and smoked a long-

stemmed pipe. Par worked in the kitchen with Coil cleaning the

dishes, and Morgan took up watch on the front steps.

"Someone has put a lot of effort into keeping up this cot-

tage," Par observed to his brother as they finished their task.

"It doesn't seem reasonable that they would just go off and leave

it."

"Especially after taking time to make us that stew," Coil

added. His broad face furrowed. "Do you think it belongs to

Walker?"

"I don't know. I wish I did."

"None of this really seems like him though, does it? Not like

the Walker I remember. Certainly not like the one Steff tells us

about."

Par wiped the last few droplets of dishwater from a dinner

plate and carefully put it away. "Maybe that's how he wants it

to appear," he said softly.

It was several hours after midnight when he took the watch

from Teel, yawning and stretching as he came out onto the front

porch to look for her. The Dwarf was nowhere to be seen at

first, and it wasn't until he had come thoroughly awake that she

appeared from behind a spruce some several dozen yards out.

She slipped noiselessly through the shadows to reach him and

disappeared into the cottage without a word. Par glanced after

her curiously, then sat down on the front steps, propped his chin

in his hands, and stared off into the dark.

He had been sitting there for almost an hour when he heard

the sound.

It was a strange sound, a sort of buzzing like a swarm of bees

might make, but deep and rough. It was there and then just as

quickly gone again. He thought at first he must have made it up,

that he had heard it only in his mind. But then it came again,

for just an instant, before disappearing once more.

He stood up, looked around tentatively, then walked out onto

the pathway. The night was brilliantly clear and the sky filled

with stars and bright. The woods about him were empty. He felt

reassured and walked slowly around the house and out back.

There was an old willow tree there, far back in the shadows,

and beneath it a pair of worn benches. Par walked over to them

and stopped, listening once again for the noise and hearing noth-

ing. He sat down on the nearest bench. The bench had been

carved to the shape of his body, and he felt cradled by it. He sat

there for a time, staring out through the veil of the willow's

drooping branches, daydreaming in the darkness, listening to

the night's silence. He wondered about his parents-if they were

well, if they worried for him. Shady Vale was a distant memory.

He closed his eyes momentarily to rest them against the wear-

iness he was feeling. When he opened them again, the moor cat

was standing there.

Par's shock was so great that at first he couldn't move. The

cat was right in front of him, its whiskered face level with his

own, its eyes a luminous gold in the night. It was the biggest

animal that Par had ever seen, bigger even than the Gnawl. It

was solid black from head to tail except for the eyes, which

stared at him unblinkingly.

Then the cat began to purr, and he recognized it as the sound

he had heard earlier. The cat turned and walked away a few

paces and looked back, waiting. When Par continued to stare at

it, it returned momentarily, started away again, stopped and

waited.

It wanted him to follow, Par realized.

He rose mechanically, unable to make his body respond in

the way he wanted it to, trying to decide if he should do as the

cat expected or attempt to break away. He discarded any thought

of the latter almost immediately. This was no time to be trying

anything foolish. Besides, if the cat wanted to harm him, it could

have done so earlier.

He took a few steps forward, and the cat turned away again,

moving off into the trees.

They wound through the darkened forest for long minutes,

moving silently, steadily into the night. Moonlight flooded the

open spaces, and Par had little trouble following. He watched

the cat move effortlessly ahead of him, barely disturbing the

forest about him, a creature that seemed to have the substance

of a shadow. His shock was fading now, replaced by curiosity.

Someone had sent the cat to him, and he thought he knew who.

Finally, they reached a clearing in which several streams emp-

tied through a series of tiny rapids into a wide, moonlit pool.

The trees here were very old and broad, and their limbs cast an

intricate pattern of shadows over everything. The cat walked

over to the pool, drank deeply for a moment, then sat back and

looked at him. Par came forward a few steps and stopped.

"Hello, Par," someone greeted.

The Valeman searched the clearing for a moment before find-

ing the speaker, who sat well back in the dark on a buried stump,

barely distinguishable from the shadows about him. When Par

hesitated, he rose and stepped into the light.

"Hello, Walker," Par replied softly.

His uncle was very much as he remembered him-and at the

same time completely different. He was still tall and slight, his

Elven features apparent though not as pronounced as Par's, his

skin a shocking white hue that provided a marked contrast to

the shoulder-length black hair and close-cropped beard. His eyes

hadn't changed either; they still looked right through you, even

when shadowed as they were now. What was different was more

difficult to define. It was mostly in the way Walker Boh carried

himself and the way he made Par feel when he spoke, even

though he had said almost nothing. It was as if there were an

invisible wall about him that nothing could penetrate.

Walker Boh came forward and took Par's hands in his own.

He was dressed in loose-fitting forest clothing-pants, tunic, a

short cloak, and soft boots, all colored like the earth and trees.

"Have you been comfortable at the cottage?" he asked.

Par seemed to remember himself then. "Walker, I don't un-

derstand. What are you doing out here? Why didn't you meet

us when we arrived? Obviously, you knew we were coming."

His uncle released his hands and stepped away. "Come sit

with me, Par," he invited, and moved back again into the shad-

ows without waiting for his nephew's response. Par followed,

and the two seated themselves on the stump from which Walker

had first risen.

Walker looked him over carefully. "I will only be speaking

with you," he said quietly. "And only this once."

Par waited, saying nothing. "'There have been many changes

in my life," his uncle went on after a moment. "I expect you

remember little of me from your childhood, and most of what

you remember no longer has much to do with who I am now in

any case. I gave up my Vale life, any claim to being a Southland-

er, and came here to begin again. I left behind me the madness

of men whose lives are governed by the baser instincts. I sepa-

rated myself from men of all races, from their greed and their

prejudice, their wars and their politics, and their monstrous con-

ception of betterment. I came here. Par, so that I could live

alone. I was always alone, of course; I was made to feel alone.

The difference now is that I am alone, not because others choose

it for me, but because I choose it for myself. I am free to be

exactly what I am-and not to feel strange because of it."

He smiled family. "It is the time we live in and who we are

that make it difficult for both of us, you know. Do you under-

stand me. Par? You have the magic, too-a very tangible magic

in your case. It will not win you friends; it will set you apart.

We are not permitted to be Ohmsfords these days because

Ohmsfords have the magic of their Elven forebears and neither

magic nor Elves are appreciated or understood. I grew tired of

finding it so, of being set apart, of being constantly looked at

with suspicion and mistrust. I grew tired of being thought dif-

ferent. It will happen to you as well, if it hasn't done so already.

It is the nature of things."

"I don't let it bother me," Par said defensively. "The magic

is a gift."

"Oh? Is it now? How so? A gift is not something you hide

as you would a loathsome disease. It is not something of which

you are ashamed or cautious or even frightened. It is not some-

thing that might kill you."

The words were spoken with such bitterness that Par felt

chilled. Then his uncle's mood seemed to change instantly; he

grew calm again, quiet. He shook his head in self-reproach. "I

forget myself sometimes when speaking of the past. I apologize.

I brought you here to talk with you of other things. But only

with you. Par. I leave the cottage for your companions to use

during their stay. But I will not come there to be with them. I

am only interested in you."

"But what about Coil?" Par asked, confused. "Why speak

with me and not with him?''

His uncle's smile was ironic. "Think, Par. I was never close

with him the way I was with you."

Par stared at him silently. That was true, he supposed. It was

the magic that had draws Walker to him, and Coil had never

been able to share in that. The time he had spent with his uncle,

the time that had made him feel close to the man, had always

been time away from Coll.

"Besides,'' the other continued softly,' 'what we need to talk

about concerns only us."

Par understood then. "The dreams." His uncle nodded.

"Then you have experienced them as well-the figure in black,

the one who appears to be Allanon, standing before the Hades-

hom, warning us, telling us to come?" Par was breathless.

' 'What about the old man? Has he come to you also?'' Again,

his uncle nodded. "Then you do know him, don't you? Is it

true. Walker? Is he really Cogline?"

Walker Boh's face emptied of expression. "Yes, Par, he is."

Par flushed with excitement, and rubbed his hands together

briskly. "I cannot believe it! How old is he? Hundreds of years,

I suppose-just as he claimed. And once a Druid. I knew I was

right! Does he live here still. Walker-with you?"

"He visits, sometimes. And sometimes stays a bit. The cat

was his before he gave it to me. You remember that there was

always a moor cat. The one before was called Whisper. That

was in the time of Brin Ohmsford. This one is called Rumor.

The old man named it. He said it was a good name for a cat-

especially one who would belong to me."

He stopped, and something Par couldn't read crossed his face

briefly and was gone. The Valeman glanced over to where the

cat had been resting, but it had disappeared.

"Rumor comes and goes in the manner of all moor cats,"

Walker Boh said as if reading his thoughts.

Par nodded absently, then looked back at him. "What are

you going to do. Walker?"

"About the dreams?" The strange eyes went flat. "Noth-

ing."

Par hesitated. "But the old man must have ..."

"Listen to me," the other said, cutting him short. "I am

decided on this. I know what the dreams have asked of me; I

know who sent them. The old man has come to me, and we

have talked. He left not a week past. None of that matters. I am

no longer an Ohmsford; I am a Boh. If I could strip away my

past, with all its legacy of magic and all its glorious Elven his-

tory, I would do so in an instant. I want none of it. I came into

the Eastland to find this valley, to live as my ancestors once

lived, to be just once where everything is fresh and clean and

untroubled by the presence of others. I have learned to keep my

life in perfect order and to order the life around me. You have

seen this valley; my mother's people made it that way and I have

learned to keep it. I have Rumor for company and occasionally

the old man. Once in a while, I even visit with those from the

outside. Darklin Reach has become a haven for me and Hearth-

stone my home."

He bent forward, his face intense. "I have the magic. Par-

different from yours, but real nevertheless. I can tell what others

are thinking sometimes, even when they are far away. I can

communicate with life in ways that others cannot. All forms of

life. I can disappear sometimes, just like the moor cat. I can

even summon power!" He snapped his fingers suddenly, and a

brief spurt of blue fire appeared on his fingers. He snuffed it

out. "I lack the magic of the wishsong, but apparently some of

its power has taken root inside me. Some of what I know is

innate; some is self-taught; some was taught to me by others.

But I have all I need, and I wish no more. I am comfortable here

and will never leave. Let the world get on as best it can without

me. It always did so before."

Par struggled to respond. "But what if the dream is right,

Walker?" he asked finally.

Walker Boh laughed derisively. "Par! The dreams are never

right! Have you not paid heed to your own stories? Whether they

manifest themselves as they have this time or as they did when

Allanon was alive, one fact remains unchanged-the Ohmsfords

are never told everything, only what the Druids deem neces-

sary!"

"You think that we are being used.'' Par made it a statement

of fact.

"I think I would be a fool to believe anything else! I do not

trust what I am being told." The other's eyes were as hard as

stone. "The magic you insist on regarding as a gift has always

been little more than a useful tool to the Druids. I do not intend

to let myself be put to whatever new task they have discovered.

If the world needs saving as these dreams suggest, let Allanon

or the old man go out and save it!"

There was a long moment of silence as the two measured

each other. Par shook his head slowly. "You surprise me,

Walker. I don't remember the bitterness or the anger from be-

fore."

Walker Boh smiled sadly. "It was there. Par. It was always

there. You just didn't bother to look for it.''

"Shouldn't it be gone by now?"

His uncle kept silent.

"So you are decided on this matter, are you?"

"Yes, Par. I am."

Par took a deep breath. "What will you do, Walker, if the

things in the dream come to pass? What will become of your

home then? What will happen if the evil the dream showed us

decides to come looking for you?"

His uncle said nothing, but the steady gaze never wavered.

Par nodded slowly. "I have a different view of matters from

yours. Walker," he said softly. "I have always believed that the

magic was a gift, and that it was given to me for a reason. It

appeared for a long time that it was meant to be used to tell the

stories, to keep them from being forgotten completely. I have

changed my mind about that. I think now that the magic is meant

for something more."

He shifted, straightening himself because he was feeling sud-

denly small in the presence of the other. "Coil and I cannot go

back to the Vale because the Federation has found out about the

magic and is hunting for us. The old man, Cogline, says there

may be other things hunting us as well-perhaps even Shad-

owen. Have you see the Shadowen? I have. Coil and I are

scared to death. Walker, though we don't talk about it much.

The funny thing is, I think the things hunting us are scared, too.

It's the magic that scares them.'' He paused. "I don't know why

that is, but I mean to find out.''

There was a flicker of surprise in Walker Boh's eyes. Par

nodded. "Yes, Walker, I have decided to do as the dreams have

asked. I believe they were sent by Allanon, and I believe they

should be heeded. I will go to the Hadeshom. I think I made

the decision just now; I think listening to you helped me decide.

I haven't told Coil. I don't really know what he will do. May-

be I will end up going alone. But I will go. If for no other reason,

I will go because I think Allanon can tell me what the magic is

intended to do."

He shook his head sadly. "I can't be like you. Walker. I can't

live apart from the rest of the world. I want to be able to go back

to Shady Vale. I don't want to go away and start life over. I came

this way through Culhaven. The Dwarves who brought us are

from there. All of the prejudice and greed, the politics and wars,

all of the madness you speak about is very much in evidence

there. But unlike you I don't want to escape it; I want to find a

way to end it! How can that happen if I simply pretend it doesn't

exist!''

His hands tightened into fists. "You see, I keep thinking,

what if Allanon knows something that can change the way things

are? What if he can tell me something that will put an end to

the madness?''

They faced each other in the dark for a long time without

speaking, and Par thought he saw things in his uncle's dark eyes

that he hadn't seen since his childhood-things that whispered

of caring and need and sacrifice. Then the eyes were flat again,

expressionless, empty. Walker Boh came to his feet.

"Will you reconsider?" Par asked him quietly.

Walker regarded him silently, then walked to the pool at the

center of the clearing and stood looking down. When his fingers

snapped, Rumor materialized from out of nowhere and came

over to him.

He turned momentarily and looked back. "Good luck. Par,"

was all he said.

Then he turned, the cat beside him, and disappeared into the

night.

x

Par waited until morning to tell the others of his meeting

with Walker Boh. There did not seem to be any reason

to hurry it. Walker had made clear his intentions, and

there was nothing any of them could do about it in any case. So

Par made his way back to the cottage, surprising himself at how

easily he was able to retrace his steps, resumed his watch with-

out disturbing the others, lost himself in his thoughts, and waited

for dawn.

Reactions were mixed when he finally related his story. There

was some initial doubt as to whether he was mistaken about

what happened, but that dissipated almost at once. They made

him tell the story twice more after that, interjecting comments

and questions in equal measure as he went. Morgan was out-

raged that Walker should treat them like this, declaring that they

deserved at the very least the courtesy of a direct confrontation.

He insisted that they search the valley again, convinced that the

man must be close by and should be found and made to face

them all. Steff was more pragmatic. He was of the opinion that

Walker Boh was no different from most, preferring to stay out

of trouble when he could, avoiding situations in which trouble

would most probably result.

"It seems to me that his behavior, however irritating you

might find it, is certainly not out of character," the Dwarf de-

clared with a shrug. "After all, you said yourselves that he came

here to escape involvement with the Races. By refusing to go to

the Hadeshom, he is simply doing what he said he would do."

Teel, as usual, had nothing to say. Coil only said, "I wish I

could have spoken with him," and dropped the matter.

There was no reason now to stay longer at Hearthstone, but

they decided to postpone leaving for at least another day. The

moon was still more than half full, and they had at least another

ten days left to them before they were required to be at the

Hadeshom-if, indeed, they were going at all. The subject of

what was to happen next was being carefully avoided. Par had

made up his own mind, but had not yet told the others. They,

of course, were waiting to hear from him. While they played at

this game of cat-and-mouse, they finished breakfast and decided

to go along with Morgan's suggestion and scout the valley one

more time. It gave them something to do while they considered

the implications of Walker Boh's decision. Tomorrow morning

would be time enough to make any decisions of their own.

So they went back to the clearing where Par had met with

Walker and the moor cat the previous night and began a second

search, agreeing to meet back at the cottage by late afternoon.

Steff and Teel formed one group. Par and Coil a second, and

Morgan went alone. The day was warm and filled with sunshine,

and a light breeze blew down out of the distant mountains. Steff

scoured the clearing for signs of any sort and found nothing-

not even the tracks of the cat. Par had a feeling that it was going

to be a long day.

He walked east with Coil after parting from the others, his

mind crowding with thoughts of what he should say to his

brother. A mix of emotions worked their way through him, and

he found it difficult to sort them out. He ambled along half-

heartedly, conscious of Coil watching him from time to time,

but avoiding his gaze. After they had wandered through several

dozen clearings and forded half that many streams without

coming on even a trace of Walker Boh, Par called a halt.

"This is a waste of time," he announced, a hint of exasper-

ation creeping into his voice. "We're not going to find any-

thing."

"I don't imagine we are," Coil replied.

Par turned to him, and they faced each other silently for a

moment. "I have decided to go on to the Hadeshom, Coil. It

doesn't matter what Walker does; it only matters what I do. I

have to go."

Coil nodded. "I know." Then he smiled. "Par, I haven't

been your brother all these years without learning something

about the way you think. The moment you told me that Walker

had said he would have nothing to do with the matter, I knew

you'd decided you would. That's the way it is with you. You're

like a dog with a bone in its teeth-you can't let go."

"I suppose that's the way it seems sometimes, doesn't it?"

Par shook his head wearily and moved over to a patch of shade

beneath an old hickory. He turned his back to the trunk and slid

to the ground. Coil joined him. They sat staring out at the empty

woodlands. "I admit that I made the decision pretty much the

way you describe it. I just couldn't accept Walker's position.

Truth is. Coil, I couldn't even understand it. I was so upset, I

didn't even think to ask him whether he believed the dreams

were real or not.''

"Not consciously, perhaps-but you thought about it. And

you decided at some point it wasn't necessary. Walker said that

he'd had the same dreams as you. He told you the old man had

come to him just as he did to us. He admitted the old man was

Cogline. He didn't dispute any of it. He simply said he didn't

want to become involved. The implication is that he believes the

dreams are real-otherwise, there wouldn't be anything to get

involved with."

Par's jaw tightened. "I don't understand it, Coil. That was

Walker I spoke with last night; I know it was. But he didn't talk

like Walker. All that business about not becoming involved,

about his decision to separate himself from the Races, and to

live out here like a hermit. Something's not right; I can feel it!

He wasn't telling me everything. He kept talking about how the

Druids kept secrets from the Ohmsfords, but he was doing the

same thing with me! He was hiding something!"

Coil looked unconvinced. "Why would he do that?"

Par shook his head. "I don't know. I just sense it." He looked

at his brother sharply. "Walker never backed down from any-

thing in his entire life; we both know that. He was never afraid

to stand up and be counted when he was needed. Now he talks

as if he can scarcely bear the thought of getting up in the morn-

ing! He talks as if the only important thing in life is to look out

for himself!" The Valeman leaned back wearily against the

hickory trunk. "He made me feel embarrassed for him. He

made me feel ashamed!"

"I think you might be reading too much into this." Coil

scuffed the ground with the heel of his boot. ' 'It may be just the

way he says it is. He's lived alone out here for a long time. Par.

Maybe he simply isn't comfortable with people anymore."

"Even you?" Par was incensed. "For goodness sake. Coil-

he wouldn't even speak with you!''

Coil shook his head and held his gaze steady. "The truth is,

Par, we never spoke much as it was. You were the one he cared

about, because you were the one with the magic."

Par looked at him and said nothing. Walker's exact words, he

thought. He was just fooling himself when he tried to equate

Coil's relationship with their uncle to his own. It had never been

the same.

He frowned. "There is still the matter of the dreams. Why

doesn't he share my curiosity about them? Doesn't he want to

know what Allanon has to say?"

Coil shrugged. "Maybe he already knows. He seems to know

what everyone is thinking most of the time."

Par hesitated. He hadn't considered that. Was it possible his

uncle had already determined what the Druid would tell them at

the Hadeshom? Could he read the mind of a shade, a man three

hundred years dead?

He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. He would have

said something more than he did about the reason for the dreams.

He spent all of his time dismissing the matter as one more in-

stance when the Ohmsfords would be used by the Druids; he

didn't care what the reason was.''

"Then perhaps he is relying on you to tell him."

Par nodded slowly. "That makes better sense. I told him I

was going; maybe he thinks that one of us going is enough."

Coil stretched his big frame full length on the ground and

stared up into the trees. "But you don't believe that either, do

you?"

His brother smiled faintly. "No."

"You still think that it's something else."

"Yes."

They didn't speak for a time, staring off into the woods, think-

ing their separate thoughts. Slender streams of sunlight played

along their bodies through chinks in the limbs canopied over-

head, and the songs of birds filtered through the stillness. "I

like it here," Par said finally.

Coil had his eyes closed. "Where do you think he's hiding?"

"Walker? I don't know. Under a rock, I suppose."

"You're to quick to judge him, Par. You don't have the right

to do that."

Par bit off what he was going to say next and contented him-

self with watching a ray of sunlight work its way across Coil's

face until it was in his eyes, causing him to blink and shift his

body. Coil sat up, his squarish face a mask of contentment. Not

much of anything ruffled him; he always managed to keep his

sense of balance. Par admired him for that. Coil always under-

stood the relative importance of events in the greater scheme of

things.

Par was aware suddenly of how much he loved his brother.

"Are you coming with me. Coil?" he asked then. "To the

Hadeshom?"

Coil looked at him and blinked. "Isn't it odd," he replied,

"that you and Walker and even Wren have the dreams and I

don't, that all of you are mentioned in them, but never me, and

that all of you are called, but not me?" There was no rancor in

his voice, only puzzlement. "Why do you think that is? We've

never talked about it, you and I, have we? Not once. I think we

have both been very careful to avoid talking about it."

Par stared at him and didn't know what to say. Coil saw his

discomfort and smiled. "Awkward, isn't it? Don't look so mis-

erable, Par. It isn't as if the matter is any fault of yours." He

leaned close. "Maybe it has something to do with the magic-

something none of us knows yet. Maybe that's it.''

Par shook his head and sighed. "I'd be lying if I said that the

whole business of me having dreams and you not having them

doesn't make me very uncomfortable. I don't know what to say.

I keep expecting you to involve yourself in something that doesn't

really concern you. I shouldn't even ask-but I guess I can't help

it. You're my brother, and I want you with me."

Coil reached out and put a hand on Par's shoulder. His smile

was warm. "Now and then. Par, you do manage to say the right

thing." He tightened his grip. "I go where you go. That's the

way it is with us. I'm not saying I always agree with the way

you reason things out, but that doesn't change how I feel about

you. So if you believe you must go to the Hadeshom to resolve

this matter of the dreams, then I am going with you."

Par put his arms around his brother and hugged him, thinking

of all the times Coil had stood by him when he was asked,

warmed by the feeling it gave him to know that Coil would be

with him again now. "I knew I could depend on you," was all

he said.

It was late afternoon by the time they started back. They had

intended to return earlier, but had become preoccupied with

talking about the dreams and Allanon and had wandered all the

way to the east wall of the valley before realizing how late it had

become. Now, with the sun already inching toward the rim of

the western horizon, they began to retrace their steps.

"It looks as if we might get our feet wet," Coil announced

as they worked their way back through the trees.

Par glanced skyward. A mass of heavy rain clouds had ap-

peared at the northern edge of the valley, darkening the whole

of the skyline. The sun was already beginning to disappear,

enveloped in the growing darkness. The air was warm and sticky,

and the forest was hushed.

They made their way more quickly now, anxious to avoid a

drenching. A stiff breeze sprang up, heralding the approach of

the storm, whipping the leafy branches of the trees about them

in frantic dances. The temperature began to drop, and the forest

grew dark and shadowed.

Par muttered to himself as he felt a flurry of scattered rain-

drops strike his face. It was bad enough that they were out there

looking for someone who wasn't about to be found in the first

place. Now they were going to get soaked for their efforts.

Then he saw something move in the trees.

He blinked and looked again. This time he didn't see any-

thing. He slowed without realizing it, and Coil, who was trailing

a step or so behind, asked what was wrong. Par shook his head

and picked up the pace again.

The wind whipped into his face, forcing him to lower his

head against its sting. He glanced right, then left. There were

flashes of movement to either side.

Something was tracking them.

Par felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, but he forced

himself to keep moving. Whatever was out there didn't have the

look or the movement of either Walker Boh or the cat. Too

quick, too agile. He tried to gather his thoughts. How far were

they from the cottage-a mile, maybe less? He kept his head up

as he walked, trying to follow the movement out of the comer

of his eye. Movements, he corrected himself. There was clearly

more than one of them.

"Par!" Coil said as they brushed close passing through a

narrow winding of trees. "There's something ..."

"I know!" Par cut him short. "Keep moving!"

They made their way through a broad stand of fir, and the

rain began to fall in earnest. The sun, the walls of the valley,

even the dark pinnacle of Hearthstone had disappeared. Par felt

his breathing quicken. Their pursuers were all around them now,

shadows that had taken on vaguely human form as they flitted

through the trees.

They're closing in on us. Par thought frantically. How much

farther was the cottage?

Coil cried out suddenly as they pushed through a stand of red

maple into a small, empty clearing. "Par, run for it! They're

too close . . . !"

He grunted sharply and pitched forward. Par wheeled instinc-

tively and caught him. There was blood on Coil's forehead, and

he was unconscious.

Par never had time to figure out what had happened. He

looked up, and the shadows were on top of him. They broke

from the concealment of the trees all around him, bounding into

view in a flurry of motion. Par caught a brief glimpse of bent,

crooked forms covered with coarse, black hair and of glinting,

ferret eyes, and then they were all over him. He flung them away

as he struggled to escape, feeling tough, wiry limbs grapple at

him. For a moment, he kept his feet. He cried out frantically,

summoning the magic of the wishsong, sending forth a scatter-

ing of frightful images in an effort to protect himself. There

were howls of fear, and his attackers shrank from him.

This time, he got a good look at them. He saw the strange,

insectlike forms with their vaguely human faces, all twisted and

hairy.

Spider Gnomes, he thought in disbelief!

Then they were on him once more, bearing him down by the

sheer weight of their numbers. He was enveloped in a mass of

sinew and hair and thrown to the ground. He could no longer

summon the magic. His arms were being forced back, and he

was being choked. He struggled desperately, but there were too

many.

He had only a moment more to try to call out for help, and

then everything went dark.

XI

When he came awake again. Par Ohmsford found

himself in the middle of a nightmare. He was

bound hand and foot and hanging from a pole. He

was being carried through a forest thick with mist and shadows,

the dark crease of a deep ravine visible to his left, the jagged

edge ofaridgeline sharp against the night sky to his right. Scrub

and the dense tangle of grasses and weeds slapped at his back

and head as he swung helplessly from the pole, and the air was

thick, humid, and still.

There were Spider Gnomes all around him, creeping sound-

lessly through the half-light on crooked legs.

Par closed his eyes momentarily to shut out the images, then

opened them again. The skies were dark and overcast, but a

scattering of stars shone through creases in the clouds and there

was a faint hint of brightness beyond the drop of the ravine.

Night had come and gone, he realized. It was almost morning.

He remembered then what had happened to him, how the

Spider Gnomes had chased him, seized him, and taken him

away. Coil! What had happened to Coil? He craned his neck in

an effort to see if his brother had been brought as well, but there

was no sign of him. He clenched his jaw in rage, remembering

Coil falling, then sprawled on the ground with blood on his

face . . .

He wiped the image quickly from his mind. It was useless to

dwell on it. He must find a way to get free and return for his

brother. He worked momentarily against the ropes that bound

him, testing their strength, but there was no give. Hanging as

he was, he could not find the leverage necessary to loosen them.

He would have to wait. He wondered men where he was being

taken-why he had been taken in the first place, for that matter.

What did the Spider Gnomes want of him?

Insects buzzed in his face, flying at his eyes and mouth. He

buried his face into his arms and left it there.

When he brought it out again, he tried to determine where he

was. The light was to his left, the beginnings of the new day.

East, then, he decided-the Spider Gnomes were traveling north.

That made sense. The Spider Gnomes had made their home on

Toffer Ridge in Brin Ohmsford's time. That was probably where

he was. He swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and

throat. Thirst and fear, he thought. He tried to recall what he

could of Spider Gnomes from the stories of the old days, but he

was unable to focus his thoughts. Brin had encountered them

when she, Rone Leah, Cogline, Kimber Boh, and the moor cat

Whisper had gone after the missing Sword of Leah. There was

something else, something about a wasteland and the terrifying

creatures that lived within it...

Then he remembered. Werebeasts. The name whispered in

his mind like a curse.

The Spider Gnomes turned down a narrow defile, filling it

with their hairy forms like a dark stain, chittering now in what

appeared to be anticipation. The brightness in the east disap-

peared, and shadows and mist closed about them like a wall.

His wrists and ankles ached, and his body felt stretched beyond

help. The Gnomes were small and carried him close to the

ground so that he bumped and scraped himself at every turn.

He watched from his upside down position as the defile broad-

ened into a shelf that opened out over a vast, mist-shrouded

stretch of emptiness that seemed to run on forever. The shelf

became a corridor through a series of boulders that dotted the

side of Toner Ridge like knots on the back of a boar. Firelight

flickered in the distance, pinpricks of brightness playing hide-

and-seek among the rocks. A handful of Spider Gnomes

bounded ahead, skittering effortlessly over the rocks.

Par took a deep breath. Wherever it was they were going,

they were almost there.

A moment later, they emerged from the rocks and came to a

halt on a low bluff that ran back to a series of burrows and caves

tunneled into the side of the ridge. Fires burned all about, and

hundreds of Spider Gnomes hoved into view. Par was dumped

unceremoniously, the bonds that secured him cut and the pole

removed. He lay there on his back for a moment, rubbing his

wrists and ankles, finding creases so deep that he bled, con-

scious all the time of the eyes watching him. Then he was hauled

to his feet and dragged toward the caves and burrows. They

bypassed the latter in favor of the former, the gnarled hands of

the Gnomes fastened on him at every conceivable point, the

stink of their bodies filling his nostrils. They cluttered at each

other in their own language, their talk incessant now and mean-

ingless to him. He did not resist; he could barely stand upright.

They took him through the largest of the cave openings, pro-

pelled him past a small fire that burned at its mouth and stopped.

There was some discussion, a few moments' worth at best, and

then he was thrust forward. He saw they were in a smallish cave

that ran back only twenty yards or so and was no more than

eight feet at its highest point. A pair of iron rings had been

hammered into the rock wall at the cave's deepest point, and

the Spider Gnomes lashed him to those. Then they left him, all

but two who remained behind to take up watch by the fire at the

cave entrance.

Par let his mind clear, listening to the silence, waiting to see

what would happen next. When nothing did, he took a careful

look about. He had been left spread-eagle against the rock wall,

one arm secured to each of the iron rings. He was forced to

remain standing because the rings were fastened too high up on

the rock to allow him to sit. He tested his bonds. They were

leather and secured so tightly mat his wrists could not slip within

them even the smallest amount.

He sagged back momentarily in despair, forcing down the

panic that threatened to overwhelm him. The others would be

looking for him by now-Morgan, Steff, Teel. They would al-

ready have found Coil. They would track the Spider Gnomes

and come for him. They would find him and rescue him.

He shook his head. He was just kidding himself, he knew. It

was almost dark when the Gnomes had taken him and the rain

had been a hard one. There would have been no time for a search

and no real chance of finding a trail. The best he could hope for

was that Coil had been found or revived himself and gone to the

others to tell them what had happened.

He swallowed again against the dryness. He was so thirsty!

Time slipped away, turning seconds to minutes, minutes to

hours. The darkness outside brightened minimally, bringing a

barely penetrable daylight, choked with heat and mist. The faint

sounds of the Spider Gnomes disappeared altogether, and he

would have thought them gone completely if not for the two who

sat hunkered down by the cave's entrance. The fire went out,

smoking for a time, then turning to ash. The day slipped away.

Once, one of the guards rose and brought him a cup of wa-

ter. He drank it greedily from the hands that held it up to his

mouth, spilling most of it, soaking his shirt front. He grew

hungry as well, but no food was offered.

When the day began to fade to darkness again, the guards

rebuilt the fire at the mouth of the cave, then disappeared.

Par waited expectantly, forgetting for the first time the ache

of his body, the hunger and the fear. Something was going to

happen now. He could feel it.

What happened was altogether unexpected. He was working

again at his bonds, his sweat loosening them now, mingling with

traces of his blood from the cuts the ties had made, when a

figure appeared from the shadows. It came past the fire and into

the light and stopped.

It was a child.

Par blinked The child was a girl, perhaps a dozen years of

age, rather tall and skinny with dark, lank hair and deepset eyes.

She was not a Gnome, but of the Race of Man, a Southlander,

with a tattered dress, worn boots, and a small silver locket about

her neck. She looked at him curiously, studied him as she might

a stray dog or cat, then came slowly forward. She stopped when

she reached him, then lifted one hand to brush back his hair and

touch his ear.

"Elf," she said quietly, fingering the ear's tip.

Par stared. What was a child doing out here among the Spider

Gnomes? He wet his lips. "Untie me," he begged.

She looked at him some more, saying nothing. "Untie me!"

Par said again, more insistent this time. He waited, but the child

just looked at him. He felt the beginnings of doubt creep through

him. Something was not right.

"Hug you," the child said suddenly.

She came to him almost anxiously, wrapping her arms about

him, fastening herself to him like a leech. She clung to him,

burying herself in his body, murmuring over and over again

something he could not understand. What was the matter with

this child, he wondered in dismay? She seemed lost, frightened

perhaps, needing to hold him as much as he ...

The thought died away as he felt her stirring against him,

moving within her clothes, against his clothes, then against his

skin. Her fingers had tightened into him, and he could feel her

pressing, pressing. Shock flooded through him. She was right

against him, against his skin, as if they wore no clothes at all,

as if all their garments had been shed. She was burrowing,

coming against him, then coming into him, merging somehow

with him, making herself a part of him.

Shades! What was happening?

Repulsion filled him with a suddenness that was terrifying.

He screamed, shook himself in horror, kicked out desperately

and at last flung her away. She fell in a crouch, her child's face

transformed into something hideous, smiling like a beast at

feeding, eyes sharp and glinting with pinpricks of red light.

"Give me the magic, boy!'' she rasped in a voice that sounded

nothing of a child's.

Then he knew. "Oh, no, oh, no," he whispered over and

over, bracing himself as she came slowly back to her feet.

This child was a Shadowen!

"Give it to me!" she repeated, her voice demanding. "Let

me come into you and taste it!"

She came toward him, a spindly little thing, a bit of nothing,

if her face had not betrayed her. She reached for him and he

kicked out at her desperately. She smiled wickedly and stepped

back.

"You are mine," she said softly. "The Gnomes have given

you to me. I will have your magic, boy. Give yourself to me.

See what I can feel like!"

She came at him like a cat at its prey, avoiding his kick,

fastening herself to him with a howl. He could feel her moving

almost immediately-not the child herself, but something within

the child. He forced himself to look down and could see the

faintest whisper of a dark outline shimmering within the child's

body, trying to move into his own. He could feel its presence,

like a chill on a summer's day, like fly's feet against his skin.

The Shadowen was touching, seeking. He threw back his

head, clenched his jaw, made his body as rigid as iron, and

fought it. The thing, the Shadowen, was trying to come into

him. It was trying to merge with him. Oh, Shades! He must not

let it! He must not!

Then, unexpectedly, he cried out, releasing the magic of the

wishsong in a howl of mingled rage and anguish. It took no

form, for he had already determined that even his most fright-

ening images were of no use against these creatures. It came of

its own volition, breaking free from some dark comer of his

being to take on a shape he did not recognize. It was a dark,

unrecognizable thing, and it whipped about him like webbing

from a spider about its prey. The Shadowen hissed and tore itself

away, spitting and clawing at the air. It dropped again into a

crouch, the child's body contorted and shivering from some-

thing unseen. Par's cry died into silence at the sight of it, and

he sagged back weakly against the cave wall.

"Stay back from me!" he warned, gasping for breath. "Don't

touch me again!"

He didn't know what he had done or how he had done it, but

the Shadowen hunched down against the firelight and glared at

him in defeat. The hint of the being within the child's body

shimmered briefly and was gone. The glint of red in the eyes

disappeared. The child rose slowly and straightened, a child in

truth once more, frail and lost. Dark eyes studied him for long

moments and she said faintly once more, "Hug me."

Then she called into the gathering darkness without, and the

Spider Gnomes reappeared, several dozen strong, bowing and

scraping to the child as they entered. She spoke to them in their

own language while they knelt before her, and Par remembered

how superstitious these creatures were, believing in gods and

spirits of all sorts. And now they were in the thrall of a Shad-

owen. He wanted to scream.

The Spider Gnomes came for him, loosened the bonds that

secured him, seized his arms and legs, and pulled him forward.

The child blocked their way. "Hug me?" She looked almost

forlorn.

He shook his head, trying to break free of the dozens of hands

that held him. He was dragged outside in the twilight haze where

the smoke of the fires and the mist of the lowlands mingled and

swirled like dreams in sleep. He was stopped at the bluff's edge,

staring down into a pit of emptiness.

The child was beside him, her voice soft, insidious. "Olden

Moor," she whispered. "Werebeasts live there. Do you know

Werebeasts, Elf-boy?" He stiffened. "They shall have you now

if you do not hug me. Feed on you despite your magic.''

He broke free then, flinging his captors from him. The

Shadowen hissed and shrank away, and the Spider Gnomes scat-

tered. He lunged, trying to break through, but they blocked his

way and bore him back. He whirled, buffeted first this way, then

that. Hands reached for him, gnarled and hairy and grasping.

He lost himself in a whirl of coarse bodies and cluttering voices,

hearing only his own voice screaming from somewhere inside

not to be taken again, not to be held.

He was suddenly at the edge of the bluff. He summoned the

magic of the wishsong, striking out with images at the Spider

Gnomes who beset him, desperately trying to force a path

through their midst. The Shadowen had disappeared, lost some-

where in the smoke and shadows.

Then he felt his feet go out from under him, the edge of the

bluff giving way beneath the weight of his attackers. He grap-

pled for them, for a handhold anywhere, and found nothing. He

toppled clear of the bluff, falling into the abyss, tumbling into

the swiri of mist. The Shadowen, the Spider Gnomes, the fires,

caves, and burrows all disappeared behind him. Down he

fell, head-over-heels, tumbling through scrub brush and grasses,

across slides and between boulders. Miraculously, he missed

the rocks mat might have killed or crippled him, falling clear

finally in a long, agonizing drop that ended in jarring blackness.

He was unconscious for a time; he didn't know how long.

When he came awake again, he found himself in a crushed bed

of damp marsh grasses. The grasses, he realized, must have

broken his fall and probably saved his life. He lay there, the

breath knocked from his body, listening to the sound of his heart

pumping in his breast. When his strength returned and his vision

cleared, he climbed gingedy to his feet and checked himself.

His entire body was a mass of cuts and bruises, but there ap-

peared to be nothing broken. He stood without moving then and

listened. From somewhere far above, he could hear the voice of

the Spider Gnomes.

They would be coming for him, he knew. He had to get out

of there.

He looked about. Mist and shadows chased each other through

a twilight world of gathering darkness, night descending quickly

now. Small, almost invisible things skipped and jumped through

the tall grasses. Ooze sucked and bubbled all about, hidden

quagmires surrounding islands of solid earth. Stunted trees and

brush defined me landscape, frozen in grotesque poses. Sounds

were distant and directionless. Everything seemed and looked

the same, a maze without end.

Par took a deep breath to steady himself. He could guess

where he was. He had been on Toffer Ridge. His fall had taken

him down off the ridge and right into Olden Moor. In his efforts

to escape his fate, he had only managed to find it sooner. He

had put himself exactly where the Shadowen had threatened to

send him-into the domain of the Werebeasts.

He set his jaw and started moving. He was only at me edge

of the moor, he told himself-not fully into it yet, not lost. He

still had the ridge behind him to serve as a guide. If he could

follow it far enough south, he could escape. But he had to be

quick.

He could almost feel the Werebeasts watching him.

The stories of the Werebeasts came back to him now, jarred

free by the realization of where he was and sharpened by his

fear. They were an old magic, monsters who preyed off strayed

and lost creatures who wandered into the moor or were sent

there, stealing away their strength and spirit and feeding on their

lives. The Spider Gnomes were their principal food; the Spider

Gnomes believed the Werebeasts were spirits that required ap-

peasement, and they sacrificed themselves accordingly. Par went

cold at the thought. That was what the Shadowen had intended

for him.

Fatigue slowed him and made him unsteady. He stumbled

several times, and once he stepped hip-deep into a quagmire

before quickly pulling free. His vision was blurred, and sweat

ran down his back. The moor's heat was stultifying, even at

night. He glanced skyward and realized that the last of the light

was fading. Soon it would be completely black.

Then he would not be able to see at all.

A massive pool of sludge barred his passage, the wall of the

ridge eaten away so that it was impossible to climb past. His

only choice was to go around, deeper into the moor. He moved

quickly, following the line of the swamp, listening for sounds

of pursuit. There were none. The moor was still and empty. He

swung back toward the bluif, encountered a maze of gullies with

masses of things moving through them, and swung wide again.

Steadily, he went on, exhausted, but unable to rest. The dark-

ness deepened. He found the end of the maze and started back

again toward the bluff. He walked a long way, circling quag-

mires and sinkholes, peering expectantly through the gloom.

He could not find Toffer Ridge.

He walked more quickly now, anxious, fighting down the fear

that threatened to overwhelm him. He was lost, he realized-

but he refused to accept it. He kept searching, unable to believe

that he could have mistaken his direction so completely. The

base of the ridge had been right there! How could he have be-

come so turned about?

At last he stopped, unable to continue with the charade. There

was no point in going on, because the truth of the matter was

he had no idea where he was going. He would simply continue

to wander about endlessly until either the swamp or the Were-

beasts claimed him. It was better that he stand and fight.

It was an odd decision, one brought about less by sound rea-

soning than by fatigue. After all, what hope was there for him

if he didn't escape the moor and how could he escape the moor

if he stopped moving? But he was tired and he didn't like the

idea of running about blindly. And he kept thinking of that child,

that Shadowen-shrinking from him, driven back by some shad-

ing of his magic that he hadn't even known existed. He still

didn't understand what it was, but if he could somehow summon

it again and master it in even the smallest way, then he had a

chance against the Werebeasts and anything else the swamp

might send against him.

He glanced about momentarily, then walked to a broad hill-

ock with quagmire on two sides, jutting rocks on a third, and

only one way in. Only one way out, as well, he reminded him-

self as he ascended the rise, but then he wasn't going anywhere,

was he? He found a flat rock and seated himself, facing out into

the mist and night. Until it grew light again, this was where he

would make his stand.

The minutes slipped away. Night descended, the mist thick-

ened, but there was still light, a sort of curious phosphorescence

given off by the sparse vegetation. Its glow was famt and decep-

tive, but it gave Par the means to distinguish what lay about him

and the belief that he could catch sight of anything sneaking up.

Nevertheless, he didn't see the Shadowen until it was almost

on top of him. It was the child again, tall, thin, wasted. She

appeared seemingly out of nowhere, no more than a few yards

in front of him, and he started with the suddenness of her com-

ing.

"Get back from me!'' he warned, coming quickly to his feet.

"If you try to touch me . . ."

The Shadowen shimmered into mist and disappeared.

Par took a deep breath. It hadn't been a Shadowen after all,

he thought, but a Werebeast-and not so tough, if he could send

it packing with just a threat!

He wanted to laugh. He was near exhaustion, both physically

and emotionally, and he knew he was no longer entirely rational.

He hadn't chased anything away. That Werebeast had simply

come in for a look. They were toying with him, the way they

did with their prey-taking on familiar forms, waiting for the

right opportunity, for fatigue or fright or foolishness to give

them an opening. He thought again about the stories, about the

inevitability of the stalking, then pushed it all from his mind.

Somewhere in the distance, far from where he sat, something

cried out once, a quick shriek of dismay. Then everything was

still again.

He stared into the mist, watching. He found himself thinking

of the circumstances that had brought him here-of his flight

from the Federation, of his dreams, his meeting with the old

man, and his search for Walker Boh. He had come a long way

because of those circumstances and he still wasn't anywhere.

He felt a pang of disappointment that he hadn't accomplished

more, that he hadn't learned anything useful. He thought again

of his conversation with Walker. Walker had told him the wish-

song's magic was not a gift, despite his insistence that it was,

and that there wasn't anything worthwhile to discover about its

use. He shook his head. Well, perhaps there wasn't. Perhaps he

had just been kidding himself all along.

But something about it had frightened that Shadowen. Some-

thing.

Yet only that child, not any of the others that he had encoun-

tered.

What had been different?

There was movement again at the edge of the mists, and a

figure detached itself and moved toward him. It was the second

Shadowen, the great, shambling creature they had encountered

at the edge of the Anar. It slouched toward him, grunting, car-

rying a monstrous club. For a moment, he forgot what he was

facing. He panicked, remembering that the wishsong had been

ineffective against this Shadowen, that he had been helpless. He

started to back away, then caught himself, thrust away his con-

fusion and shook clear his mind. Impulsively, he used the wish-

song, its magic creating an identical image of the creature facing

him, an image that he used to cloak himself. Shadowen faced

Shadowen. Then the Werebeast shimmered and faded back into

the mist.

Par went still and let the image concealing him dissolve. He

sat down again. How long could he keep this up?

He wondered if Coil was all right. He saw his brother stretched

upon the earth bleeding and he remembered how helpless he

had felt at that moment. He thought about how much he de-

pended on his brother.

Coil.

His mind wandered, shifted. There was a use for his magic,

he told himself sternly. It was not as Walker had said. There

was a purpose in his having it; it was indeed a gift. He would

find the answers at the Hadeshom. He would find them when he

spoke to Allanon. He must simply get free of this moor and . . .

A gathering of shadowy forms emerged from the mists before

him, dark and forbidding bits of ethereal motion in the night.

The Werebeasts had decided to wait no longer. He jerked to his

feet, facing them. They eased gradually closer, first one, then

another, none with any discernible shape, all shifting and

changing as rapidly as the mists.

Then he saw Coil, pulled from the darkness behind the shad-

ows, gripped in substanceless hands, his face ashen and blood-

ied. Parwentcold. Help me, he heard his brother call out, though

the sound of the voice was only in his mind. Help me. Par.

Par screamed something with the magic of the wishsong, but

it dissipated into the dank air of Olden Moor in a scattering of

broken sounds. Par shook as if chilled. Shades! That really was

Coil! His brother struggled, fighting to break free, calling out

repeatedly. Par, Par!

He went to his brother's aid almost without thinking. He at-

tacked the Werebeasts with a fury that was entirely unexpected.

He cried out, the wishsong's magic thrusting at the creatures,

hammering them back. He reached Coil and seized him, pulling

him free. Hands groped for him, touching. He felt pain, freezing

and burning both at once. Coil gripped him, and the pain inten-

sified. Poison flooded into him, bitter and harsh. His strength

almost gave out, but he managed to keep his feet, haulmg his

brother clear of the shadows, pulling him onto the rise.

Below, the shadows clustered and shifted watchfully. Par

howled down at them, knowing he was infected, feeling the

poison work its way through his body. Coil stood next to him,

not speaking. Par's thoughts scattered, and his sense of what he

was about drifted away.

The Werebeasts began to close.

Then there was fresh movement on the rocks to his right, and

something huge appeared.. Par tried to move away, but the effort

brought him to his knees. Great, luminous yellow eyes blinked

into the night, and a massive black shadow bounded to his side.

"Rumor!" he whispered in disbelief.

The moor cat edged carefully past him to face Coil. The huge

cat growled, a low, dangerous warning cough that seemed to

break through the mist and fill the darkness with shards of sound.

"Coil?" Par called out to his brother and started forward, but

the moor cat quickly blocked his way, shoving him back. The

shadows were moving closer, taking on form now, becoming

lumbering things, bodies covered with scales and hair, faces that

showed demon eyes and jaws split wide in hunger. Rumor spat

at them and lunged, bringing them up short to hiss back at him.

Then he whirled with claws and teeth bared and tore Coil to

pieces.

Coil-what had appeared to be Coil-turned into a thing of

indescribable horror, bloodied and shredded, then shimmered

and disappeared-another deception. Par cried out in anguish

and fury. Tricked! Ignoring the pain and the sudden nausea, he

sent the magic of the wishsong hurtling at the Werebeasts, dag-

gers and arrows of fury, images of things that could rend and

tear. The Werebeasts shimmered and the magic passed harm-

lessly by.

Re-forming, the Werebeasts attacked.

Rumor caught the closest a dozen paces off, hammering it

away with a single breathtaking swipe of one great paw. Another

lunged, but the cat caught it as well and sent it spinning. Others

were appearing now from the shadows and mist behind those

already creeping forward. Too many, thought Par frantically!

He was too weak to stand, the poison from the Werebeasts'

touch seeping through him rapidly now, threatening to drop him

into that familiar black abyss that had begun to open within.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, firm and instantly com-

forting, reassuring him and at the same time holding him in

place, and he heard a voice call sharply, "Rumor!"

The moor cat edged back, never turning to look, responding

to the sound of the voice alone. Par lifted his face. Walker Boh

was beside him, wrapped in black robes and mist, his narrow,

chiseled face set in a look that tamed Par cold, his skin so white

it might have been drawn in chalk.

"Keep still. Par," he said.

He moved forward to face the Werebeasts. There were more

than a dozen now, crouched down at the edge of the rise, drifting

in and out of the mist and night. They hesitated at Walker Boh's

approach, almost as if they knew him. Par's uncle came directly

down to them, stopping when he was less than a dozen yards

from the nearest.

"Leave," he said simply and pointed off into the night. The

Werebeasts held their ground. Walker came forward another

step, and this time his voice was so hard that it seemed to shiver

the air. "Leave!"

One of them lunged at him, a monstrous thing, jaws snapping

as it reached for the black-robed figure. Walker Boh's hand shot

out, dust scattering into the beast. Fire erupted into the night

with an explosion that rocked the bottomland, and the Were-

beast simply disappeared.

Walker's extended hand swept the circle of those that re-

mained, threatening. An instant later, the Werebeasts had faded

back into the night and were gone.

Walker turned and came back up the rise, kneeling next to

Par. "This is my fault," he said quietly.

Par struggled to speak and felt his strength give out. He was

sick. Consciousness slipped away. For the third time in less than

two days, he tumbled into the abyss. He remembered thinking

as he fell that this time he was not sure he would be able to

climb out again.

XII

Far Ohmsford drifted through a landscape of dreams.

He was both within himself and without as he jour-

neyed, a participant and a viewer. There was constant

motion, sometimes as charged as a voyage across a stormy sea,

sometimes as gentle as the summer wind through the trees. He

spoke to himself alternately in the dark silence of his mind and

from within a mirrored self-image. His voice was a disembodied

whisper and a thunderous shout. Colors appeared and faded to

black and white. Sounds came and departed. He was all things

on his journey, and he was none.

The dreams were his reality.

He dreamed in the beginning that he was falling, tumbling

downward into a pit as black as night and as endless as the cycle

of the seasons. There were pain and fear in him; he could not

find himself. Sometimes there were voices, calling to him in

warning, in comfort, or in horror. He convulsed within himself.

He knew somehow that if he did not stop falling, he would be

forever lost.

He did stop finally. He slowed and leveled, and his convul-

sions ceased. He was in a field of wildflowers as wondrous as a

rainbow. Birds and butterflies scattered at his approach, filling

the air with new brightness, and the smells of the field were soft I

and fragrant. There was no sound. He tried to speak so that I

there might be, but found himself voiceless. Nor did he have

touch. He could feel nothing of himself, nothing of the world

about him. There was warmth, soothing and extended, but that

was all.

He drifted and a voice somewhere deep within him whispered

that he was dead.

The voice, he thought, belonged to Walker Boh.

Then the world of sweet smells and sights disappeared, and

he was in a world of darkness and stench. Fire erupted from the

earth and spat at an angry, smudge-colored sky. Shadowen flit-

ted and leaped, red eyes glinting as they whipped about him,

hovering one moment, ducking away the next. Clouds rolled

overhead, filled with lightning, borne on a wind that howled in

fury. He felt himself buffeted and tossed, thrown like a dried

leaf across the earth, and he sensed it was the end of all things.

Touch and voice returned, and he felt his pain once more and

cned out with it.

"Par?"

The voice came once and was gone again-Coil's voice. But

he saw Coil in his dream then, stretched against a gathering of

rocks, lifeless and bloodied, eyes open in accusation. "You left

me. You abandoned me." He screamed and the magic of the

wishsong threw images everywhere. But the images turned into

monsters that wheeled back to devour him. He could feel their

teeth and claws. He could feel their touch . . .

He came awake.

Rain fell into his face, and his eyes opened. There was dark-

ness all about, the sense of others close at hand, a feeling of

motion, and the coppery taste of blood. There was shouting,

voices that called to one another against the fury of a storm. He

rose up, choking, spitting. Hands bore him back again, slipping

against his body and face.

". . . awake again, hold him . . ."

"... too strong, like he's ten instead of. . ."

"Walker! Hurry!"

Trees thrashed in the background, long-limbed giants lifting

into the roiling black, the wind howling all about them. They

threw shadows against cliffs that blocked their passage and

threatened to pen them up. Par heard himself scream.

Lightning crashed and thunder rolled, filling the dark with

echoes of madness. A wash of red screened his vision.

Then Allanon was there-Allanon! He came from nowhere,

all in black robes, a figure out of legend and time. He bent close

to Par, his voice a whisper that somehow managed to rise above

the chaos. Sleep, Par, he soothed. One weathered hand reached

out and touched the Valeman, and the chaos dissipated and was

replaced by a profound sense of peace.

Par drifted away again, far down into himself, fighting now

because he sensed that he would live if he could just will it to

be so. Some part of him remembered what had happened-that

the Werebeasts had seized him, that their touch had poisoned

him, that the poison had made him sick, and that the sickness

had dropped him into that black abyss. Walker had come for

him, found him somehow, and saved him from those creatures.

He saw Rumor's yellow lamp eyes, blinking in warning, lidding

and going out. He saw Coil and Morgan. He saw Steff, his smile

sardonic, and Teel, enigmatic and silent.

He saw the Shadowen girl-child, begging again to be hugged,

trying to enter his body. He felt himself resist, saw her thrown

back, watched as she disappeared. Shades! She had tried to enter

him, to come into him, to put herself within his skin and become

him! That was what they were, he thought in a burst of under-

standing-shadows that lacked substance of their own and took

the bodies of men. And women. And children.

But can shadows have life?

His thoughts jumbled around unanswerable questions, and he

slipped from reason to confusion. His mind slept, and his jour-

ney through the land of dreams wore on. He climbed mountains

filled with creatures like the Gnawl, crossed rivers and lakes of

mist and hidden dangers, traversed forests where daylight never

penetrated, and swept on into moors where mist stirred in an

airless, empty cauldron of silence.

Help me, he begged. But there was no one to hear.

Time suspended then. The journey ended and the dreams

faded into nothingness. There was a moment's pause at their

end, and then waking. He knew he had slept, but not for how

long. He knew only that there had been a passage of time when

the dreams had ended and dreamless sleep had begun.

More important, he knew that he was alive.

He stirred gingerly, barely more than a twitch, feeling the

softness of sheets and a bed beneath him, aware that he was

stretched out full-length and that he was warm and snug. He did

not want to move yet, frightened that he might still be dreaming.

He let the feel of the sheets soak through him. He listened to

the sound of his own breathing in his ears. He tasted the dryness

of the air.

Then he let his eyes slip open. He was in a small, sparsely

furnished room lit by a single lamp set on a table at his bedside.

The walls of the room were bare, the ceiling beams uncovered.

A comforter wrapped him and pillows cradled his head. A break

in the curtains that covered the windows opposite where he lay

told him it was night.

Morgan Leah dozed in a chair just inside the circle of light

given off by the lamp, his chin resting on his chest, his arms

folded loosely. "Morgan?" he called, his voice sounding fuzzy.

The Highlander's eyes snapped open, his hawk face instantly

alert. He blinked, then jumped to his feet. "Par! Par, are you

awake? Good heavens, we've been worried sick!" He rushed

over as if to hug his friend, then thought better of it. He ran the

fingers of one hand through his rust-colored hair distractedly.

"How do you feel? Are you all right?"

Par grinned weakly. "I don't know yet. I'm still waking up.

What happened?"

"What didn 't happen is more like it!'' the other replied heat-

edly. "You almost died, do you realize that?"

Par nodded. "I guessed it. What about Coil, Morgan?"

"Sleeping, waiting for you to come around. I packed him off

several hours ago when he fell out of his chair. You know Coll.

Wait here, I'll get him." He grinned. "Wait here, I tell you-

as if you were going anywhere. Pretty funny."

Par had a dozen things he wanted to say, questions he wanted

to ask, but the Highlander was already out the door and gone.

It didn't matter, he guessed. He lay back quietly, flooded with

relief. All that mattered was that Coil was all right.

Morgan returned almost immediately. Coil beside him, and

Coil, unlike Morgan, did not hesitate as he reached down and

practically squeezed the life out of Par in his enthusiasm at find-

ing him awake. Par hugged him back, albeit weakly, and the

three laughed as if they had just enjoyed the biggest joke of their

lives.

"Shades, we thought we'd lost you!" Coil exclaimed soffly.

He wore a bandage taped to his forehead, and his face seemed

pale. "You were very sick, Par."

Par smiled and nodded. He'd heard enough of that. "Will

someone tell me what happened?" His eyes shifted from one

face to the other. "Where are we anyway?"

"Storiock," Morgan announced. One eyebrow arched.

"Walker Boh brought you here."

"Walker?"

Morgan grinned with satisfaction. "Thought you'd be sur-

prised to learn that-Walker Boh coming out of the Wilderun,

Walker Boh appearing in the first place for that matter." He

sighed. "Well, it's a long story, so I guess we'd better start at

the beginning."

He did, telling the story with considerable help from Coil,

the two of them stepping on each other's words in their eagerness

to make certain that nothing was overlooked. Par listened in

growing surprise as the tale unfolded.

Coil, it seemed, had been felled by a Gnome sling when the

Spider Gnomes attacked them in that clearing at the eastern end

of the valley at Hearthstone. He had only been stunned, but, by

the time he had recovered consciousness. Par and their attackers

were gone. It was raining buckets by then, the trail disappearing

back into the earth as quickly as it was made, and Coil was too

weak to give chase in any case. So he stumbled back to the

cottage where he found the others and told them what had oc-

curred. It was already dark by then and still raining, but Coil

demanded they go back out anyway and search for his brother.

They did, Morgan, Steif, Teel, and himself, groping about

blindly for hours and finding nothing. When it became impos-

sible to see anything, Steff insisted they give it up for the night,

get some rest and start out again fresh in the morning. That was

what they did, and that was how Coil encountered Walker Boh.

"We split up, trying to cover as much ground as possible,

working the north valley, because I knew from the stories of

Brin and Jair Ohmsford that the Spider Gnomes made their

homes on Toner Ridge and it was likely they had come from

there. At least, I hoped so, because that was all we had to go

on. We agreed that if we didn't find you right away we would

just keep on going until we reached the Ridge." He shook his

head. "We were pretty desperate."

"We were," Morgan agreed.

"Anyway, I was all the way to the northeast edge of the valley

when, all of a sudden, there was Walker and that giant cat, big

as a house! He said that he'd sensed something. He asked me

what had happened, what was wrong. I was so surprised to see

him that I didn't even think to ask what he was doing there or

why he had decided to appear after hiding all that time. I just

told him what he wanted to know.''

' 'Do you know what he said then?'' Morgan interrupted, gray

eyes finding Par's, a hint of the mischievousness in them.

"He said," Coil took control again of the conversation,

" 'Wait here, this is no task for you; I will bring him back - as

if we were children playing at a grown-up's game!"

"But he was as good as his word," Morgan noted.

Coil sighed. "Well, true enough," he admitted grudgingly.

Walker Boh was gone a full day and night, but when he re-

turned to Hearthstone, where Coil and his companions were

indeed waiting, he had Par with him. Par had been infected by

the touch of the Werebeasts and was near death. The only hope

for him. Walker insisted, lay at Stodock, the community of

Gnome healers. The Stors had experience in dealing with afflic-

tions of the mind and spirit and could combat the Werebeasts'

poison.

They set out at once, the six of them less the cat, who had

been left behind. They pushed west out of Hearthstone and the

Wilderun, following the Chard Rush upriver to the Wolfsktaag,

crossing through the Pass of Jade, and finally reaching the vil-

lage of the Stors. It had taken them two days, traveling almost

constantly. Par would have died if not for Walker, who had used

an odd sort of magic that none of them had understood to pre-

vent the poison from spreading and to keep Par sleeping and

calm. At times, Par had thrashed and cried out, waking feverish

and spitting blood-once in the middle of a ferocious storm they

had encountered in the Pass of Jade-but Walker had been there

to soothe him, to touch him, to say something that let him sleep

once more.

"Even so, we've been in Storlock for almost three days and

this is the first time you've been awake," Coil finished. He

paused, eyes lowering. "It was very close. Par."

Par nodded, saying nothing. Even without being able to re-

member anything clearly, he had a definite sense of just how

close it had been. "Where is Walker?" he asked finally.

"We don't know," Morgan answered with a shrug. "We

haven't seen him since we arrived. He just disappeared."

"Gone back to the Wilderun, I suppose,'' Coil added, a touch

of bitterness in his voice.

"Now, Coil," Morgan soothed.

Coil held up his hands. "I know, Morgan-I shouldn't judge.

He was there to help when we needed him. He saved Par's

life. I'm grateful for that."

"Besides, I think he's still around," Morgan said quietly.

When the other two looked inquiringly at him, he simply

shrugged.

Par told them what had befallen him after his capture by the

Spider Gnomes. He was still reasoning out a good part of it, so

he hesitated from time to time in his telling. He was convinced

that the Spider Gnomes had been sent specifically to find him,

otherwise they would have taken Coil as well. The Shadowen

had sent them, that girl-child. Yet how had it known who he was

or where he could be found?

The little room was silent as they thought. "The magic,"

Morgan suggested finally. "They all seem interested in the

magic. This one must have sensed it as well."

"All the way from Toffer Ridge?" Par shook his head doubt-

fully.

"And why not go after Morgan as well?" Coil asked sud-

denly. "After all, he commands the magic of the Sword of

Leah."

"No, no, that's not the sort of magic they care about," Mor-

gan replied quickly. ' 'It's Par's sort of magic that interests them,

draws them-magic that's part of the body or spirit.''

"Or maybe it's simply Par," Coil finished darkly.

They let the thought hang a moment in the silence. "The

Shadowen tried to come into me," Par said finally, then ex-

plained it to them in more detail. "It wanted to merge with me,

to be a part of me. It kept saying, 'hug me, hug me'-as if it

were a lost child or something."

"Hardly that," Coil disputed quickly.

"More leech than lost child," Morgan agreed.

"But what are they?" Par pressed, bits and pieces of his

dreams coming back to him, flashes of insight that lacked mean-

ing. "Where is it that they come from and what is it that they

want?"

"Us," Morgan said quietly.

"You, "Coil said.

They talked a bit longer, mulling over what little they knew

of Shadowen and their interest in magic, then Coil and Morgan

rose. Time for Par to rest again, they insisted. He was still sick,

still weak, and he needed to get his strength back.

The Hadeshom, Par remembered suddenly! How much time

did they have before the new moon?

Coil sighed. "Four days-if you still insist on going."

Morgan grinned from behind him. "We'll be close by if you

need us. Good to see you well again, Par."

He slipped out the door. "It is good," Coil agreed and

gripped his brother's hand tightly.

When they were gone, Par lay with his eyes open for a time,

letting his thoughts nudge and push one another. Questions

whispered at him, asking for answers he didn't have. He had

been chased and harried from Varfleet to the Rainbow Lake,

from Culhaven to Hearthstone, by the Federation and the

Shadowen, by things that he had only heard about and some he

hadn't even known existed. He was tired and confused; he had

almost lost his life. Everything centered on his magic, and yet

his magic had been virtually useless to him. He was constantly

running from one thing and toward another without really un-

derstanding much of either. He felt helpless.

And despite the presence of his brother and his friends, he

felt oddly alone.

His last thought before he fell asleep was that, in a way he

didn't yet comprehend, he was.

He slept fitfully, but without dreaming, waking often amid

stirrings of dissatisfaction and wariness that darted through the

corridors of his mind like harried rats. Each time he came awake

it was still night, until the last time when it was almost dawn,

the sky beyond the curtained window brightening faintly, the

room in which he lay still and gauzy. A white-robed Stor passed

briefly through the room, appearing from out of the shadows

like a ghost to pause at his bedside and touch his wrist and

forehead with hands that were surprisingly warm before turning

and disappearing back the way he had come. Par slept soundly

after that, drifting far down within himself and floating undis-

turbed in a sea of black warmth.

When he woke again, it was raining. His eyes blinked open

and he stared fixedly into the grayness of his room. He could

hear the sound of the raindrops beating on the windows and

roof, a steady drip and splash in the stillness. There was daylight

yet; he could see it through the part in the curtains. Thunder

rolled in the distance, echoing in long, uneven peals.

Gingerly, he hoisted himself up on one elbow. He saw a fire

burning in a small stove that he hadn't even noticed the previous

night, tucked back in the shadows. It gave a solid warmth to the

room that wrapped and cradled him and made him feel secure.

There was tea by his bedside and tiny cakes. He pushed himself

up the rest of me way, propping himself against the headboard

of his bed with his pillows and pulling the cakes and tea to him.

He was famished, and he devoured the cakes in seconds. Then

he drank a small portion of the tea, which had gone cold in the

sitting, but was wonderful in any case.

He was midway through his third cup when the door opened

soundlessly and Walker Boh appeared. His uncle paused mo-

mentarily on seeing him awake, then closed the door softly and

came over to stand at his bedside. He was dressed in forest

green-tunic and pants belted tight, soft leather boots unlaced

and muddied, long travel cloak spotted with rain. There was

rain on his bearded face as well, and his dark hair was damp

against his skin.

He pushed the travel cloak back across his shoulders. "Feel-

ing better?" he asked quietly.

Par nodded. "Much." He set his cup aside. "I understand I

have you to thank for that. You saved me from the Werebeasts.

You brought me back to Hearthstone. It was your idea to bring

me to Storlock. Coil and Morgan tell me that you even used

magic to see to it that I stayed alive long enough to complete

the journey."

"Magic." Walker repeated the word softly, his voice dis-

tracted. "Words and touching in combination, a sort of variation

on the workings of the wishsong. My legacy from Brin Ohms-

ford. I haven't the curse of the fullness of her powers-only the

annoyance of its shadings. Still, now and again, it does become

the gift you insist it must be. I can interact with another living

thing, feel its life force, sometimes find a way to strengthen it."

He paused. "I don't know if I would call it magic, though."

"And what you did to the Werebeasts in Olden Moor when

you stood up for me-was that not magic?"

His uncle's eyes shifted away from him. "I was taught that,"

he said finally.

Par waited a moment, but when nothing more was forthcom-

ing he said, "I'm grateful for all of it in any case. Thank you."

The other man shook his head slowly. "I don't deserve your

thanks. It was my fault that it happened in the first place."

Par readjusted himself carefully against his pillows. "I seem

to remember you saying that before."

Walker moved to the far end of the bed and sat down on its

edge. "If I had watched over you the way I should have, the

Spider Gnomes would never have even gotten into the valley.

Because I chose to distance myself from you, they did. You

risked a fair amount in coming to find me in the first place; the

least I could have done was to make certain that once you reached

me, you would be safe. I failed to do that."

"I don't blame you for what happened," Par said quickly.

"But I do." Walker rose, as restless as a cat, stalking to the

windows and peering out into the rain. "I live apart because I

choose to. Other men in other times made me decide that it was

best. But I forget sometimes that there is a difference between

disassociating and hiding. There are limits to the distances we

can place between ourselves and others-because the dictates of

our world don't allow for absolutes." He looked back, his skin

pale against the grayness of the day. "I was hiding myself when

you came to find me. That was why you went unprotected."

Par did not fully understand what Walker was trying to say,

but he chose not to interrupt, anxious to hear more. Walker

turned from the window after a moment and came back. "I

haven't been to see you since you were brought here," he said,

coming to a stop at Par's bedside. "Did you know that?"

Par nodded, again keeping silent. "It wasn't that I was ig-

noring you. But I knew you were safe, that you would be well,

and I wanted time to think. I went out into the woodlands by

myself. I returned for the first time this morning. The Stors told

me that you were awake, that the poison was dispelled, and I

decided to come to see you."

He broke off, his gaze shifting. When he spoke again, he

chose his words carefully. "I have been thinking about the

dreams."

There was another brief silence. Par shifted uncomfortably

in the bed, already beginning to feel tired. His strength would

be awhile returning. Walker seemed to recognize the problem

and said, "I won't be staying much longer."

He sat down again slowly. "I anticipated that you might come

to me after the dreams began. You were always impulsive. I

thought about the possibility, about what I would say to you."

He paused. "We are close in ways you do not entirely under-

stand, Par. We share the legacy of the magic; but more than

that, we share a preordained future that may preclude our right

to any meaningful form of self-determination." He paused

again, smiling faintly. "What I mean, Par, is that we are the

children of Brin and Jair Ohmsfoid, heirs to the magic of the

Elven house of Shannara, keepers of a trust. Remember now?

It was Allanon who gave us that trust, who said to Brin when

he lay dying that the Ohmsfbrds would safeguard the magic for

generations to come until it was again needed."

Par nodded slowly, beginning to understand now. "You be-

lieve we might be the ones for whom the trust was intended.''

"I believe it-and I am frightened by the possibility as I have

never been frightened of anything in my life!" Walker's voice

wasalowhiss. "I am terrified of it! I want no part of the Druids

and their mysteries! I want nothing to do with the Elven magic,

with its demands and its treacheries! I wish only to be left alone,

to live out my life in a way I believe useful and fulfilling-and

that is all I wish!"

Par let his eyes drop protectively against die fury of the other

man's words. Then he smiled sadly. "Sometimes the choice

isn't ours. Walker."

Walker Boh's reply was unexpected. "That was what I de-

cided." His lean face was hard as Par looked up again. "While

I waited for you to wake, while I kept myself apart from the

others, out there in the forests beyond Storlock, that was what I

decided." He shook his head. "Events and circumstances

sometimes conspire against us; if we insist on inflexibility for

the purpose of maintaining our beliefs, we end up compromis-

ing ourselves nevertheless. We salvage one set of principles only

to forsake another. My staying hidden within the Wilderun al-

most cost you your life once. It could do so again. And what

would that, in turn, cost me?''

Par shook his head. "You cannot hold yourself responsible

for the risks I choose to take. Walker. No man can hold himself

up to that standard of responsibility."

"Oh, but he can, Par. And he must when he has the means

to do so. Don't you see? If I have the means, I have the respon-

sibility to employ them." He shook his head sadly. "I might

wish it otherwise, but it doesn't change the fact of its being.''

He straightened. "Well, I came to tell you something, and I

still haven't done so. Best that I get it over with so you can rest.''

He rose, pulling the damp forest cloak about him as if to ward

off a chill. "I am going with you," he said simply.

Par stiffened in surprise. "To the Hadeshom?"

Walker Boh nodded. "To meet with Allanon's shade-if in-

deed it is Allanon's shade who summons us-and to hear what

it will say. I make no promises beyond that, Par. Nor do I make

any further concessions to your view of matters-other than to

say that I think you were right in one respect. We cannot pretend

that the world begins and ends at the boundaries we might make

for it. Sometimes, we must acknowledge that it extends itself

into our lives in ways we might prefer it wouldn't, and we must

face up to the challenges it offers.''

His face was lined with emotions Par could only begin to

imagine. "I, too, would like to know something of what is

intended for me," he whispered.

He reached down, his pale, lean hand fastening briefly on one

of Par's. "Rest now. We have another journey ahead and only a

day or two to prepare for it. Let that preparation be my respon-

sibility. I will tell the others and come for you all when it is time

to depart.''

He started away, then hesitated and smiled. "Try to think

better of me after this.''

Then he was out the door and gone, and the smile belonged

now to Par.

Walker Boh proved as good as his word. Two days later he

was back, appearing shortly after sunrise with horses and pro-

visions. Par had been out of bed and walking about for the past

day and a half now, and he was much recovered from his ex-

perience in Olden Moor. He was dressed and waiting on the

porch of his compound with Steff and Teel when his uncle

walked out of the forest shadows with his pack train in tow into

a morning clouded by fog and half-light.

"There's a strange one," Steff murmured. "Haven't seen

him for more than five minutes for the entire time we've been

here. Now, back he comes, just like that. More ghost than man.''

His smile was rueful and his eyes sharp.

"Walker Boh is real enough," Par replied without looking at

the Dwarf. "And haunted by ghosts of his own.''

"Brave ghosts, I am inclined to think."

Par glanced over now. "He still frightens you, doesn't he?"

"Frightens me?" Steff's voice was gruff as he laughed. "Hear

him, Teel? He probes my armor for chinks!" He turned his

scarred face briefly. "No, Valeman, he doesn't frighten me any-

more. He only makes me wonder.''

Coil and Morgan appeared, and the little company prepared

to depart. Stors came out to see them off, ghosts of another sort,

dressed in white robes and cloaked in self-imposed silence, a

perpetually anxious look on their pale faces. They gathered in

groups, watchful, curious, a few coming forward to help as the

members of the company mounted. Walker spoke with one or

two of them, his words so quiet they could be heard by no one

else. Then he was aboard with the others and facing briefly back

to them.

"Good fortune to us, my friends," he said and turned his

horse west toward the plains.

Good fortune, indeed, Par Ohmsford prayed silently.

XIIl

Sunlight sprayed the still surface of the Myrian Lake

through breaks in the distant trees, coloring the water

a brilliant red-gold and causing Wren Ohmsford to

squint against its glare. Farther west, the hrybis Mountains were

a jagged black tear across the horizon that separated earth and

sky and cast the first of night's shadows across the vast sprawl

oftheTirfing.

Another hour, maybe a bit more, and it would be dark, she

thought.

She paused at the edge of the lake and, for just a moment, let

the solitude of the approaching dusk settle through her. All about,

the Westland stretched away into the shimmering heat of the

dying summer's day with the lazy complacency of a sleeping

cat, endlessly patient as it waited for the coming of night and

the cool it would bring.

She was running out of time.

She cast about momentarily for the signs she had lost some

hundred yards back and found nothing. He might as well have

vanished into thin air. He was working hard at this cat-and-

mouse game, she decided. Perhaps she was the cause.

The thought buoyed her as she pressed ahead, slipping si-

lently through the trees along the lake front, scanning the foliage

and the earth with renewed determination. She was small and

slight of build, but wiry and strong. Her skin was nut-brown

from weather and sun, and her ash-blond hair was almost boy-

ish, cut short and tightly curied against her head. Her features

were Elven, sharply so, the eyebrows full and deeply slanted,

the ears small and pointed, the bones of her face lending it a

narrow and high-cheeked look. She had hazel eyes, and they

shifted restlessly as she moved, hunting.

She found his first mistake a hundred feet or so farther on, a

tiny bit of broken scrub, and his second, a boot indentation

against a gathering of stones, just after. She smiled in spite of

herself, her confidence growing, and she netted the smooth

quarterstaff she carried in anticipation. She would have him yet,

she promised.

The lake cut into the trees ahead forming a deep cove, and

she was forced to swing back to her left through a thick stand

of pine. She slowed, moving more cautiously. Her eyes darted.

The pines gave way to a mass of thick brush that grew close

against a grove of cedar. She skirted the brush, catching sight

of a fresh scrape against a tree root. He's getting careless, she

thought-or wants me to think so.

She found the snare at the last moment, just as she was about

to put her foot into it. Its lines ran from a carefully concealed

noose back into a mass of brush and from there to a stout sap-

ling, bent and tied. Had she not seen it, she would have been

yanked from her feet and left dangling.

She found the second snare immediately after, better con-

cealed and designed to catch her avoiding the first. She avoided

that one, too, and now became even more cautious.

Even so, she almost missed seeing him in time when he swung

down out of the maple not more than fifty yards farther on. Tired

of trying to lose her in the woods, he had decided to finish

matters in a quicker manner. He dropped silently as she slipped

beneath the old shade tree, and it was only her instincts that

saved her. She sprang aside as he landed, bringing the quarter-

staff about and catching him alongside his great shoulders with

an audible thwack. Her attacker shrugged off the blow, coming

to his feet with a grunt. He was huge, a man of formidable size

who appeared massive in the confines of the tiny forest clearing.

He leaped at Wren, and she used the quarterstaff to vault quickly

away from him. She slipped on landing, and he was on top of

her with a swiftness that was astonishing. She rolled, using the

staff to block him, came up underneath with the makeshift dag-

ger and jammed the flat of its blade against his belly.

The sun-browned, bearded face shifted to find her own, and

the deepset eyes glanced downward. "You're dead. Garth," she

told him, smiling. Then her fingers came up to make the signs.

The giant Rover collapsed in mock submission before rolling

over and climbing to his feet. Then he smiled, too. They brushed

themselves off and stood grinning at each other in the fading

light. "I'm getting better, aren't I?" Wren asked, signing with

her hands as she spoke the words.

Garth replied soundlessly, his fingers moving rapidly in the

language he had taught her. "Better, but not yet good enough,"

she translated. Her smile broadened as she reached out to clasp

his arm. "Never good enough for you, I suspect. Otherwise,

you would be out of a job!''

She picked up the quarterstaff and made a mock feint that

caused the other to jump back in alarm. They fenced for a mo-

ment, then broke it off and started back toward the lakeshore.

There was a small clearing just beyond the cove, not more than

half an hour away, that offered an ideal campsite for the night.

Wren had noticed it during the hunt and made for it now.

"I'm tired and I ache and I have never felt better," the girl

said cheerfully as they walked, enjoying the last of the day's

sunlight on her back, breathing in the smells of the forest, feel-

ing alive and at peace. She sang a bit, humming some songs of

the Rovers and the free life, of the ways that were and the ways

that would be. Garth trailed along, a silent shadow at her back.

They found the campsite, built a fire, prepared and ate their

dinner, and began trading drinks from a large leather aleskin.

The night was warm and comforting, and Wren Ohmsford's

thoughts wandered contentedly. They had another five days al-

lotted to them before they were expected back. She enjoyed her

outings with Garth; they were exciting and challenging. The big

Rover was the best of teachers-one who let his students learn

from experience. No one knew more than he did about tracking,

concealment, snares, traps, and tricks of all sorts in the fine art

of staying alive. He had been her mentor from the first. She had

never questioned why he chose her; she had simply felt grateful

that he had.

She listened momentarily to the sounds of the forest, trying

to visualize out of habit what she heard moving in the dark. It

was a strenuous, demanding life she led, but she could no longer

imagine leading any other. She had been born a Rover girl and

lived with them for all but the very early years of her youth when

she had resided in the Southland hamlet of Shady Vale with her

cousins, the Ohmsfords. She had been back in the Westfand for

years now, traveling with Garth and the others, the ones who

had claimed her after her parents died, taught her their ways,

and showed her their life. All of the Westland belonged to the

Rovers, from the Kershalt to the Irrybis, from the Valley of

Rhenn to the Blue Divide. Once, it had belonged to the Elves

as well. But the Elves were all gone now, disappeared. They

had passed back into legend, the Rovers said. They had lost

interest in the world of mortal beings and gone back into faerie.

Some disputed it. Some said that the Elves were still there,

hidden. She didn't know about the truth of that. She only knew

that what they had abandoned was a wilderness paradise.

Garth passed her the aleskin and she drank deeply, then

handed it back again. She was growing sleepy. Normally, she

drank little. But she was feeling especially proud of herself to-

night. It wasn't often that she got the best of Garth.

She studied him momentarily, thinking of how much he had

come to mean to her. Her time in Shady Vale seemed long ago

and far away, although she remembered it well enough. And the

Ohmsfords, especially Par and Coil-she still thought about

them. They had been her only family once. But it felt as if all

that might have happened in another life. Garth was her family

now, her father, mother, and brother all rolled into one, the only

real family she knew anymore. She was tied to him in ways she

had never been tied to anyone else. She loved him fiercely.

Nevertheless, she admitted, she sometimes felt detached from

everyone, even him-orphaned and homeless, a stray shunted

from one family to the next without belonging to anyone, having

no idea at all who she really was. It bothered her that she didn't

know more about herself and that no one else seemed to know

either. She had asked often enough, but the explanations were

always vague. Her father had been an Ohmsford. Her mother

had been a Rover. It was unclear how they had died. It was

uncertain what had become of any other members of her im-

mediate family. It was unknown who her ancestors had been.

She possessed, in fact, but one item that offered any clue at

all as to who she was. It was a small leather bag she wore tied

about her neck that contained three perfectly formed stones.

Elfstones, one might have thought-until one looked more

closely and saw that they were just common rocks painted blue.

But they had been found on her as a baby and they were all she

had to suggest the heritage that might be hers.

Garth knew something about the matter, she suspected. He

had told her that he didn't when she had asked once, but there

was something in the way he had made his disavowal that con-

vinced her he was hedging. Garth kept secrets better than most,

but she knew him too well to be fooled completely. Sometimes,

when she thought about it, she wanted to shake an answer out

of him, angry and frustrated at his refusal to be as open with

her in this as he was in everything else. But she kept her anger

and her frustration to herself. You didn't push Garth. When he

was ready to tell her, he would.

She shrugged as she always ended up doing whenever she

considered the matter of her family history. What difference did

it make? She was who she was, whatever her lineage. She was

a Rover giri with a life that most would envy, if they bothered

to be honest about it. The whole world belonged to her, because

she was tied to no part of it. She could go where she wanted

and do what she pleased, and that was more than most could

say. Besides, many of her fellow Rovers were of dubious par-

entage, and you never heard them complain. They reveled in

their freedom, in their ability to lay claim to anything and any-

one that caught their fancy. Wasn't that good enough for her as

well?

She stirred the dirt in front of her with her boot. Of course,

none of them were Elven, were they? None of them had the

Ohmsford-Shannara blood, with its history of Elven magic.

None of them were plagued by the dreams . . .

Her hazel eyes shifted abruptly as she became aware of Garth

looking at her. She signed some innocuous response, thinking

as she did so that none of the other Rovers had been as thor-

oughly trained to survive as she had and wondering why.

They drank a little more of the ale, built the fire up again,

and rolled into their blankets. Wren lay awake longer than she

wished to, caught up in the unanswered questions and unre-

solved puzzles that marked her life. When she did sleep, she

tossed restlessly beneath her blankets, teased by fragments of

dreams that slipped from her like raindrops through her fingers

in a summer storm and were forgotten as quickly.

It was dawn when she came awake, and the old man was

sitting across from her, poking idly at the ashes of the fire with

a long stick. "It's about time," he snorted.

She blinked in disbelief, then started sharply out of her blan-

kets. Garth was still sleeping, but awoke with the suddenness of

her movement. She reached for the quarterstaff at her side, her

thoughts scattering into questions. Where had this old man come

from? How had he managed to get so close without waking

them?

The old man lifted one sticklike arm reassuringly, saying,

"Don't be getting yourself all upset. Just be grateful I let you

sleep."

Garth was on his feet as well now, crouched, but to Wren's

astonishment the old man began speaking to the Rover in his

own language, signing, telling him what he had already told

Wren, and adding that he meant no harm. Garth hesitated, ob-

viously surprised, then sat back watchfully.

"How did you know to do that?" Wren demanded. She had

never seen anyone outside the Rover camp master Garth's lan-

guage.

"Oh, I know a thing or two about communication," the old

man replied gruffly, a self-satisfied smile appearing. His skin

was weather-browned and seamed, his white hair and beard

wispy, his lank frame scarecrow-thin. A gathering of dusty gray

robes hung loosely about him. "For instance,'' he said, "I know

that messages may be sent by writing on paper, by word of

mouth, by use of hands . . ."He paused. "Even by dreams."

Wren caught her breath sharply. "Who are you?"

' 'Well, now,'' the old man said, "that seems to be everyone's

favorite question. My name doesn't matter. What matters is that

I have been sent to tell you that you can no longer afford to

ignore your dreams. Those dreams. Rover girl, come from Al-

lanon.''

As he spoke he signed to Garth, repeating his words with the

language of his fingers, as dexterous at the skill as if he had

known it all his life. Wren was aware of the big Rover looking

at her, but she couldn't take her eyes off the old man. "How do

you know of the dreams?" she asked him softly.

He told her who he was then, that he was Cogline, a former

Druid pressed back into service because the real Druids were

gone from the Four Lands and there was no other who could go

to the members of the Ohmsford family and warn them that the

dreams were real. He told her that Allanon's ghost had sent him

to convince her of the purpose of the dreams, to persuade her

that they spoke the truth, that the Four Lands were in gravest

danger, that the magic was almost lost, that only the Ohmsfords

could restore it, and that they must come to him on the first

night of the new moon to discover what must be done. He fin-

ished by saying that he had gone first to Par Ohmsford, then to

Walker Boh-recipients of the dreams as well-and now finally

he had come to her.

When he was done, she sat thinking for a moment before

speaking. "The dreams have troubled me for some time now,"

she confessed. "I thought them dreams like any other and noth-

ing more. The Ohmsford magic has never been a part of my

life . . ."

"And you question whether or not you are an Ohmsford at

all," the old man interrupted. "You are not certain, are you? If

you are not an Ohmsford, then the magic has no part in your

life-which might be just as well as far as you're concerned,

mightn't it?"

Wren stared at him. "How do you know all this, Cogline?"

She didn't question that he was who he claimed; she accepted it

because she believed that it didn't really matter one way or the

other. "How do you know so much about me?" She leaned

forward, suddenly anxious. "Do you know the truth of who I

really am?"

The old man shrugged. "It is not nearly so important to know

who you are as who you might be," he answered enigmatically.

"If you wish to leam something of that, then do as the dreams

have asked. Come to the Hadeshom and speak to Allanon."

She eased away slowly, glancing momentarily at Garth before

looking back. "You're playing with me," she told the old man.

"Perhaps."

"Why?"

"Oh, quite simple, really. If you are intrigued enough by

what I say, you might agree to do as I ask and come with me. I

chose to chastise and berate the other members of your family.

I thought I might try a new approach with you. Time grows

short, and I am just an old man. The new moon is only six days

distant now. Even on horseback, it will require at least four days

to reach the Hadeshom-five, if I am to make the journey.''

He was signing everything he said, and now Garth made a

quick response. The old man laughed. "Will I choose to make

the journey? Yes, by golly, I think I will. I have gone about a

shades's business for some weeks now. I believe I am entitled

to know what the culmination of that business might be." He

paused, thoughtful. "Besides, I am not altogether sure I have

been given a choice . . ." He trailed off.

Wren glanced eastward to where the sun was a pale white ball

of fire resting atop the horizon, screened by clouds and haze, its

warmth still distant. Gulls swooped across the mirrored waters

of the Myrian, fishing. The stillness of the early morning let her

thoughts whisper undisturbed within her.

"What did my cousin. . . ?" she began, then caught herself.

The word didn't sound right when she spoke it. It distanced her

from him in a way she didn't care for. "What did Par say that

he was going to do?" she finished.

"He said he was going to think the matter over,'' the old man

replied. "He and his brother. They were together when I found

them."

"And my uncle?"

The other shrugged. "The same."

But there was something in his eyes that said otherwise. Wren

shook her head. ' 'You are playing with me again. What did they

say?"

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Rover girl, you try my pa-

tience. I haven't the energy to sit about and repeat entire con-

versations just so you can use that as an excuse for making your

decision in this matter. Haven't you a mind of your own? If they

go, they will do so for their own reasons and not for any you

might provide. Shouldn't you do likewise?"

Wren Ohmsford was a rock. "What did they say?" she re-

peated once again, measuring each word carefully before she

spoke it.

"What they chose!" the other snapped, his fingers flicking

his responses angrily now at Garth, though his eyes never left

Wren's. "Am I a parrot to repeat the phrases of others for your

amusement?"

He glared at her a moment, then threw up his hands. "Very

well! Here is the whole of it, then! Young Par, his brother with

him, has been chased from Vaifleet by the Federation for mak-

ing use of the magic to tell stories of their family history and

the Druids. He thought to go home when I last saw him, to think

about the dreams a bit. He will have discovered by now that he

cannot do so, that his home is in Federation hands and his par-

ents-your own of sorts, once upon a time-are prisoners!"

Wren started in surprise, but the old man ignored her.

"Walker Boh is another matter. He thinks himself severed from

the Ohmsfoid family. He lives alone and prefers it that way. He

wants nothing to do with his family and the world at large and

Druids in particular. He thinks that only he knows the proper

uses of magic, that the rest of us who possess some small skill

are incapable of reason! He forgets who taught him what!

He ..."

"You," Wren interjected.

"... charges about on some self-proclaimed mission of. . ."

He stopped short. "What? What did you say?"

"You," she repeated, her eyes locking on his. "You were his

teacher once, weren't you?"

There was a moment of silence as the sharp old eyes studied

her appraisingly. "Yes, girl. I was. Are you satisfied now? Is

that the revelation you sought? Or do you require something

more?"

He had forgotten to sign what he was saying, but Garth

seemed to have read his lips in any case. He caught Wren's

attention, nodding in approval. Always try to learn something

of your adversary that he doesn't want you to know, he had

taught her. It gives you an edge.

"So he isn't going then, is he?" she pressed. "Walker, I

mean."

"Ha!" the old man exclaimed in satisfaction. "Just when I

conclude what a smart girl you are, you prove me wrong!'' He

cocked an eyebrow on his seamed face. "Walker Boh says he

isn't going, and he thinks he isn't going. But he is! The young

one, too-Par. That's the way it will be. Things work out the

way we least expect them to sometimes. Or maybe that's just

the Druid magic at work, twisting those promises and oaths we

so recklessly take, steering us where we didn't think we could

ever be made to go." He shook his head in amusement. "Al-

ways was a baffling trick.''

He drew his robes about him and bent forward. "Now what

is it to be with you, little Wren? Brave bird or timid flyaway-

which will you be?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "Why not both, depending on

what is needed?" she asked.

He grunted impatiently. "Because the situation calls for one

or the other. Choose."

Wren let her eyes shift briefly to Garth, then off into the woods,

supping deep into the shadows where the still-distant sunlight

had not yet penetrated. Her thoughts and questions of the pre-

vious night came back to her, darting through her mind with

harrying insistence. Well, she could go if she chose, she knew.

The Rovers wouldn't stop her, not even Garth-though he would

insist on going as well. She could confront the shade of Allanon.

She could speak with the shade of a legend, a man many said

never existed at all. She could ask die questions of him she had

carried about with her for so many years now, perhaps team

some of the answers, possibly come to an understanding about

herself that she had lacked before. A rather ambitious task, she

thought. An intriguing one.

She felt sunlight slipping across the bridge of her nose, tick-

ling her. It would mean a reunion with Par and Coil and Walker

Boh-her other family that maybe wasn't really family at all.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. She might enjoy that.

But it would also mean confronting the reality other dreams-

or at least a shade's version of that reality. And that could mean

a change in the course of her life, a life with which she was

perfectly content. It could mean disruption of that life, an in-

volvement in matters that she might better avoid.

Her mind raced. She could feel the presence of the little bag

with me painted stones pressing against her breast as if to re-

mind her of what might be. She knew the stories of the Ohms-

folds and the Druids, too, and she was wary.

Then, unexpectedly, she found herself smiling. Since when

had being wary ever stopped her from doing anything? Shades!

This was an unlocked door that begged to be opened! How could

she live with herself if she passed it up?

The old man interrupted her thoughts. "Rover girl, I grow

weary. These ageing bones require movement to keep from

locking up. Let me have your decision. Or do you, like the

others in your family, require untold amounts of time to puzzle

this matter through?''

Wren glanced over at Garth, cocking one eyebrow. The giant

Rover's nod was barely perceptible.

She looked back at Cogline. "You are so testy, old grandfa-

ther!" she chided. "Where is your patience?"

"Gone with my youth, child," he said, his voice unexpect-

edly soft. His hands folded before him. "Now what's it to be?"

She smiled. "The Hadeshom and Allanon," she answered.

"What did you expect?''

But the old man did not reply.

XIV

Five days later, with the sun exploding streamers of violet

and red fire all across the western horizon in the kind of

day's-end fireworks display that only summer provides,

Wren, Garth, and the old man who said he was Cogline reached

the base of the Dragon's Teeth and me beginning of the wind-

ing, narrow rock trail that led into the Valley of Shale and the

Hadeshom.

Par Ohmsford was the first to see them. He had gone up the

trail a few hundred yards to a rock shelf where he could sit and

look out over the sweep of Callahom south and be by himself.

He had arrived with Coil, Morgan, Walker, Steff, and Teel one

day earlier, and his patience at waiting for the arrival of the first

night of the new moon had begun to wear a little thin. He was

immersed mostly in his admiration for the majesty of the sunset

when he caught sight of the odd trio as they rode their horses

out of the westward glare from a screen of poplar trees and

started toward him. He came to his feet slowly, refusing to trust

his eyes at first. Then, having determined that he was not mis-

taken, he leaped from his perch and charged back down the trail

to alert the others of his little company who were camped im-

mediately below.

Wren got there almost before he did. Her sharp Elven eyes

caught sight of him at about the same time he saw her. Acting

on impulse and leaving her companions to follow as best they

could, she spurred her horse ahead recklessly, came charging

into camp, vaulted from the saddle before her mount was fully

checked, rushed up to Par with a wild yell, and hugged him with

such enthusiasm that he was almost knocked from his feet. When

she was done with him, she gave the same reception to an aston-

ished, but delighted Coll. Walker got a more reserved kiss on

the cheek and Morgan, whom she barely remembered from her

childhood, a handshake and a nod.

While the three Ohmsford siblings-for they seemed such,

despite the fact that Wren wasn't a true sister-traded hugs and

words of greeting, those with them stood around uncomfortably

and sized up one another with wary glances. Most of the sizing

up was reserved for Garth, who was twice as big as any of the

rest of them. He was dressed in the brightly colored clothing

common to the Rovers, and the garishness of his garb made him

seem larger still. He met the stares of the others without discom-

fort, his gaze steady and implacable. Wren remembered him

after a moment and began the required series of introductions.

Par followed with Steff and Teel. Cogline hung back from the

others; since everyone seemed to know who he was, in any case,

no formal introduction was attempted. There were nods and

handshakes all around, courtesies observed as expected, but the

wariness in the faces of most did not subside. When they all

moved over to the fire that formed the center of the little camp-

site to partake of the dinner that the Dwarves had been in the

process of preparing when Wren and her companions had ap-

peared, the newly formed company of nine quickly fragmented

into groups. Steff and Teel turned their attention to the comple-

tion of the meal, mute as they hovered over the pots and cooking

fire. Walker withdrew to a patch of shade under a scrawny pine,

and Cogline disappeared into the rocks without a word to any-

one. He was so quiet about it that he was gone almost before

they realized it. But Cogline was not really considered a part of

the company, so no one much bothered about it. Par, Coil,

Wren, and Morgan clustered together by the horses, unsaddling

them and robbing them down, and talked about old times, old

friends, the places they had been, the things they had seen, and

the vicissitudes of life.

"You are much grown, Wren," Coil marveled. "Not at all

the broomstick little girl I remember when you left us."

"A rider of horses, wild as the wind! No boundaries for you!"

Par laughed, throwing up his hands in a gesture meant to en-

compass the whole of the land.

Wren grinned back. "I live a better life than the lot of you,

resting on your backsides, singing old tales and rousting tired

dogs. The Wesdand's a good country for free-spirited things,

you know." Then her grin faded. "The old man, Cogline, told

me of what's happened in the Vale. Jaralan and Mirianna were

my parents for a time, too, and I care for them still. Prisoners,

he said. Have you heard anything of them?"

Par shook his head. "We have been running ever since Var-

fleet."

"I am sorry. Par.'' There was genuine discomfort in her eyes.

"The Federation does its best to make all of our lives miserable.

Even the Westland has its share of soldiers and administrative

lackeys, though it's country they mostly ignore. The Rovers

know how to avoid them in any case. If need be, you would be

welcome to join us."

Par gave her another quick hug. "Best that we see how this

business of the dreams turns out first," he whispered.

They ate a dinner of fried meats, fresh-baked hard bread,

stewed vegetables, cheese, and nuts, and washed it all down

with ale and water while they watched the sun disappear beneath

the horizon. The food was good, and everyone said so, much

to Steff's pleasure, for he had prepared the better part of it.

Cogline remained absent, but the others began talking a bit more

freely among themselves, all but Teel, who never seemed to

want to speak. As far as Par knew, he was the only one besides

Steff to whom the Dwarf girl had ever said anything.

When the dinner was complete, Steff and Teel took charge of

cleaning the dishes, and the others drifted away in ones and twos

as the dusk settled slowly into the night. While Coil and Morgan

went down to a spring a quarter-mile off to draw fresh water,

Par found himself ambling back up the trail that led into the

mountains and the Valley of Shale in the company of Wren and

the giant Garth.

"Have you been back there yet?'' Wren asked as they walked,

nodding in the direction of the Hadeshom.

Par shook his head. "It's several hours in and no one's much

wanted to hurry matters along. Even Walker has refused to go

there before the scheduled time." He glanced skyward where

clusters of stars dotted the heavens in intricate patterns and a

small, almost invisible crescent moon hung low against the ho-

rizon north. "Tomorrow night," he said.

Wren didn't reply. They walked on in silence until they

reached the shelf of rock that Par had occupied earlier that day.

There they stopped, looking back over the country south.

"You've had the dreams, too?" Wren asked him then and

went on to describe her own. When he nodded, she said, "What

do you think?"

Par eased himself down on the rock, the other two sitting

with him. "I think that ten generations of Ohmsfords have lived

their lives since the time of Brin and Jair, waiting for this to

happen. I think that the magic of the Elven house of Shannara,

Ohmsford magic now, is something more than we realize. I

think Allanon-or his shade, at least-will tell us what that

something is." He paused. "I think it may turn out to be some-

thing wondrous-and something terrible."

He was aware of her staring at him with those intense hazel

eyes, and he shrugged apologetically. "I don't mean to be

overdramatic. That's just the sense I have of things.''

She translated his comments automatically for Garth, who

gave no indication of what he thought. "You and Walker have

some use of the magic," she said quietly. "I have none. What

of that?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure. Morgan's magic is stronger

than mine these days and he wasn't called." He went on to tell

her about their confrontation with the Shadowen and the High-

lander's discovery of the magic that had lain dormant in the

Sword of Lean. "I find myself wondering why the dreams didn't

command him to appear instead of me, for all the use the wish-

song has been."

"But you don't know for certain how strong your magic is,

Par," she said quietly. "You should remember from the stories

that none of the Ohmsfords, from Shea on down, fully under-

stood when they began their quests the uses of the Elven magic.

Might it not be the same with you?"

It might, he realized with a shiver. He cocked his head. "Or

you. Wren. What of you?"

"No, no, Par Ohmsford. I am a simple Rover girl with none

of the blood that carries the magic from generation to generation

in me." She laughed. "I'm afraid I must make do with a bag

filled with make-believe Elfstones!"

He laughed as well, remembering the little leather bag with

the painted rocks that she had guarded so carefully as a child.

They traded life stories for a time, telling each other what they

had been doing, where they had been, and whom they had en-

countered on their journeys. They were relaxed, much as if their

separation had been but a few weeks rather than years. Wren

was responsible for that. Par decided. She had put him imme-

diately at ease. He was struck by the inordinate amount of con-

fidence that she exhibited in herself, such a wild, free giri,

obviously content with her Rover life, seemingly unshackled by

demands or constraints that might hold her back. She was strong

both inwardly and outwardly, and he admired her greatly for it.

He found himself wishing that he could display but a fraction of

her pluck.

"How do you find Walker?'' she asked him after a time.

"Distant," he said at once. "Still haunted by demons that I

cannot begin to understand. He talks about his mistrust of the

Elven magic and the Druids, yet seems to have magic of his

own that he uses freely enough. I don't really understand him.''

Wren relayed his comments to Garth, and the giant Rover

responded with a brief signing. Wren looked at him sharply,

then said to Par, "Garth says that Walker is frightened."

Par looked surprised. "How does he know that?"

"He just does. Because he is deaf, he works harder at using

his other senses. He detects other people's feelings more quickly

than you or I would-even those that are kept hidden.''

Par nodded. "Well, he happens to be exactly right in this

instance. Walker is frightened. He told me so himself. He says

he's frightened of what this business with Allanon might mean.

Odd, isn't it? I have trouble imagining anything frightening

Walker Boh."

Wren signed to Garth, but the giant merely shrugged. They

sat back in silence for a time, thinking separate thoughts. Then

Wren said, "Did you know that the old man, Cogline, was once

Walker's teacher?"

Par looked at her sharply. ' 'Did he tell you that?''

"I tricked it from him, mostly."

"Teacher of what. Wren? Of the magic?"

"Of something.'' Her dark features turned introspective mo-

mentarily, her gaze distant. "There is much between those two

that, like Walker's fear, is kept hidden, I think."

Par, though he didn't say so, was inclined to agree.

The members of the little company slept undisturbed that

night in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth, but by dawn they

were awake again and restless. Tonight was the first night of the

new moon, the night they were to meet with the shade of Al-

lanon. Impatiently, they went about their business. They ate

their meals without tasting mem. They spoke little to one an-

other, moving about uneasily, finding small tasks that would

distract them from thinking further on what lay ahead. It was a

clear, cloudless day filled with warm summer smells and lazy

sunshine, the kind of day that, under other circumstances, might

have been enjoyed, but which on tins occasion simply seemed

endless.

Cogline reappeared about midday, wandering down out of

the mountains like some tattered prophet of doom. He looked

dusty and unkempt as he came up to them, his hair wild, his

eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He told them that all was in

readiness-whatever that meant-and that he would come for

them after nightfall. Be ready, he advised. He refused to say

anything more, though pressed by the Ohmsfords to do so, and

disappeared back the way he had come.

"What do you suppose he is doing up there?" Coil muttered

to me others as the ragged figure dwindled into a tiny black

speck in the distance and then into nothing at all.

The sun worked its way westward as if dragging chains in its

wake, and the members of the little company retreated further

into memselves. The enormity of what was about to happen

began to emerge in their unspoken thoughts, a specter of such

size mat it was frightening to contemplate. Even Walker Boh,

who might have been assumed to be more at home with the

prospect of encountering shades and spirits, withdrew into him-

self like a badger into its hole and became unapproachable.

Nevertheless, when it was nearing midaftemoon. Par hap-

pened on his uncle while wandering me cooler stretches of the

hills surrounding the springs. They slowed on coming together,

then stopped and stood looking at each other awkwardly.

"Do you think he will really come?" Par asked finally.

Walker's pale features were shadowed beneath the protective

hood of his cloak, making his face difficult to read. "He will

come," his uncle said.

Par thought a moment, then said, "I don't know what to

expect."

Walker shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Par. Whatever

you choose to expect, it won't be enough. This meeting wont

be like anything you might envision, I promise you. The Druids

have always been very good at surprises.''

"You suspect the worst,' don't you?''

"I suspect. . ."He trailed off without finishing.

"Magic," said Par.

The Oder frowned.

"Druid magic-that's what you think we will see tonight,

don't you? I hope you are right. I hope that it sweeps and re-

sounds and that it opens all me doors that have been closed to

us and lets us see what magic can really do!"

Walker Boh's smile, when it finally overcame his astonish-

ment, was ironic. "Some doors are better left closed," he said

softly. ' 'You would do well to remember that.''

He put his hand on his nephew's arm for a moment, then

continued silently on his way.

The afternoon crawled toward evening. When the sun at last

completed its long journey west and began to slip beneath the

horizon, the members of the little company filtered back to the

campsite for the evening meal. Morgan was garrulous, an ob-

vious sign of nerves with him, and talked incessantly of magic

and swords and all sorts of wild happenings that Par hoped

would never be. The others were mostly silent, eating without

comment and casting watchful glances northward toward the

mountains. Teel wouldn't eat at all, sitting off by herself in a

gathering of shadows, the mask mat covered her face like a wall

that separated her from everyone. Even Steff let her alone.

Darkness descended and the stars began to nicker into view,

a scattering here and there at first, and then the sky was filled

with mem. No moon showed itself; it was the promised time

when the sun's pale sister wore black. Daylight's sounds faded

and night's remained hushed. The cooking fire crackled and

snapped in me silence as conversation lagged. One or two

smoked, and the air was filled with me pungent smell. Morgan

took out the bright length of the Sword of Leah and began to

polish it absently. Wren and Garth fed and curried the horses.

Walker moved up the trail a short distance and stood staring into

the mountains. Others sat lost in thought.

Everyone waited.

It was midnight when Cogline returned for them. The old

man appeared out of me shadows like a ghost, materializing so

suddenly that they all started. No one, not even Walker, had

seen him coming.

"It is time," he announced.

They came to their feet voicelessly and followed him. He took

them up the trail from their campsite into the gradually mick-

ening shadows of the Dragon's Teeth. Although the stars shone

brightly ovehead when they started out, the mountains soon

began to close about, leaving me little company shrouded in

blackness. Cogline did not slow; he seemed to possess cat's

eyes. His charges struggled to teep pace. Par, Coil, and Morgan

were closest to the old man, Wren and Garth came next, Steff

and Teel behind them, and Walter Boh brought up the rear. The

trail steepened quickly after they reached me beginning peaks,

and they moved through a narrow defile that opened like a pocket

into the mountains. It was silent here, so still that they could

hear one another breathe as they labored upward.

The minutes slipped away. Boulders and cliff walls hindered

their passage, and the trail wound about like a snake. Loose

rock carpeted the whole of the mountains, and the climbers had

to scramble over it. Still Cogline pressed on. Par stumbled and

scraped his knees, finding me loose rock as sharp as glass.

Much of it was a strange, mirroriike black that reminded him

of coal. He scooped up a small piece out of curiosity and stuck

it in his pocket.

Then abruptly the mountains split apart before them, and they

stepped out onto the rim of me Valley of Shale. It was little more

man a broad, shallow depression strewn with crushed stone that

glistened with the same mirrored blackness as the rock Par had

pocketed. Nothing grew in me valley; it was stripped of life.

There was a lake at its center, its greenish black waters moving

in sluggish swirls in the windless expanse.

Cogline stopped momentarily and looked back at them.' "The

Hadeshom," he whispered. "Home for the spirits of the ages,

for the Druids of the past." His weathered old face had an

almost reverent look to it. Then he turned away and started them

down into the valley.

Except for the huff of their breathing and the rasp of their

boots on the loose rock, the valley, too, was wrapped in silence.

Echoes of their movements played in the stillness like children

in the slow heat of a midsummer's day. Eyes darted watchfully,

seeking ghosts where there were none to find, imagining life in

every shadow. It was strangely warm here, the heat of the day

captured and held in the airless bowl through the cool of the

night. Par felt a trickle of sweat begin to run down has back.

Then they were on the valley floor, closely bunched as they

made their way toward the late. They could see me movement

of me waters more cleady now, the way the swirls worked against

each other, haphazard, unbidden. They could hear the rippling

of tiny waves as they lapped. There was the pungent scent of

things ageing and decayed.

They were still several dozen yards from the water's edge

when Cogline brought them to a halt, both hands lifting in cau-

tion. "Stand fast, now. Come no closer. The waters of the

Hadeshom are death to mortals, poison to the touch!" He

crouched down and put a finger to his lips as if hushing a child.

They did as they were bidden, children indeed before the

power they sensed sleeping there. They could feel it, all of them,

a palpable thing that hung in the air like wood smoke from a

fire. They remained where they were, alert, anxious, filled with

a mix of wonder and hesitancy. No one spoke. The star-filled

sky stretched away endlessly overhead, canopied from horizon

to horizon, and it seemed as if the whole of the heavens was

focused on the valley, that lake, and the nine of them who kept

watch.

At last Cogline lifted from his crouch and came back to them,

beckoning with birdlike movements of his hands to draw them

close about him. When they were gathered in a knot that locked

them shoulder to shoulder, he spoke.

"Allanon will come just before dawn." The sharp old eyes

regarded them solemnly."He wishes me to speak with you first.

He is no longer what he was in life. He is just a shade now. His

purchase in this world is but the blink of an eye. Each time he

crosses over from the spirit world, it requires tremendous effort.

He can stay only a little while. What time he is allotted he must

use wisely. He will use that time to tell you of the need he has

of you. He has left it to me to explain to you why that need

exists. I am to tell you of the Shadowen."

"You've spoken to him?" asked Walker Boh quickly.

Cogline said nothing.

"Why wait until now to tell us about the Shadowen?" Par

was suddenly irritated. "Why now, Cogline, when you could

have done so before?"

The old man shook his head, his face both reproving and

sympathetic. "It was not permitted, youngster. Not until all of

you had been brought together."

"Games!" Walker muttered and shook his head in disgust.

The old man ignored him. "Think what you like, only listen.

This is what Allanon would have me tell you of the Shadowen.

They are an evil beyond all imagining. They are not the rumors

or the tall tales that men would have them be, but creatures as

real as you and I. They are bom of a circumstance that Allanon

in all his wisdom and planning did not foresee. When he passed

from the world of mortal men, Allanon believed the age of magic

at an end and a new age begun. The Warlock Lord was no more.

The Demons of the old worid of faerie were again imprisoned

within the Forbidding. The Ddatch was destroyed. Paranor was

gone into history and the last of the Druids were about to go

with it. It seemed the need for magic was past."

"The need is never past," Walker said quietly.

Again, the old man ignored him. "The Shadowen are an

aberration. They are a magic that grew out of the use of other

magics, a residue of what has gone before. They began as a

seeding that lay dormant within the Four Lands, undetected

during the time of Allanon, a seeding that came to life only after

the Druids and their protective powers were gone. No one could

have known they were there, not even Allanon. They were the

leavings of magic come and gone, and they were as invisible as

dust on a pathway.''

"Wait a minute!" Par interjected. "What are you saying,

Cogline? That the Shadowen are just bits and pieces of some

stray magic?"

Cogline took a deep breath, his hands locking before him.

"Valeman, I told you once before that for all the use you have

of magic, you still know little about it. Magic is as much a force

of nature as the fire at the earth's core, the tidal waves that sweep

out of the ocean, the winds that flatten forests or the famine that

starves nations. It does not happen and then disappear without

effect! Think! What of Wil Ohmsford and his use of the Elf-

stones when his Elven blood no longer permitted such use? It

left as its residue the wishsong that found life in your ancestors!

Was that an inconsequential magic? All uses of the magic have

effects beyond the immediate. And all are significant."

"Which magic was it that created the Shadowen?" asked

Coil, his blocky face impassive.

The old man shook his wispy head. "Allanon does not know.

There is no way of being certain. It could have happened at any

time during the lives of Shea Ohmsford and his descendents.

There was always magic in use in those times, much of it evil.

The Shadowen could have been bom of any part of it."

He paused. "The Shadowen were nothing at first. They were

the debris of magic spent. Somehow they survived, their pres-

ence unknown. It was not until Allanon and Paranor were gone

that they emerged into the Four Lands and began to gain strength.

There was a vacuum in the order of things by then. A void must

be filled in all events, and the Shadowen were quick to fill this

one."

"I don't understand," Par said quickly. "What sort of vac-

uum do you mean?"

"And why didn't Allanon foresee it happening?" added

Wren.

The old man held up his fingers and began crooking them

downward one by one as he spoke. "Life has always been cy-

clical. Power comes and goes; it takes different forms. Once, it

was science that gave mankind power. Of late, it has been magic.

Allanon foresaw the return of science as a means to progress-

especially with the passing of the Druids and Paranor. That was

the age that would be. But the development of science failed to

materialize quickly enough to fill the vacuum. Partly this was

because of the Federation. The Federation kept the old ways

intact; it proscribed the use of any form of power but its own-

and its own was primitive and military. It expanded its influence

throughout the Four Lands until all were subject to its dictates.

The Elves had an effect on matters as well; for reasons we still

don't know they disappeared. They were a balancing force, the

last people of the faerie world of old. Their presence was nec-

essary, if the transition from magic to science was to be made

faultlessly."

He shook his head. "Yet even had the Elves remained in the

world of men and the Federation been less a presence, the Shad-

owen might have come alive. The vacuum was there the mo-

ment the Druids passed away. There was no help for it." He

sighed. "Allanon did not foresee as he should have. He did not

anticipate an aberration on the order of the Shadowen. He did

what he could to keep the Pour Lands safe while he was alive-

and he kept himself alive for as long as was possible."

"Too little of each, it seems," Walker said pointedly.

Cogline looked at him, and the anger in his voice was pal-

pable. "Well, Walker Boh. Perhaps one day you will have an

opportunity to demonstrate that you can do it better."

There was a strained moment of silence as the two faced each

other in the blackness. Then Cogline looked away. "You need

to understand what the Shadowen are. The Shadowen are para-

sites. They live off mortal creatures. They are a magic that feeds

on living things. They enter them, absorb them, become them.

But for some reason the results are not always the same. Young

Par, think of the woodswoman that you and Coil encountered at

the time of our first meeting. She was a Shadowen of the more

obvious sort, a once-mortal creature infected, a ravaged thing

that could no more help herself than an animal made mad. But

the little girl on Toner Ridge, do you remember her?"

His fingers brushed Par's cheek lightly. Instantly, the Vale-

man was filled with the memory of that monster to whom the

Spider Gnomes had given him. He could feel her stealing against

him, begging him, "hug me, hug me," desperate to make him

embrace her. He flinched, shaken by the impact of the memory.

Cogline's hand closed firmly about his arm. "That, too, was

a Shadowen, but one that could not be so easily detected. They

appear to varying extents as we do, hidden within human form.

Some become grotesque in appearance and behavior; those you

can readily identify. Others are more difficult to recognize."

"But why are there some of one kind and some of the other?''

Par asked uncertainly.

Cogline's brow furrowed. "Once again, Allanon does not

know. The Shadowen have kept their secret even from him."

The old man looked away for a long moment, then back

again. His face was a mask of despair. "This is like a plague.

The sickness is spread until the number infected multiplies im-

possibly. Any of the Shadowen can transmit the disease. Their

magic gives them the means to overcome almost any defense.

The more of them there are, the stronger they become. What

would you do to stop a plague where the source was unknown,

the symptoms undetectable until after they had taken root,

and the cure a mystery?"

The members of the little company glanced at one another

uneasily in the silence that followed.

Finally, Wren said, "Do they have a purpose in what they do,

Cogline? A purpose beyond simply infecting living things? Do

they think as you and I or are they . . . mindless?"

Par stared at the girl in undisguised admiration. It was the

best question any of them had asked. He should have been the

one to ask it.

Cogline was rubbing his hands together slowly. "They think

as you and I, Rover girl, and they most certainly do have a

purpose in what they do. But that purpose remains unclear.''

"They would subvert us," Morgan offered sharply. "Surely

that's purpose enough."

But Cogline shook his head. "They would do more still, I

think."

And abruptly Par found -himself recalling the dreams that

Allanon had sent, the visions of a nightmarish world in which

everything was blackened and withered and life was reduced to

something barely recognizable. Reddened eyes blinked like bits

of fire, and shadow forms flitted through a haze of ash and

smoke.

This is what the Shadowen would do, he realized.

But how could they bring such a vision to pass?

He glanced without thinking at Wren and found his question

mirrored in her eyes. He recognized what she was thinking in-

stinctively. He saw it reflected in Walker Boh's eyes as well.

They had shared the dreams and those dreams bound them, so

much so that for an instant then" thinking was the same.

Cogline's face lifted slightly, pulling free of the darkness that

shaded it. "Something guides the Shadowen," he whispered.

"There is power here that transcends anything we have ever

known . . ."

He let the sentence trail off, ragged and unfinished, as if

unable to give voice to any ending. His listeners looked at one

another.

"What are we to do?" Wren asked finally.

The old man rose wearily. "Why, what we came here to do,

Rover girl-listen to what Allanon would tell us."

He moved stiffly away, and no one called after him.

XV

They moved apart from each other after that, drifting

away one by one, finding patches of solitude in which

to think their separate thoughts. Eyes wandered rest-

lessly across the valley's glistening carpet of black rock, always

returning to the Hadeshom, carefully searching the sluggishly

churning waters for signs of some new movement.

There was none.

Perhaps nothing is going to happen. Par thought. Perhaps it

was all a lie after all.

He felt his chest constrict with mixed feelings of disappoint-

ment and relief and he forced his thoughts elsewhere. Coil was

less than a dozen paces away, but he refused to look at him. He

wanted to be alone. There were things that needed thinking

through, and Coil would only distract him.

Funny how much effort he had put into distancing himself

from his brother since this journey had begun, he thought sud-

denly. Perhaps it was because he was afraid for him . . .

Once again, this time angrily, he forced his thoughts else-

where. Cogline. Now there was an enigma of no small size.

Who was this old man who seemed to know so much about

everything? A failed Druid, he claimed. Allanon's messenger,

he said. But those brief descriptions didn't seem nearly complete

enough. Par was certain that there was more to him than what

he claimed. There was a history of events behind his relation-

ships with Allanon and Walker Boh that was hidden from the

rest of them. Allanon would not have gone to a failed Druid for

assistance, not even in the most desperate of circumstances.

There was a reason for Cogline's involvement with this gather-

ing beyond what any of them knew.

He glanced warily at the old man who stood an uncomfortable

number of feet closer than the rest of them to the waters of the

Hadeshom. He knew all about the Shadowen, somehow. He had

spoken more than once with AUanon, somehow again. He was

the only living human being to have done so since the Druid's

death three hundred years ago. Par thought a moment about the

stories of Cogline in the time of Brin Ohmsford-a half-crazed

old man then, wielding magic against the Mord Wraiths like

some sort of broom against dust-that's the picture the tales

conjured up. Well, he wasn't like that now. He was controlled.

Cranky and eccentric, yes-but mostly controlled. He knew what

he was about-enough so that he didn't seem particularly pleased

with any of it. He hadn't said that, of course. But Par wasn't

blind.

There was a flash of light from somewhere far off in the night

skies, a momentary brightness that winked away instantly and

was gone. A life ended, a new life begun, his mother used to

say. He sighed. He hadn't thought of his parents much since the

flight out of Varfleet. He felt a twinge of guilt. He wondered if

they were all right. He wondered if he would see them again.

His jaw tightened with determination. Of course he would

see them again! Things would work out. AUanon would have

answers to give him-about the uses of the magic of the wish-

song, the reasons for the dreams, what to do about the Shadowen

and the Federation . . . all of it.

Allanon would know.

Time slipped away, minutes into hours, the night steadily

working its way toward dawn. Par moved over to talk with Coil,

needing now to be close to his brother. The others shifted,

stretched, and moved about uneaslly. Eyes grew heavy and

senses duUed.

Far east, the first twinges of the coming dawn appeared against

the dark line of the horizon.

He's not coming. Par thought dismally.

And as if in answer the waters of the Hadeshom heaved up-

ward, and the valley shuddered as if something beneath it had

come awake. Rock shifted and grated with the movement, and

the members of the little company went into a protective crouch.

The lake began to boil, the waters to thrash, and spray shot

skyward with a sharp hiss. Voices cried out, inhuman and filled

with longing. They rose out of the earth, straining against bonds

that were invisible to the nine gathered in the valley, but which

they could all too readily imagine. Walker's arms flung wide

against the sound, scattering bits of silver dust that flared in a

protective curtain. The others cupped their ears protectively, but

nothing could shut the sound away.

Then the earth began to rumble, thunder that rolled out of its

depth and eclipsed even the cries. Cogline's stick-thin arm lifted,

pointing rigidly to the lake. The Hadeshom exploded into a

whirlpool, waters churning madly, and from out of the depths

rose . . .

"Allanon!" Par cried out excitedly against the fury of sounds.

It was the Druid. They knew him instantly, all of them. They

remembered him from the tales of three centuries gone; they

recognized him in their heart of hearts, mat secret innermost

whisper of certainty. He rose into me night air, light flaring

about him, released somehow from the waters of me Hadeshora.

He lifted free of the lake to stand upon its surface, a shade from

some netherworld, cast in transparent gray, shimmering faintly

against the dark. He was cloaked and cowled from head to foot,

a tall and powerful image of the man that once was, his long,

sharp-featured, bearded face turned toward them, his penetrat-

ing eyes sweeping clear their defenses, laying bare their lives for

examination and judgment.

Par Ohmsford shivered.

The churning of the waters subsided, the rumbling ceased,

the wails died into a hush that hung suspended across the ex-

panse of the valley. The shade moved toward them, seemingly

without haste, as if to discredit Cogline's word that it could stay

only briefly in the world of men. Its eyes never left their own.

Par had never been so frightened. He wanted to run. He wanted

to flee for his life, but he stood rooted to the spot on which he

stood, unable to move.

The shade came to the water's edge and stopped. From some-

where deep within their minds, the members of the little com-

pany heard it speak.

-I am Allanon that was-

A murmur of voices filled the air, voices of things no longer

living, echoing the shade's words.

-I have called you to me in your dreams-Par, Wren, and

Walker. Children of Shannara, you have been summoned to me.

The wheel of time comes around again-for rebirthing of the

magic, for honoring the trust that was given you, for beginning

and ending many things-

The voice, deep and sonorous within them, grew rough with

feelings that scraped the bone.

-The Shadowen come. They come with a promise of de-

struction, sweeping over the Pour Lands with the certainty of

day after night-

There was a pause as the shade's lean hands wove a vision of

his words through the fabric of the night air, a tapestry that hung

momentarily in brilliant colors against the misted black. The

dreams he had sent them came alive, sketches of nightmarish

madness. Then they faded and were gone. The voice whispered

soundlessly.

-It shall be so, if you do not heed-

Par felt the words reverberate through his body like a rumble

from the earth. He wanted to look at the others, wanted to see

what was on their faces, but the voice of the shade held him

spellbound.

Not so Walker Boh. His uncle's voice was as chilling as the

shade's. "Tell us what you would, Allanon! Be done with it!"

Allanon's flat gaze shifted to the dark figure and settled on

him. Walker Boh staggered back a step in spite of himself. The

shade pointed.

-Destroy the Shadowen! They subvert the people of the

Races, creeping into their bodies, taking their forms as they

choose, becoming them, using them, turning them into the mis-

shapen giant and maddened woodswoman you have already en-

countered-and into things worse still. No one prevents it. No

one will, if not you-

"But what are we supposed to do?'' Par asked at once, almost

without thinking.

The shade had been substantial when it had first appeared, a

ghost that had taken on again the fullness of life. But already the

lines and shadings were beginning to pale, and he who was once

Allanon shimmered with the translucent and ephemeral incon-

sistency of smoke.

-Shannara child. There are balances to be restored if the

Shadowen are to be destroyed-not for a time, not in this age

only, but forever. Magic is needed. Magic to put an end to the

misuse of life. Magic to restore the fabric of man's existence in

the mortal world. That magic is your heritage-yours. Wren's,

and Walker's. You must acknowledge it and embrace it-

The Hadeshom was beginning to roil again, and the members

of the little company fell back before its hiss and spray-all but

Cogline who stood rock-still before the others, his head bowed

upon his frail chest.

The shade of Allanon seemed to swell suddenly against the

night, rising up before them. The robes spread wide. The shade's

eyes fixed on Par, and the Valeman felt the stab of an invisible

finger penetrate his breast.

-Par Ohmsford, bearer of the wishsong's promise, I charge

you with recovering the Sword of Shannara. Only through the

Sword can truth be revealed and only through truth shall the

Shadowen be overcome. Take up me Sword, Par; wield it ac-

cording to the dictates of your heart-the truth of the Shadowen

shall be yours to discover-

The eyes shifted.

-Wren, child of hidden, forgotten lives, yours is a charge of

equal importance. There can be no healing of the Lands or of

their people without the Elves of faerie. Find them and return

them to the world of men. Find them. Rover girl. Only then

can me sickness end-

The Hadeshom erupted with a booming cough.

-And Walker Boh, you of no belief, seek that belief-and

the understanding necessary to sustain it. Search out the last of

the curatives that is needed to give life back to the Lands. Search

out disappeared Paranor and restore the Druids-

There was astonishment mirrored in the faces of all, and for

an instant it smothered the shouts of disbelief that struggled to

surface. Then everyone was yelling at once, the words tumbling

over one another as each sought to make himself heard above

the tumult. But the cries disappeared instantly as the shade's

arms came up in a sweep that caused the earth to rumble anew.

-Cease-

The waters of the Hadeshom spit and hissed behind him as

he faced them. It was growing lighter now in the east; dawn was

threatening to break.

The shade's voice was again a whisper.

-'You would know more. I wish that it could be so. But I

have told you what I can. I cannot tell you more. I lack the

power in death that I possessed in life. I am permitted to see

only bits and pieces of the world that was or the future that will

be. I cannot find what is hidden from you for I am sealed away

in a world where substance has small meaning. Each day, the

memory of it slips further from me. I sense what is and what is

possible; that must suffice. Therefore, pay heed to me. I cannot

come with you. I cannot guide you. I cannot answer the ques-

tions you bring with you-not of magic or family or self-worth.

All mat you must do for yourselves. My time in the Four Lands

is gone, children of Shannara. As it once was for Bremen, so it

is now for me. I am not chained by shackles of failure as was

he, but I am chained nevertheless. Death limits both time and

being. I am the past. The future of the Four Lands belongs to

you and to you alone-

"But you ask impossible things of us!" Wren snapped des-

perately.

"Worse! You ask things that should never be!" Walker raged.

"Druids come again? Paranor restored?"

The shade's reply came softly.

-I ask for what must be. You have the skills, the heart, the

right, and the need to do what I have asked. Believe what I have

told you. Do as I have said. Then will the Shadowen be de-

stroyed-

Par felt his throat tighten in desperation. Allanon was begin-

ning to fade.

"Where shall we look?'' he cried out frantically. "Where do

we begin our search? Allanon, you have to tell us!"

There was no answer. The shade withdrew further.

' 'No! You cannot go!" Walker Boh howled suddenly.

The shade began to sink into the waters of the Hadeshom.

"Druid, I forbid it!" Walker screamed in fury, throwing off

sparks of his own magic as he flung his arms out as if to hold

the other back.

The whole of the valley seemed to explode in response, the

earth shaking until rocks bounced and raided ferociously, the

air filling with a wind that whipped down out of the mountains

as if summoned, the Hadeshom churning in a maelstrom of

rage, the dead crying out-and the shade of Allanon bursting

into flame. The members of the little company were thrown flat

as the forces about them collided, and everything was caught up

in a whirlwind of light and sound.

At last it was still and dark again. They lifted their heads

cautiously and looked about. The valley was empty of shades

and spirits and all that accompanied them. The earth was at rest

once more and the Hadeshom a silent, placid stretch of lumi-

nescence that reflected the sun's brilliant image from where it

lifted out of the darkness in me east.

Par Ohmsford climbed slowly to his feet. He felt that he might

have awakened from a dream.

XVI

When they recovered their composure, the members

of the little company discovered that Cogline was

missing. At first they thought such a thing impos-

sible, certain that they must be mistaken, and they cast about

for him expectantly, searching the lingering nighttime shadows.

But me valley offered few places to hide, and the old man was

nowhere to be found.

"Perhaps Allanon's shade whisked him away," Morgan sug-

gested in an attempt to make a joke of it.

Nobody laughed. Nobody even smiled. They were already

sufficiently distressed by everything else that had happened mat

night, and me strange disappearance of the old man only served

to unsettle them further. It was one thing for the shades of Dru-

ids dead and gone to appear and vanish without warning; it was

something else again when it was a flesh-and-blood person. Be-

sides, Cogline had been their last link to the meaning behind

the dreams and the reason for their journey here. With the ap-

parent severing of mat link, they were all too painfully aware

that they were now on their own.

They stood around uncertainly a moment or two longer. Then

Walker muttered something about wasting his time. He started

back the way he had come, the others of the little company

trailing after nun. The sun was above the horizon now, golden

in a sky that was cloudless and blue, and the warmth of the day

was already settling over the barren peaks of me Dragon's Teeth.

Par glanced over his shoulder as they reached the valley rim.

The Hadeshom stared back at him, sullen and unresponsive.

The walk back was a silent one. They were all thinking about

what the Druid had said, sifting and measuring the revelations

and charges, and none of them were ready yet to talk. Certainly

Par wasn't. He was so confounded by what he had been told that

he was having trouble accepting that he had actually heard it.

He trailed the others with Coil, watching their backs as they

wound single file through the breaks in the rocks, following the

pathway that led down through the cliff pocket to the foothills

and their campsite, thinking mostly that Walker had been right

after all, that whatever he might have imagined this meeting with

the shade of Allanon would be like, he would have imagined

wrong. Coil asked him at one point if he were all right and he

nodded without replying, wondering inwardly if indeed he would

ever be all right again.

Recover the Sword of Shannara, the shade had commanded

him. Sticks and stones, how in the world was he supposed to do

that?

The seeming impossibility of the task was daunting. He had

no idea where to begin. No one, to the best of his knowledge,

had even seen the Sword since the occupation of Tyrsis by the

Federation-well over a hundred years ago. And it might have

disappeared before that. Certainly no one had seen it since. Like

most things connected with the time of the Druids and the magic,

the Sword was part of a legend that was all but forgotten. There

weren't any Druids, there weren't any Elves, and there wasn't

any magic-not anymore, not in the world of men. How often

had he heard that?

His jaw tightened. Just exactly what was he supposed to do?

What were any of them supposed to do? Allanon had given them

nothing to woik with beyond the bare charging of their respec-

tive quests and his assurance that what he asked of them was

both possible and necessary.

He felt a hot streak race through him. There had been no

mention of his own magic, of the uses of me wishsong that he

believed were hidden from him. Nothing had been said about

the ways in which it might be employed. He hadn't even been

given a chance to ask questions. He didn't know one thing more

about the magic than he had before.

Par was angry and disappointed and a dozen other things too

confusing to sort out. Recover the Sword of Shannara, indeed!

And then what? What was he supposed to do with it? Challenge

the Shadowen to some sort of combat? Go charging around the

countryside searching them out and destroying them one by one?

His face flushed. Shades! Why should he even think about

doing such a thing?

He caught himself. Well, that was really the crux of things,

wasn't it? Should he even consider doing what Allanon had

asked-not so much the hunting of toe Shadowen with the Sword

of Shannara, but the hunting of the Sword of Shannara in the

first place?

That was what needed deciding.

He tried pushing the matter from his mind for a moment,

losing himself in the cool of the shadows where the cliffs still

warded the pathway; but, like a frightened child clinging to its

mother, it refused to release its grip. He saw Steff ahead of him

saying something to Teel, then to Morgan and shaking his head

vehemently as he did so. He saw the stiff set of Walker Boh's

back. He saw Wren striding after her uncle as if she might walk

right over him. All of them were as angry and frustrated as he

was; there was no mistaking the look. They felt cheated by what

they had been told-or not told. They had expected something

more substantial, something definitive, something that would

give them answers to the questions they had brought with them.

Anything besides the impossible charges they had been given!

Yet Allanon had said the charges were not impossible, that

they could be accomplished, and that the three charged had the

skills, the heart, and the right to accomplish them.

Par sighed. Should he believe that?

And again he was back to wondering whether or not he should

even consider doing what he had been asked.

But he was already considering exactly that, wasn't he? What

else was he doing by debating the matter, if not that?

He passed out of the cliff shadows onto me pebble-strewn

trail leading downward to the campsite. As he did so, he made

a determined effort to put aside his anger and frustration and to

think cleariy. What did he know that he could rety upon? The

dreams had indeed been a summons from Allanon-that much

appeared certain now. The Druid had come to them as he had

come to Ohmsfords in the past, asking their help against dark

magic that threatened the Four Lands. The only difference, of

course, was that this time he had been forced to come as a shade.

Cogline, a former Druid, had been his messenger in the flesh to

assure that the summons was heeded. Cogline had Allanon's

trust.

Par took a moment to consider whether or not he realty be-

lieved that last statement and decided he did.

The Shadowen were real, he went on. They were dangerous,

they were evil, they were certainly a threat of some sort to the

Races and the Four Lands. They were magic.

He paused again. If the Shadowen were indeed magic, it

would probably take magic to defeat them. And if he accepted

that, it made much of what Allanon and Cogline had told them

more convincing. It made possible the tale of the origin and

growth of the Shadowen. It made probable the claim that the

balance of things was out of whack. Whether you accepted the

premise that the Shadowen were to blame or not, there was

clearly much wrong in the Four Lands. Most of the blame for

what was bad had been attributed by the Federation to the magic

of the Elves and Druids-magic that the old stories claimed was

good. But Par thought the truth lay somewhere in between.

Magic in and of itself-if you believed in it as Par did-was

never bad or good; it was simply power. That was the lesson of

the wishsong. It was all in how the magic was used.

Par frowned. That being so, what if the Shadowen were using

magic to cause problems among the Races in ways that none of

them could see? What if the only way to combat such magic

was to turn it against the user, to cause it to revert to the uses

for which it was intended? What if Druids and Elves and talis-

mans like the Sword of Shannara were indeed needed to accom-

plish that end?

There was sense in the idea, he admitted reluctantly.

But was there enough sense?

The campsite appeared ahead, undisturbed since their leave-

taking the previous night, streaked by eariy sunlight and fading

shadows. The horses nickered at their approach, still tied to the

picket line. Par saw that Cogline's horse was among them. Ap-

parently the old man had not returned here.

He found himself thinking of the way Cogline had come to

them before, appearing unexpectedly to each, to Walker, Wren,

and himself, saying what he had to say, then departing as abruptly

as he had come. It had been that way each time. He had warned

each of them what was required, then let them decide what they

would do. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, that was what he had

done this time as well-simply left them to decide on their own.

They reached the camp, still without having spoken more

than a few brief words to one another, and came to an uneasy

halt. There was some suggestion of eating or sleeping first, but

everyone quickly decided against it. No one really wanted to eat

or sleep; they were neither hungry nor tired. They were ready

now to talk about what had happened. They wanted to put the

matter to discussion and give voice to the thoughts and emotions

that had been building and churning inside them during the walk

back.

"Very well," Walker Boh said curtly, after a moment's

strained silence. "Since no one else cares to say it, I will. This

whole business is madness. Paranor is gone. The Druids are

gone. There haven't been any Elves in the Four Lands in over a

hundred years. The Sword of Shannara hasn't been seen for at

least that long. We haven't, any of us, the vaguest idea of how

to go about recovering any of them-if, indeed, recovery is

possible. I suspect it isn't. I think this is just one more instance

of the Druids playing games with the Ohmsfords. And I resent

it very much!"

He was flushed, his face sharply drawn. Par remembered

again how angry he had been back in the valley, almost uncon-

trolled. This was not the Walker Boh he remembered.

"I am not sure we can dismiss what happened back there as

simple game-playing,'' Par began, but then Walker was all over

him.

"No, of course not. Par-you see all this as a chance to satisfy

your misguided curiosity about the uses of magic! I warned you

before that magic was not the gift you envisioned, but a curse!

Why is it that you persist in seeing it as something else?"

"Suppose the shade spoke the truth?'' Coil's voice was quiet

and firm, and it turned Walker's attention immediately from Par.

"The truth isn't in those cowled tricksters! When has the

truth ever been in them? They tell us bits and pieces, but never

the whole! They use us! They have always used us!"

"But not unwisely, not without consideration for what must

be done-that's not what the stories tell us." Coil held his

ground. "I am not necessarily advocating that we do as the

shade suggested. Walker. I am only saying that it is unreason-

able to dismiss the matter out of hand because of one possibility

in a rather broad range.''

"The bits and pieces you speak of-those were always true

in and of themselves," Par added to Coil's surprisingly eloquent

defense. "What you'mean is that Allanon never told the whole

truth in the beginning. He always held something back."

Walker looked at them as if they were children, shaking his

head. "A half-truth can be as devastating as a lie," he said

quietly. The anger was fading now, replaced by a tone of res-

ignation. ' 'You ought to know that much.''

"I know that there is danger in either.''

"Then why persist in this? Let it go!"

"Uncle," Par said, the reprimand in his voice astonishing

even to himself, "I haven't taken it up yet."

Walker looked at him for a long time, a tall, pale-skinned

figure against the dawn, his face unreadable in its mix of emo-

tions. "Haven't you?" he replied softly.

Then he turned, gathered up his blankets and gear and rolled

them up. "I will put it to you another way, then. Were every-

thing the shade told us true, it would make no difference. I have

decided on my course of action. I will do nothing to restore

Paranor and the Druids to the Four Lands. I can think of nothing

I wish less. The time of the Druids and Paranor saw more mad-

ness than this age could ever hope to witness. Bring back those

old men with their magics and their conjuring, their playing with

the lives of men as if they were toys?''

He rose and faced them, his pale face as hard as granite. "I

would sooner cut off my hand than see the Druids come again!''

The others glanced at one another in consternation as he

turned away to finish putting together his pack.

"Will you simply hide out in your valley?" Par shot back,

angry now himself.

Walker didn't look at him. "If you will."

"What happens if the shade spoke the truth. Walker? What

happens if all it has foreseen comes to pass, and the Shadowen

reach extends even into Hearthstone? Then what will you do?"

"What I must."

"With your own magic?" Par spat. "With magic taught to

you by Cogline?"

His uncle's pale face lifted sharply. "How did you leam of

that?"

Par shook his head stubbornly. "What difference is there be-

tween your magic and that of the Druids, Walker? Isn't it all the

same?"

The other's smile was hard and unfriendly. "Sometimes, Par,

you are a fool," he said and dismissed him.

When he rose a moment later, he was calm. "I have done my

part in this. I came as I was bidden and I listened to what I was

supposed to hear. I have no further obligation. The rest of you

must decide for yourselves what you will do. As for me, I am

finished with this business."

He strode through them without pausing, moving down to

where the horses were tethered. He strapped his pack in place,

mounted, and rode out. He never once looked back.

The remaining members of the little company watched in

silence. That was a quick decision. Par thought-one that Walker

Boh seemed altogether too anxious to make. He wondered why.

When his uncle was gone, he looked at Wren. "What of

you?"

The Rover girl shook her head slowly. "I haven't Walker's

prejudices and predispositions to contend with, but I do have

his doubts.'' She walked over to a gathering of rocks and seated

herself.

Par followed. "Do you think the shade spoke the truth?"

Wren shrugged. "I am still trying to decide if the shade was

even who it claimed. Par. I sensed it was, felt it in my heart,

and yet. . ." She trailed off. "I know nothing of Allanon be-

yond the stories, and I know the stories but poorly. You know

them better than I. What do you think?"

Par did not hesitate. ' 'It was Allanon.''

"And do you think he spoke the truth?''

Par was conscious of the others moving over to join them,

silent, watchful. "I think there is reason to believe that he did,

yes." He outlined his thoughts as far as he had developed them

during the walk back from the valley. He was surprised at how

convincing he sounded. He was no longer floundering; he was

beginning to gain a measure of conviction in his arguments. "I

haven't thought it through as much as I would like,'' he finished.

"But what reason would the shade have for bringing us here and

for telling us what it did if not to reveal the truth? Why would

it tell us a lie? Walker seems convinced there is a deception at

work in this, but I cannot find what form it takes or what purpose

it could possibly serve.

"Besides," he added, "Walker is frightened of this busi-

ness-of the Druids, of the magic, of whatever. He keeps some-

thing from us. I can sense it. He plays the same game he accuses

Allanon of playing.''

Wren nodded. "But he also understands the Druids." When

Par looked confused, she smiled sadly. "They do hide things,

Par. They hide whatever they do not wish revealed. That is their

way. There are things being hidden here as well. What we were

told was too incomplete, too circumscribed. However you

choose to view it, we are being treated no differently from our

ancestors before us."

There was a long silence. "Maybe we should go back into

the valley tonight and see if the shade won't come to us again,"

Morgan suggested in a tone of voice that whispered of doubt.

"Perhaps we should give Cogline a chance to reappear,'' Coil

added.

Par shook his head. "I don't think we will be seeing any more

of either for now. I expect whatever decisions we make will have

to be made without their help."

"I agree." Wren stood up again. "I am supposed to find the

Elves and-how did he put it?-return them to the world of men.

A very deliberate choice of words, but I don't understand them.

I haven't any idea where the Elves are or even where to begin to

look for them. I have lived in the Westfand for almost ten years

now. Garth for many more man mat, and between us we have

been everywhere mere is to go. I can tell you for a fact that there

are no Elves to be found there. Where else am I to look?"

She came over to Par and faced him. "I am going home.

There is nothing more for me to do here. I will have to think on

this, but even thinking may be of no use. If the dreams come

again and tell me something of where to begin this search, then

perhaps I will give it a try. But for now . . ."

She shrugged. "Well. Goodbye, Par."

She hugged and kissed him, then did the same for Coil and

even Morgan this time. She nodded to the Dwarves and began

gathering up her things. Garth joined her silently.

"I wish you would stay a bit longer. Wren," Par tried, quiet

desperation welling up like a knot in his stomach at the thought

of being left alone to wrestle with mis matter.

"Why not come with me instead?" she answered. "You

would probably be better off in the Wesdand.''

Par looked at Coil, who frowned. Morgan looked away. Par

sighed and shook his head reluctantly. "No, I have to make my

own decision first. I have to do that before I can know where I

should be."

She nodded, seeming to understand. She had her things to-

gether, and she walked up to him. "I might think differently if

I had the magic for protection like you and Walker. But I don't.

I don't have the wishsong or Cogline's teachings to rely on. I

have only a bag of painted stones." She kissed him again. "If

you need me, you can find me in the Tirfing. Be careful. Par."

She rode out of the camp with Garth trailing. The others

watched them go, the curly haired Rover girl and her giant com-

panion in his bright patchwork clothes. Minutes later, they were

specks against the western horizon, their horses almost out of

sight.

Par kept looking after them even when they had disappeared.

Then he glanced east again after Walker Boh. He felt as if parts

of himself were being stolen away.

Coil insisted they have something to eat then, all of them,

because it had been better than twelve hours since their last meal

and there was no point in trying to think something through on

an empty stomach. Par was grateful for the respite, unwilling to

confront his own decision-making in the face of the disappoint-

ment he felt at the departure of Walker and Wren. He ate the

broth that Steff prepared along with some hard bread and fruit,

drank several cupfuls of ale, and walked down to the spring to

wash. When he returned, he agreed to his brother's suggestion

that he lie down for a few minutes and after doing so promptly

fell asleep.

It was midday when he woke, his head throbbing, his body

aching, his throat hot and dry. He had dreamed snatches of

things he would have been just as happy not dreaming at all-

ot Rimmer Dall and his Federation Seekers hunting him through

empty, burned-out city buildings; of Dwarves that watched,

starving and helpless in the face of an occupation they could do

nothing to ease; of Shadowen lying in wait behind every dark

corner he passed in his flight; of Allanon's shade calling out in

warning with each new hazard, but laughing as well at his plight.

His stomach felt unsettled, but he forced the feeling aside. He

washed again, drank some more ale, seated himself in the shade

of an old poplar tree, and waited for the sickness to pass. It did,

rather more quickly than he would have expected, and soon he

was working on a second bowl of the broth.

Coil joined him as he ate. "Feeling better? You didn't look

well when you first woke up."

Par finished eating and put the bowl aside. "I wasn't. But I'm

all right now." He smiled to prove it.

Coil eased down next to him against the roughened tree trunk,

settling his solid frame in place, staring out from the comfort of

the shade into the midday heat. "I've been thinking," he said,

the blocky features crinkling thoughtfully. He seemed reluctant

to continue. "I've been thinking about what I would do if you

decided to go looking for the Sword.''

Par turned to him at once. "Coil, I haven't even ..."

"No, Par. Let me finish." Coil was insistent. "If there's one

thing I've learned about being your brother, it's to try to get the

Jump on you when it comes to making decisions. Otherwise,

you make them first and once they're made, they might as well

be cast in stone!"

He glanced over. "You may recall that we've had this discus-

sion before? I keep telling you I know you better than you know

yourself. Remember that time a few years back when you fell

into the Rappahalladran and almost drowned while we were off

in the Duln hunting that silver fox? There wasn't supposed to be

one like it left in the Southland, but that old trapper said he'd

seen one and that was enough for you. The Rappahalladran was

cresting, it was late spring, and Dad told us not to try a cross-

ing-made us promise not to try. I knew the minute you made

that promise that you would break it if you had to. The very

minute you made it!"

Par frowned. "Well, I wouldn't say ..."

Coil cut him short. "The point is, I can usually tell when

you've made up your mind about something. And I think Walker

was right. I think you've made up your mind about going after

the Sword of Shannara. You have, haven't you?"

Par stared at him, surprised.

"Your eyes say you're going after it, Par," Coil continued

calmly, actually smiling. "Whether it's out there or not, you're

going after it. I know you. You're going because you still think

you can leam something about your own magic by doing so,

because you want to do something fine and noble with it, be-

cause you have this little voice inside you whispering that the

magic is meant for something. No, no, hold on, now-hear me

out." He held up his hands at Par's attempt to dispute him. "I

don't think there is anything wrong with that. I understand it.

But I don't know if you do or whether you can admit to it. And

you have to be able to admit to it because otherwise you won't

ever be at peace with yourself about why you are going. I know

I don't have any magic of my own, but the fact is that in some

ways I do understand the problem better than you.''

He paused, somber. "You always look for the challenges no

one else wants. That's part of what's happening here. You see

Walker and Wren walk away from this and right away you want

to do just the opposite. That's the way you are. You couldn't

give it up now if you had to."

He cocked his head reflectively. "Believe it or not, I have

always admired that in you."

Then he sighed. "I know there are other considerations as

well. There's the matter of the folks, still under confinement

back in the Vale, and us with no home, no real place to go,

outlaws of a sort. If we abandon this search, this quest Allanon's

shade has given us, where do we go? What possible thing can

we do that will change matters more thoroughly than finding the

Sword of Shannara? I know there's that. And I know ..."

Par interrupted. "You said 'we.' "

Coil stopped. "What?"

Par was studying him critically. "Just then. You said 'we.'

Several times. You said, what if 'we' abandon this search and

where do 'we' go?"

Coil shook his head ruefully. "So I did. I start talking about

you and almost before I know it I'm talking about me as well.

But that's exactly the problem, I guess. We're so close that I

sometimes think of us as if we were the same-and we're not.

We're very different and no more so than in this instance. You

have the magic and the chance to leam about it and I don't. You

have the quest and I haven't. So what should I do if you eo.

Par?"

Par waited a moment, then said, "Well?"

"Well. After all is said and done, after all the arguments for

and against have been laid on the table, I keep coming back to

a couple of things." He shifted so he was facing Par. "First,

I'm your brother and I love you. That means I don't abandon

you, even when I'm not sure if I agree with what you're doing.

I've told you that before. Second, if you go . . ."He paused.

"You are going, aren't you?"

There was a long moment of silence. Par did not reply.

"Very well. If you go, it will be a dangerous journey, and

you will need someone to watch your back. And that's what

brothers are supposed to do for each other. That's second."

He cleared his throat. "Last, I've thought it all out from the

point of view of what I would do if I were you, go or not go,

measuring what I perceive to be the right and wrong of the

matter.'' He paused. "If it were up to me, if I were you, I think

I'd go."

He leaned back against the poplar trunk and waited. Par took

a deep breath. "To be honast. Coil, I think that's just about the

last thing I ever expected to hear from you."

Coil smiled. "That's probably why I said it. I don't like to be

Predictable."

"So you would go, would you? If you were me?" Par studied

his brother silently for a moment, letting the possibility play

itself out in his mind. "I don't know if I believe you."

Coil let the smile broaden. "Of course you do."

They were still staring at each other as Morgan wandered up

and sat down across from them, faintly puzzled as he saw the

same look registered on both faces. Steff and Teel came over as

well. All three glanced at one another. "What's going on?"

Morgan asked finally.

Par stared at him momentarily without seeing him. He saw

instead the land beyond, the hills dotted with sparse groves,

running south out of the barren stretches of the Dragon's Teeth,

fading into a heat that made the earth shimmer. Dust blew in

small eddies where sudden breezes scooped at the roadway lead-

ing down. It was still beneath the tree, and Par was thinking

about the past, remembering the times that Coil and he had

shared. The memories were an intimacy that comforted him;

they were sharp and clear, most of them, and they made him

ache in a sweet, welcome way.

"Well?" Morgan persisted.

Par blinked. "Coil tells me he thinks I ought to do what the

shade said. He thinks I ought to try to find the Sword of Shan-

nara." He paused. "What do you think, Morgan?"

Morgan didn't hesitate. "I think I'm going with you. It gets

tiresome spending all of my time tweaking the noses of those

Federation dunderheads who try to govern Leah. There's better

uses for a man like me." He lunged to his feet. "Besides, I have

a blade that needs testing against things of dark magic!" He

reached back in a mock feint for his sword. "And as all here

can bear witness, there's no better way to do so than to keep

company with Par Ohmsford!"

Par shook his head despairingly. "Morgan, you shouldn't

joke. . ."

"Joke! But that's just the point! All I've been doing for months

now is playing jokes! And what good has it done?" Morgan's

lean features were hard. "Here is a chance for me to do some-

thing that has real purpose, something far more important than

causing Leah's enemies to suffer meaningless irritations and in-

dignities. Come, now! You have to see it as I do, Par. You

cannot dispute what I say." His eyes shifted abruptly. "Steff,

how about you? What do you intend? And Teel?"

Steff laughed, his rough features wrinkling. "Well now, Teel

and I share pretty much the same point of view on the matter.

We have already reached our decision. We came with you in the

first place because we were hoping to get our hands on some-

thing, magic or whatever, that could help our people break free

of the Federation. We haven't found that something yet, but we

might be getting closer. What the shade said about the Shad-

owen spreading the dark magic, living inside men and women

and children to do so, might explain a good part of the madness

that consumes the Lands. It might even have something to do

with why the Federation seems so bent on breaking the backs

of the Dwarves! You've seen it for yourself-that's surely what

the Federation is about. There's dark magic at work there.

Dwarves can sense it better than most because the deeper

stretches of the Easdand have always provided a hiding place

for it. The only difference in this instance is that, instead of

hiding, it's out in the open like a crazed animal, threatening us

all. So maybe finding the Sword of Shannara as the shade says

will be a step toward penning that animal up again!"

"There, now!" Morgan cried triumphantly. "What better

company for you. Par Ohmsford, than that?"

Par shook his head in bewilderment. "None, Morgan, but. . ."

"Then say you'll do it! Forget Walker and Wren and their

excuses! This has meaning! Think of what we might be able to

accomplish!" He gave his friend a plaintive look. "Confound

it. Par, how can we lose by trying when by trying we have

everything to gain?"

Steff reached over and poked him. "Don't push so hard,

Highlander. Give the Valeman room to breathe!"

Par stared at them each in turn, at the bluff-faced Steff, the

enigmatic Teel, the fervently eager Morgan Leah, and finally

Coll. He remembered suddenly that his brother had never fin-

ished revealing his own decision. He had only said that if he

were Par, he would go.

"Coil. . ."he began.

But Coil seemed to read his thoughts. "If you're going, I'm

going." His brother's features might have been carved from

stone. "From here to wherever this all ends."

There was a long moment of silence as they faced each other,

and the anticipation mirrored in their eyes was a whisper that

rustled the leaves of their thoughts as if it were the wind.

Par Ohmsford took a deep breath. "Then I guess the matter's

settled," he said. "Now where do we start?"

XVII

As usual, Morgan Leah had a plan.

"If we expect to have any luck at all locating the

Sword, we're going to need help. The five of us are

simply too few. After all these years, finding the Sword of Shan-

nara is likely to be like finding the proverbial needle in the

haystack-and we don't begin to know enough about the hay-

stack. Steff, you and Teel may be familiar with the Eastland, but

Callahom and the Borderlands are foreign ground. It's the same

with the Valemen and myself-we simply don't know enough

about the country. And let's not forget that the Federation will

be prowling about every place we're likely to go. Dwarves and

fugitives from the law aren't welcome in the Southland, the last

I heard. We'll have to be on the lookout for Shadowen as well.

Truth is, they seem drawn to the magic like wolves to the scent

of blood, and we can't assume we've seen the last of them. It

will be all we can to do watch our backs, let alone figure out

what's happened to the Sword. We can't do it alone. We need

someone to help us, someone who has a working knowledge of

the Four Lands, someone who can supply us with men and

weapons."

He shifted his gaze from the others to Par and smiled that

familiar smile that was filled with secretive amusement. "We

need your friend from the Movement."

Par groaned. He was none too keen to reassociate with the

outlaws; it seemed an open invitation to trouble. But Steff and

Teel and even Coil liked the idea, and after arguing about it for

a time he was forced to admit that the Highlander's proposal

made sense. The outlaws possessed the resources they lacked

and were familiar with the Borderlands and the free territories

surrounding them. They would know where to look and what

pitfalls to avoid while doing so. Moreover, Par's rescuer seemed

a man you could depend upon.

"He told you that if you ever needed help, you could come

to him," Morgan pointed out. "It seems to me that you could

use a little now."

There was no denying that, so the matter was decided. They

spent what remained of the day at the campsite below the foot-

hills leading to the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshom, sleeping

restlessly through the second night of the new moon at the base

of the Dragon's Teeth. When morning came, they packed up

their gear, mounted then- horses and set out. The plan was sim-

ple. They would travel to Varfleet, search out Kiltan Forge at

Reaver's End in the north city and ask for the Archer-all as

Par's mysterious rescuer had instructed. Then they would see

what was what.

They rode south through me scrub country that bordered the

Rabb Plains until they crossed the east branch of the Mermidon,

then turned west. They followed the river through midday and

into eariy afternoon, the sun baking the land out of a cloudless

sky, the air dry and filled with dust. No one said much of any-

thing as they traveled, locked away in me silence of their own

thoughts. There had been no further talk of AUanon since setting

out. There had been no mention of Walker or Wren. Par fingered

the ring with the hawk insigne from time to time and wondered

anew about the identity of the man who had given it to him.

It was late afternoon when they passed down through the river

valley of the Runne Mountains north of Varfleet and approached

the outskirts of the city. It sprawled below them across a series

of hills, dusty and sweltering against the glare of me westward

fading sun. Snacks and hovels ringed the city's perimeter, squalid

shelters for men and women who lacked even the barest of

means. They called out to the travelers as they passed, pressing

up against them for money and food, and Par and Coil handed

down what little they had. Morgan glanced back reprovingly,

somewhat as a parent might at a naive child, but made no com-

ment.

A little farther on, Par found himself wishing belatedly that

he had thought to disguise his Elven features. It had been weeks

since he had done so, and he had simply gotten out of the habit.

He could take some consolation from me fact that his hair had

grown long and covered his ears. But he would have to be careful

nevertheless. He glanced over at the Dwarves. They had their

travel cloaks pulled close, the hoods wrapping their faces in

shadow. They were in more danger than he of discovery. Every-

one knew that Dwarves were not permitted to travel in the

Southland. Even in Varfleet, it was risky.

When they reached the city proper and the beginnings of

streets that bore names and shops with signs, the traffic in-

creased markedly. Soon, it was all but impossible to move ahead.

They dismounted and led their horses afoot until they found a

stable where they could board mem. Morgan made the trans-

action while the others stood back unobtrusively against the walls

of the buildings across the way and watched the people of the

city press against one another in a sluggish flow. Beggars came

up to them and asked for coins. Par watched a fire-eater display

his art to a wondering crowd of boys and men at a fruit mart.

The low mutter of voices filled the air with a ragged sound.

"Sometimes you get lucky," Morgan informed them quietly

as he returned. "We're standing in Reaver's End. This whole

section of the city is Reaver's End. Kiltan Forge is just a few

streets over."

He beckoned them on, and they slipped past the steady throng

of bodies, working their way into a side street that was less

crowded, if more ill-smelling, and soon they were hurrying

along a shadowed alley that twisted and turned past a rutted

sewage way. Par wrinkled his nose in distaste. This was the city

as Coil saw it. He risked a quick glance back at his brother, but

his brother was busy watching where he was stepping.

They crossed several more streets before emerging onto one

that seemed to satisfy Morgan, who promptly turned right and

led them through the crowds to a broad, two-storey barn with a

sign that bore the name Kiltan Forge seared on a plaque of

wood. The sign and the building were old and splintering, but

the furnaces within burned red-hot, spitting and flaming as met-

als were fed in and removed by tenders. Machines ground, and

hammers pounded and shaped. The din rose above the noise of

the street and echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings,

to disappear finally into the suffocating embrace of the lingering

afternoon heat.

Morgan edged his way along the fringes of the crowd, me

others trailing silently after, and finally managed to work his

way up to the Forge entrance. A handful of men worked me

furnaces under the direction of a large fellow with drooping

mustaches and a balding pate colored soot-black. The fellow

ignored them until they had come all the way inside, then turned

and asked, "Something I can help you with?"

Morgan said, "We're looking for the Archer."

The fellow with the mustaches ambled over. "Who did you

say, now?"

"The Archer," Morgan repeated.

"And who's that supposed to be?'' The other man was broad-

shouldered and caked with sweat.

"I don't know,'' Morgan admitted.' 'We were just told to ask

for him."

"Who by?"

"Look. . ."

"Who by? Don't you know, man?"

It was hot in the shadow of Kiltan Forge, and it was clear that

Morgan was going to have trouble with this man if things kept

going the way they were. Heads were already starting to turn.

Par pushed forward impulsively, anxious to keep from drawing

attention to themselves and said, "By a man who wears a ring

that bears the insigne of a hawk."

The fellow's sharp eyes narrowed, studying the Valeman's

face with its Elven features.

"This ring," Par finished and held it out.

The other flinched as if he had been stung. "Don't be show-

ing that about, you young fool!" he snapped and shoved it away

from him as if it were poison.

"Then tell us where we can find the Archer!" Morgan inter-

jected, his irritation beginning to show through.

There was sudden activity in the street that caused them all

to turn hurriedly. A squad of Federation soldiers was approach-

ing, pushing through the crowd, making directly for the Forge.

"Get out of sight!" the fellow with the mustaches snapped ur-

gently and stepped away.

The soldiers came into the Forge, glancing about the fire-lit

darkness. The man with the mustaches came forward to greet

them. Morgan and the Valemen gathered up the Dwarves, but

the soldiers were between them and the doorway leading to the

street. Morgan edged them all toward the deep shadows.

"Weapons order, Hirehone," the squad leader announced to

the man with the mustaches, thrusting out a paper. "Need it by

week's end. And don't argue the matter."

Hirehone muttered something unintelligible, but nodded. The

squad leader talked to him some more, sounding weary and hot.

The soldiers were casting about restlessly. One moved toward

the little company. Morgan tried to stand in front of his com-

panions, tried to make the soldier speak with him. The soldier

hesitated, a big fellow with a reddish beard. Then he noticed

something and pushed past the Highlander. "You there!" he

snapped at Teel. "What's wrong with you?" One hand reached

out, pulling aside the hood. "Dwarves! Captain, there's . . . !"

He never finished. Teel killed him with a single thrust of her

long knife, jamming the blade through his throat. He was still

trying to talk as he died. The other soldiers reached for their

weapons, but Morgan was already among them, his own sword

thrusting, forcing them back. He cried out to the others, and the

Dwarves and Valemen broke for the doorway. They reached the

street, Morgan on their heels, the Federation soldiers a step

behind. The crowd screamed and split apart as the battle ca-

reened into them. There were a dozen soldiers in pursuit, but

two were wounded and the rest were tripping over one another

in their haste to reach the Highlander. Morgan cut down the

foremost, howling like a madman. Ahead, Steff reached a barred

door to a warehouse, brought up the suddenly revealed mace,

and hammered the troublesome barrier into splinters with a sin-

gle blow. They rushed through me darkened interior and out a

back door, turned left down an alley and came up against a

fence. Desperately, they wheeled about and started back.

The pursuing Federation soldiers burst through the ware-

house door and came at them.

Par used the wishsong and filled the disappearing gap be-

tween them with a swarm of buzzing hornets. The soldiers

howled and dove for cover. In the confusion, Steff smashed

enough boards of the fence to allow them all to slip through.

They ran down a second alley, through a maze of storage sheds,

turned right and pushed past a hinged me^al gate.

They found themselves in a yard of scrap metal behind the

Forge. Ahead, a door to the back of the Forge swung open. "In

here!" someone called.

They ran without questioning, hearing the sound of shouting

and blare of horns all about. They shoved through the opening

into a small storage room and heard the door slam shut behind

them.

Hirehone faced them, hands on hips. "I hope you turn out to

be worth all the trouble you've caused!" he told them.

He hid them in a crawlspace beneath the floor of the storage

room, leaving them there for what seemed like hours. It was hot

and close, there was no light, and the sounds of booted feet

tramped overhead twice in the course of their stay, each time

leaving them taut and breathless. When Hirehone finally let them

out again, it was night, the skies overcast and inky, the lights of

the city fragmented pinpricks through the gaps in the boards of

the Forge walls. He took them out of the storage room to a small

kitchen that was adjacent, sat them down about a spindly table,

and fed them.

"Had to wait until the soldiers finished their search, satisfied

themselves you weren't coming back or hiding in the metal,"

he explained. "They were angry, I'll tell you-especially about

the killing."

Teel showed nothing of what she was thinking, and no one

else spoke. Hirehone shrugged. "'Means nothing to me either.''

They chewed in silence for a time, then Morgan asked, "What

about the Archer? Can we see him now?"

Hirehone grinned. "Don't think that'll be possible. There

isn't any such person."

Morgan's jaw dropped. "Then why . . . ?"

"It's a code," Hirehone interrupted. "It's just a way of let-

ting me know what's expected of me. I was testing you. Some-

times the code gets broken. I had to make sure you weren't

spying for the Federation.''

"You're an outlaw," Par said.

"And you're Par Ohmsford," the other replied. "Now finish

up eating, and I'll take you to the man you came to see."

They did as they were told, cleaned off their plates in an old

sink, and followed Hirehone back into the bowels of Kiltan

Forge. The Forge was empty now, save for a single tender on

night watch who minded the fire-breathing furnaces that were

never allowed to go cold. He paid them no attention. They passed

through the cavernous stillness on cat's feet, smelling ash and

metal in a sulfurous mix, watching me shadows dance to the

fire's cadence.

When they slipped through a side door into the darkness,

Morgan whispered to Hirehone, "We left our horses stabled

several streets over."

"Don't worry about it," the other whispered back. "You

won't need horses where you're going."

They passed quietly and unobtrusively down the byways of

Varfleet, through its bordering cluster of shacks and hovels and

"nally out of the city altogether. They traveled north then along

the Mermidon, following the river upstream where it wound

wlow the foothills fronting the Dragon's Teeth. They walked

tor the remainder of the night, crossing the river just above its

north-south juncture where it passed through a series of rapids

that scattered its flow into smaller streams. The river was down

at this time of the year or the crossing would never have been

possible without a boat. As it was, the water reached neariy to

the chins of the Dwarves at several points, and all of them were

forced to walk with their backpacks and weapons hoisted over

their heads.

Once across the river, they came up against a heavily forested

series of defiles and ravines that stretched on for miles into the

rock of the Dragon's Teeth.

"This is the Parma Key," Hirehone volunteered at one point.

"Pretty tricky country if you don't know your way.''

That was a gross understatement. Par quickly discovered.

The Parma Key was a mass of ridges and ravines that rose and

fell without warning amid a suffocating blanket of trees and

scrub. The new moon gave no light, the stars were masked by

the canopy of trees and the shadow of the mountains, and the

company found itself in almost complete blackness. Afterabrief

penetration of the woods, Hirehone sat them down to wait for

daybreak.

Even in daylight, any passage seemed impossible. It was per-

petually shadowed and misted within the mountain forests of the

Parma Key, and the ravines and ridges crisscrossed the whole

of the land. There was a trail, invisible to anyone who hadn't

known it before, a twisting path mat Hirehone followed without

effort but that left the members of the little company uncertain

of the direction in which they were moving. Morning slipped

toward midday, and the sun filtered down through the densely

packed trees in narrow streamers of brightness that did little to

chase the lingering fog and seemed to have strayed somehow

from the outer worid into the midst of the heavy shadows.

When they stopped for a quick lunch. Par asked their guide

if he would tell them how much farther it was to where they

were going.

"Not far," Hirehone answered. "There." He pointed to a

massive outcropping of rock that rose above the Parma Key

where the forest flattened against the wall of the Dragon's Teeth.

"That, Ohmsford, is called the Jut. The Jut is the stronghold of

the Movement."

Par looked, considering. "Does the Federation know it's

there?" he asked.

"They know it's in here somewhere," Hirehone replied.

"What they don't know is exactly where and, more to the point,

how to reach it."

"And Par's mysterious rescuer, your still-nameless outlaw

chief-isn't he worried about having visitors like us carry-

ing back word of how to do just that?" Steff asked skepti-

cally.

Hirehone smiled. "Dwarf, in order for you to find your way

in again, you first have to find your way out. Think you could

manage that without me?"

Steff smirked grudgingly, seeing the truth of the matter. A

man could wander forever in this maze without finding his way

clear.

It was late afternoon when they reached the outcropping they

had been pointing toward all day, the shadows falling in thick

layers across the wilderness, casting the whole of the forest in

twilight. Hirehone had whistled ahead several times during the

last hour, each time waiting for an answering whistle before

proceeding farther. At the base of the cliffs, a gated lift waited,

settled in a clearing, its ropes disappearing skyward into the

rocks overhead. The lift was large enough to hold all of them,

and they stepped into it, grasping the railing for support as it

hoisted them up, slowly, steadily, until at last they were above

the trees. They drew even with a narrow ledge and were pulled

in by a handful of men working a massive winch. A second lift

waited and they climbed aboard. Again they were hoisted up

along the face of the rock wall, dangling out precariously over

the earth. Par looked down once and quickly regretted it. He

caught a glimpse of Steff's face, bloodless beneath its sun-

browned exterior. Hirehone seemed unconcerned and whistled

idly as they rose.

There was a third lift as well, this one much shorter, and

when they finally stepped off they found themselves on a broad,

grassy bluff about midway up the cliff that ran back several

hundred yards into a series of caves. Fortifications lined the edge

of me bluff and ringed the caves, and there were pockets of

defense built into the cliff wall overhead where it was riddled

with craggy splits. There was a narrow waterfall spilling down

off the mountain into a pool, and several clusters of broad-leaf

trees and fir scattered about the bluff. Men scurried everywhere,

hauling tools and weapons and crates of stores, crying out in-

structions, or answering back.

Out of the midst of this organized confusion strode Par's

rescuer, his tall form clothed in startling scarlet and black.

He was clean-shaven now, his tanned face weather-seamed

and sharp-boned in the sunlight, a collection of planes and

angles. It was a face that defied age. His brown hair was

swept back and slightly receding. He was lean and fit and

moved like a cat. He swept toward them with a deep-voiced

shout of welcome, one arm extending first to hug Hirehone,

then to gather in Par.

"So, lad, you've had a change of heart, have you? Welcome,

then, and your companions as well. Your brother, a Highlander,

and a brace of Dwarves, is it? Strange company, now. Have you

come to join up?"

He was as guileless as Morgan had ever thought to be, and

Par felt himself blush. "Not exactly. We have a problem."

"Another problem?" The outlaw chief seemed amused.

"Trouble just follows after you, doesn't it? I'll have my ring

back now."

Par removed the ring from his pocket and handed it over. The

other man slipped it back on his finger, admiring it.' "The hawk.

Good symbol for a free-born, don't you think?"

"Who are you?" Par asked him bluntly.

"Who am I?" The other laughed merrily. "Haven't you fig-

ured that out yet, my friend? No? Then I'll tell you." The outlaw

chief leaned forward.' 'Look at my hand.'' He held up the closed

fist with the finger pointed at Par's nose. "A missing hand with

a pike. Who am I?"

His eyes were sea-green and awash with mischief. There was

a moment of calculated silence as the Valeman stared at him in

confusion.

"My name. Par Ohmsford, is Padishar Creel," me outlaw

chief said finally. "But you would know me better as the great,

great, great, and then some, grandson of Panamon Creel."

And finally Par understood.

That evening, over dinner, seated at a table that had been

moved purposefully away from those of me other occupants of

the Jut, Par and his companions listened in rapt astonishment

while Padishar Creel related his story.

"We have a rule up here that everyone's past life is his own

business," he advised them conspiratorially. "It might make

the others feel awkward hearing me talk about mine."

He cleared his throat. "I was a landowner," he began, "a

grower of crops and livestock, the overseer of a dozen small

farms and countless acres of forestland reserved for hunting.

I inherited the better part of it from my father and he from

his father and so on back some years further than I care to

consider. But it apparently all began with Panamon Creel. I

am told, though I cannot confirm it of course, that after help-

ing Shea Ohmsford recover the Sword of Shannara, he re-

turned north to the Borderlands where he became quite

successful at his chosen profession and accumulated a rather

considerable fortune. This, upon retiring, he wisely invested

in what would eventually become the lands of the Creel fam-

ily."

Par almost smiled. Padishar Creel was relating his tale with

a straight face, but he knew as well as the Valemen and Morgan

that Panamon Creel had been a thief when Shea Ohmsford and

he had stumbled on each other.

"Baron Creel, he called himself," the other went on, obliv-

ious. "All of the heads of family since have been called the

same way. Baron Creel." He paused, savoring the sound of it.

Then he sighed. "But the Federation seized the lands from my

father when I was a boy, stole them without a thought of rec-

ompense, and in the end dispossessed us. My father died when

he tried to get them back. My mother as well. Rather mysteri-

ously."

He smiled. "So I joined the Movement."

"Just like that?" Morgan asked, looking skeptical.

The outlaw chief skewered a piece of beef on his knife. "My

parents went to the governor of the province, a Federation un-

derling who had moved into our home, and my father demanded

the return of what was rightfully his, suggesting that if some-

thing wasn't done to resolve the matter, the governor would

regret it. My father never was given to caution. He was denied

his request, and he and my mother were summarily dismissed.

On their way back from whence they had come, they disap-

peared. They were found later hanging from a tree in the forests

nearby, gutted and flayed."

He said it without rancor, matter-of-facuy, all with a calm

that was frightening. "I grew up fast after that, you might say,"

he finished.

There was a long silence. Padishar Creel shrugged. "It was

a long time ago. I learned how to fight, how to stay alive. I

drifted into the Movement, and after seeing how poorly it was

managed, formed my own company." He chewed. "A few of

the other leaders didn't like the idea. They tried to give me over

to the Federation. That was their mistake. After I disposed of

them, most of the remaining bands came over to join me. Even-

tually, they all will."

No one said anything. Padishar Creel glanced up. "Isn't any-

one hungry? There's a good measure of food left. Let's not waste

it."

They finished the meal quickly, the outlaw chief continuing

to provide further details of his violent life in the same dis-

interested tone. Par wondered what sort of man he had gotten

himself mixed up with. He had thought before that his rescuer

might prove to be the champion the Four Lands had lacked

since the time of Allanon, his standard the rallying point for

all of the oppressed Races. Rumor had it that this man was

the charismatic leader for which the freedom Movement had

been waiting. But he seemed as much a cutthroat as anything.

However dangerous Panamon Creel might have been in his

time. Par found himself convinced that Padishar Creel was

more dangerous still.

"So, that is my story and the whole of it," Padishar Creel

announced, shoving back his plate. His eyes glittered. "Any

part of it that you'd care to question me about?''

Silence. Then Steff growled suddenly, shockingly, "How

much of it is the truth?''

Everyone froze. But Padisher Creel laughed, genuinely

amused. There was a measure of respect in his eyes for the

Dwarf that was unmistakable as he said, "Some of it, my East-

land friend, some of it." He winked. "The story improves with

every telling."

He picked up his ale glass and poured a full measure from a

pitcher. Par stared at Steff with newfound admiration. No one

else would have dared ask that question.

"Come, now,'' the outlaw chief interjected, leaning forward.

"Enough of history past. Time to hear what brought you to me.

Speak, Par Ohmsford." His eyes were fixed on Par. "It has

something to do with the magic, hasn't it? There wouldn't be

anything else that would bring you here. Tell me."

Par hesitated. "Does your offer to help still stand?'' he asked

instead.

The other looked offended. "My word is my bond, lad! I said

I would help and I will!''

He waited. Par glanced at the others, then said, "I need to

find the Sword of Shannara."

He told Padishar Creel of his meeting with the ghost of Al-

lanon and the task that had been given him by the Druid. He

told of the journey that had brought the five of them gathered to

this meeting, of the encounters with Federation soldiers and

Seekers and the monsters called Shadowen. He held nothing

back, despite his reservations about the man. He decided it was

better neither to lie nor to attempt half-truths, better that it was

all laid out for him to judge, to accept or dismiss as he chose.

After all, they would be no worse off than they were now,

whether he decided to help them or not.

When he had finished, the outlaw chief sat back slowly

and drained the remainder of the ale from the glass he had

been nursing and smiled conspiratorially at Steff. "It would

seem appropriate for me to now ask how much of this tale is

true!"

Par started to protest, but the other raised his hand quickly to

cut him off. "No, lad, save your breath. I do not question what

you've told me. You tell it the way you believe it, that's clear

enough. It's only my way."

"You have the men, me weapons, the supplies and the net-

work of spies to help us find what we seek,'' Morgan interjected

quietly. "That's why we're here."

"You have the spirit for this kind of madness as well, I'd

guess," Steff added with a chuckle.

Padishar Creel rubbed his chin roughly. "I have more than

these, my friends," he said, smiling like a wolf. "I have a sense

of fate!"

He rose wordlessly and took them from the table to the edge

of the bluff, there to stand looking out across the Parma Key, a

mass of treetops and ridgelines bathed in the last of the day's

sunlight as it faded west across the horizon.

His arm swept the whole of it. "These are my lands now,

the lands of Baron Creel, if you will. But I'll hold them no

longer than the ones before them if I do not find a way to

unsettle the Federation!" He paused. "Fate, I told you. That's

what I believe in. Fate made me what I am and it will unmake

me as easily, if I do net take a hand in its game. The hand I

must take, I think, is the one you offer. It is not chance. Par

Ohmsford, that you have come to me. It is what was meant

to be. I know that to be true, now especially-now, after

hearing what you seek. Do you see the way of it? My ancestor

and yours, Panamon Creel and Shea Ohmsford, went in search

of the Sword of Shannara more than three hundred years ago.

Now it is our turn, yours and mine. A Creel and an Ohmsford

once again, the start of change in the land, a new beginning.

I can feel it!"

He studied them, his sharp face intense. "Friendship brought

you all together; a need for change in your lives brought you to

me. Young Par, there are indeed ties that bind us, just as I said

when first we met. There is a history that needs repeating. There

are adventures to be shared and battles to be won. That is what

fate has decreed for you and me!"

Par was a bit confused in the face of all this rhetoric as he

asked, "Then you'll help us?"

"Indeed, I will." The outlaw chief arched one eyebrow. "I

hold the Parma Key, but the Southland is lost to me-my home,

my lands, my heritage. I want them back. Magic is the answer

now as it was those many years past, the catalyst for change, the

prod that will turn back the Federation beast and send it scur-

rying for its cave!"

"You've said that several times," Par interjected. "Said it

several different ways-that the magic can in some way un-

dermine the Federation. But it's me Shadowen that Allanon

fears, the Shadowen that the Sword is meant to confront. So

why . . . ?"

"Ah, ah, lad," the other interrupted hurriedly. "You strike

to the heart of the matter once again. The answer to your ques-

tion is this-I perceive threads of cause and effect in everything.

Evils such as the Federation and the Shadowen do not stand

apart in the scheme of things. They are connected in some way,

joined perhaps as Ohmsfords and Creels are joined, and if we

can find a way to destroy one, we will find a way to destroy the

other!"

The look he gave them was one of such fierce determina-

tion that for a long moment no one said anything further. The

last of the sunlight was fading away below the horizon, and

the gray of twilight cloaked the Parma Key and the lands

south and west in a mantle of gauze. The men behind them

were stirring from their eating tables and beginning to retire

to sleeping areas that lay scattered about the bluff. Even at

mis high elevation, the summer night was warm and wind-

less. Stars and the beginnings of the first quarter's moon were

slipping into view.

"All right," Par said quietly. "True or not, what can you do

to help us?"

Padishar Creel smoothed back the wrinkles in the scarlet

sleeves of his tunic and breathed deeply the smells of the moun-

tain air. "I can do, lad, what you asked me to do. I can help

you find the Sword of Shannara."

He glanced over with a quick grin and matter-of-factly added,

' 'You see, I think I know where it is."

XVIIl

For the next two days, Padishar Creel had nothing more

to say about the Sword of Shannara. Whenever Par or

one of the others of the little company tried to engage

him in conversation on the matter, he would simply say that

time would tell or that patience was a virtue or offer up some

similar platitude that just served to irritate them. He was unfail-

ingly cheerful about it, though, so they kept their feelings to

themselves.

Besides, for all the show the outlaw chief made of treating

them as his guests, they were prisoners of a sort, nevertheless.

They were permitted the run of the Jut, but forbidden to leave

it. Not that they necessarily could have left in any event. The

winches that raised and lowered the baskets from the heights

into the Parma Key were always heavily guarded and no one

was allowed near them without reason. Without the lifts to carry

them down, there was no way off the bluff from its front. The

cliffs were sheer and had been carefully stripped of handholds,

and what small ledges and clefts had once existed in the rock

had been meticulously chipped away or filled. The cliffs behind

were sheer as well for some distance up and warded by the

pocket battlements that dotted the high rock.

That left the caves. Par and his friends ventured into the cen-

tral cavern on the first day, curious to discover what was housed

there. They found that the mammoth, cathedral-like central

chamber opened off into dozens of smaller chambers where the

outlaws stored supplies and weapons of all sorts, made theif,

living quarters when the weather outside grew forbidding, and

established training and meeting rooms. There were tunnels

leading back into the mountain, but they were cordoned off and

watched. When Par asked Hirehone, who had stayed on a few

extra days, where the tunnels led, the master of Kiltan Forge

smiled sardonically and told him that, like the trails in the Parma

Key, the tunnels of the Jut led into oblivion.

The two days passed quickly despite the frustration of being

put off on the subject of the Sword. All five visitors spent their

time exploring the outlaw fortress. As long as they stayed away

from the lifts and the tunnels they were permitted to go just

about anywhere they wished. Not once did Padishar Creel ques-

tion Par about his companions. He seemed unconcerned about

who they were and whether they could be trusted, almost as if

it didn't matter. Perhaps it didn't. Par decided after thinking it

over. After all, the outlaw lair seemed impregnable.

Par, Coil, and Morgan stayed together most of the time. Steff

went with them on occasion, but Teel kept away completely, as

aloof and uncommunicative as ever. The Valemen and the High-

lander became a familiar sight to the outlaws as they wandered

the bluff, the fortifications, and the caverns, studying what man

and nature had combined to form, talking with the men who

lived and worked there when they could do so without bothering

them, fascinated by everything they encountered.

But there was nothing and no one more fascinating than Pad-

ishar Creel. The outlaw chief was a paradox. Dressed in flaming

scarlet, he was immediately recognizable from anywhere on the

bluff. He talked constantly, telling stories, shouting orders,

commenting on whatever came to mind. He was unremittingly

cheerful, as if smiling was the only expression he had ever both-

ered to put on. Yet beneath that bright and ingratiating exterior

was a core as hard as granite. When he ordered that something

be done, it was done. No one ever questioned him. His face

could be wreathed in a smile as warm as the summer sun while

his voice could take on a frosty edge that chilled to the bone.

He ran the outlaw camp with organization and discipline.

This was no ragtag band of misfits at work here. Everything was

precise and thorough. The camp was neat and clean and kept

that way scrupulously. Stores were separated and cataloged and

anything could be found at-a moment's notice. There were tasks

assigned to everyone, and everyone made certain those tasks

were carried out. There were a little more than three hundred

men living on the Jut, and not one of them seemed to have the

slightest doubt about what he was doing or whom he would

answer to, if he were to let down.

On the second day of their stay, two of the outlaws were

brought before Padishar Creel on a charge of stealing. The out-

law chief listened to the evidence against them, his face mild,

then offered to let them speak in their own defense. One admit-

ted his guilt outright, the other denied it-rather unconvincingly.

Padishar Creel had the first flogged and sent back to work and

the second thrown over the cliff. No one seemed to give the

matter another thought afterward.

Later that same day, Padishar came over to Par when the

Valeman was alone and asked if he was disturbed by what had

happened. Barely waiting for Par's response, he went on to ex-

plain how discipline in a camp such as his was essential, and

justice in the event of a breakdown must be swift and sure.

"Appearances often count for more than equities, you see,"

he offered rather enigmatically. "We are a close band here, and

we must be able to rely on one another. If a man proves unre-

liable in camp, he most likely will prove unreliable in the field.

And there's more than just his own life at stake there!"

He switched subjects abruptly then, admitting rather apolo-

getically that he hadn't been entirely forthcoming about his

background that first night and the truth of the matter was that

his parents, rather than being landowners who had been strung

up in the woods, had been silk merchants and had died in a

Federation prison after they had refused to pay their taxes. He

said the other simply made a better story.

When Par encountered Hirehone a short time later, he asked

him-Padishar Creel's tale being still fresh in his mind at that

point-whether he had known the outlaw chief's parents, and

Hirehone said, "No, the fever took them before I came on

board."

"In prison, you mean?" Par followed up, confused.

"Prison? Hardly. They died while on a caravan south out of

Way ford. They were traders in precious metals. Padishar told

me so himself.''

Par related both conversations to Coil that night after dinner.

They had secluded themselves at the edge of the bluff in a re-

doubr, where the sounds of the camp were comfortably distant

and they could watch the twilight slowly unveil the nighttime

sky's increasingly intricate pattern of stars. Coil laughed when

Par was finished and shook his head. "The truth isn't in that

fellow when it comes to telling anything about himself. He's

more like Panamon Creel than Panamon probably ever thought

of being!"

Par grimaced. "True enough."

"Dresses the same, talks the same-just as outrageous and

quixotic." Coil sighed. "So why am I laughing? What are we

doing here with this madman?"

Par ignored him. "What do you suppose he's hiding. Coil?"

"Everything."

"No, not everything. He's not that sort." Coil started to pro-

test, but Par put out his hands quickly to calm him. "Think

about it a moment. This whole business of who and what he is

has been carefully staged. He spins out these wild tales delib-

erately, not out of whimsy. Padishar Creel has something else

in common with Panamon, if we can believe the stories. He has

re-created himself in the minds of everyone around him-drawn

a picture of himself that doesn't square from one telling to the

next, but is nevertheless bigger than life." He bent close. "And

you can bet that he's done it for a reason."

Further speculation about the matter of Padishar Creel's back-

ground ended a few minutes later when they were summoned

to a meeting. Hirehone collected them with a gruff command

to follow and led them across the bluff and into the caves to a

meeting chamber where the outlaw chief was waiting. Oil lamps

on black chains hung from the chamber ceiling like spiders, their

glimmer barely reaching into the shadows that darkened the cor-

ners and crevices. Morgan and the Dwarves were there, seated

at a table along with several outlaws Par had seen before in the

camp. Chandos was a truly ferocious-looking giant with a great

black beard, one eye and one ear on the same side of his face

missing, and scars everywhere. Ciba Blue was a young, smooth-

faced fellow with lank blond hair and an odd cobalt birthmark

on his left cheek that resembled a half-moon. Stasas and Drutt

were lean, hard, older men with close-cropped dark beards,

faces that were seamed and brown, and eyes that shifted watch-

fully. Hirehone ushered in the Valemen, closed the chamber

door, and stood purposefully in front of it.

For just a moment Par felt the hair on the back of his neck

prickle in warning.

Then Padishar Creel was greeting them, cheerful and reas-

suring. "Ah, young Par and his brother." He beckoned them

onto benches with the others, made quick introductions, and

said, "We are going after the Sword tomorrow at dawn."

"Where is it?" Par wanted to know at once.

The outlaw chief's smile broadened. "Where it won't get

away from us."

Par glanced at Coil.

"The less said about where we're going, the better the chance

of keeping it a secret." The big man winked.

"Is there some reason we need to keep it a secret?" Morgan

Leah asked quietly.

The outlaw chief shrugged. "No reason out of the ordinary.

But I am always cautious when I make plans to leave the Jut."

His eyes were hard. "Humor me, Highlander."

Morgan held his gaze and said nothing. "Seven of us will

go," the other continued smoothly. "Stasas, Drutt, Blue, and

myself from the camp, the Valemen and the Highlander from

without." Protests were already starting from the mouths of the

others and he moved quickly to squelch them. "Chandos, you'll

be in charge of the Jut in my absence. I want to leave someone

behind I can depend upon. Hirehone, your place is back in

Varfleet, keeping an eye on things there. Besides, you'd have

trouble explaining yourself if you were spotted where we're go-

ing.

"As for you, my Eastland friends," he spoke now to Steff

and Teel, "I would take you if I could. But Dwarves outside the

Eastland are bound to draw attention, and we can't be having

that. It's risky enough allowing the Valemen to come along with

the Seekers still looking for them, but it's their quest."

"Ours as well now, Padishar," Steff pointed out daddy. "We

have come a long way to be part of this. We don't relish being

left behind. Perhaps a disguise?"

"A disguise would be seen through, particularly where we

are going," the outlaw chief answered, shaking his head. "You

are a resourceful fellow, Steff-but we can take no chances on

this outing."

"There's a city and people involved, I take it?"

"There is."

The Dwarf studied him hard. "I would be most upset if there

were games being played here at our expense."

There was a growl of warning from the outlaws, but Padishar

Creel silenced it instantly. "So would I," he replied, and his

gaze locked on the Dwarf.

Steff held that gaze for a long moment. Then he glanced

briefly at Teel and nodded. "Very well. We'll wait."

The outlaw chief's eyes swept the table. "We'll leave at first

light and be gone about a week. If we're gone longer than that,

chances are we won't be coming back. Are there any ques-

tions?"

No one spoke. Padishar Creel gave them a dazzling smile.

"A drink, then? Outside with the others, so they can give us a

toast and a wish for success! Up, lads, and strength to us who

go to brave the lion in his den!"

He went out into the night, the others following. Morgan and

the Valemen trailed, shuffling along thoughtfully.

"The lion in his den, eh?" Morgan muttered half to himself.

"I wonder what he means by that?"

Par and Coil glanced at each other. Neither was certain that

they wanted to know.

Par spent a restless night, plagued by dreams and anxieties

that fragmented his sleep and left him bleary-eyed with the com-

ing of dawn. He rose with Coil and Morgan to find Padishar

Creel and his companions already awake and in the midst of

their breakfast. The outlaw chief had shed his scarlet clothing

in favor of the less conspicuous green and brown woodsmen's

garb worn by his men. The Valemen and the Highlander hurried

to dress and eat, shivering a bit from the night's lingering chill.

Steff and Teel joined them, wordless shadows hunkered down

next to the cooking fire. When the meal was consumed, the

seven strapped on their backpacks and walked to the edge of the

bluff. The sun was creeping into view above the eastern horizon,

its early light a mix of gold and silver against the fading dark.

Steff muttered for them to take care and, with Teel in tow, dis-

appeared back into the dark. Morgan was rubbing his hands

briskly and breathing the air as if he might never have another

chance. They boarded the first lift and began their descent, pass-

ing wordlessly to the second and third, the winches creaking

eerily in the silence as they were lowered. When they reached

the floor of the Parma Key, they struck out into the misty forests,

Padishar Creel leading with Blue, the Valemen and the High-

lander in the middle, and the remaining two outlaws, Stasas and

Drutt, trailing. Within seconds, the rock wall of the Jut had

disappeared from view.

They traveled south for the better part of the day, turning west

around midaftemoon when they encountered the Mermidon.

They followed the river until sunset, staying on its north shore,

and camped that night just below the south end of the Kennon

Pass in the shadow of the Dragon's Teeth. They found a cove

sheltered by cypress where a stream fed down out of the rocks

and provided them with drinking water. They built a fire, ate

their dinner, and sat back to watch the stars come out.

After a time, Stasas and Drutt went off to take the first watch,

one upstream, one down. Ciba Blue rolled into his blankets and

was asleep in moments, his youthful face looking even younger

in sleep. Padishar Creel sat with the Valemen and the High-

lander, poking at the fire with a stick while he sipped at a flask

of ale.

Par had been puzzling over their eventual destination all day,

and now he said abruptly to the outlaw chief, ' 'We're going to

Tyrsis, aren't we?"

Padishar glanced over in surprise, then nodded. "No reason

you shouldn't know now."

"But why look for the Sword of Shannara in Tyrsis? It dis-

appeared from there over a hundred years ago when the Feder-

ation annexed Callahom. Why would it be back there now?"

The other smiled secretively. "Perhaps because it never left.''

Par and his companions stared at the outlaw chief in aston-

ishment.

"You see, the fact that the Sword of Shannara disappeared

doesn't necessarily mean that it went anywhere. Sometimes a

thing can disappear and still be in plain sight. It can disappear

simply because it doesn't look like what it used to. We see it,

but we don't recognize it."

"What are you saying?" Par asked slowly.

Padishar Creel's smile broadened perceptibly. "I am saying

that the Sword of Shannara may very well be exactly where it

was three hundred years ago."

"Locked away in a vault in the middle of the People's Park

in Tyrsis all these years and no one's figured it out?" Morgan

Leah was aghast. "How can that possibly be?"

Padishar sipped speculatively at his flask and said, "We'll be

there by tomorrow. Why don't we wait and see?"

Par Ohmsford was tired from the day's march and last night's

lack of sleep, but he was awake a long time, nevertheless, after

the others were already snoring. He couldn't stop thinking about

what Padishar Creel had said. More than three hundred years

ago, after Shea Ohmsford had used it to destroy the Warlock

Lord, the Sword of Shannara had been embedded in a block of

red marble and entombed in a vault in the People's Park in the

Southland city of Tyrsis. There it had remained until the coming

of the Federation into Callahom. It was common knowledge

that it had disappeared after that. If it hadn't, why did so many

people believe it had? If it was right where it had been three

hundred years ago, how come no one recognized it now?

He considered. It was true that much of what had happened

during me time of Allanon had lost credibility; many of the tales

had taken on the trappings of legend and folklore. By the time

the Sword of Shannara disappeared, perhaps no one believed in

it anymore. Perhaps no one even understood what it could do.

But they at least knew it was there. It was a national monument,

for goodness sake! So how could they say it was gone if it wasn't?

It didn't make sense!

Yet Padishar Creel seemed so positive.

Par fell asleep with the matter still unresolved.

They rose again at sunrise, crossed the Mermidon at a shal-

lows less than a mile upstream and turned south for Tyrsis. The

day was hot and still, and the dust of the grasslands filled their

nostrils and throats. They kept to the shade when they could,

but the country south grew more open as the forests gave way

to grasslands. They used their water sparingly and paced them-

selves as they walked, but the sun climbed steadily in the cloud-

less summer sky and the travelers soon were sweating freely.

By midday, as they approached the walls of the city, their cloth-

ing lay damp against their skin.

Tyrsis was the home city of Callahom, its oldest city, and the

most impregnable fortress in the entire Southland. Situated on

a broad plateau, it was warded by towering cliffs to the south,

and a pair of monstrous battle walls to the north. The Outer Wall

rose nearly a hundred feet above the summit of the plateau, a

massive armament that had been breached only once in the city's

history when the armies of the Warlock Lord had attacked in

the time of Shea Ohmsford. A second wall sat back and within

the first, a redoubt for the city's defenders. Once the Border

Legion, the Southland's most formidable army, had defended

the city. But the Legion was gone now, disbanded when the

Federation moved in, and now only Federation soldiers pa-

trolled the walls and byways, occupiers of lands that, until a

hundred years ago, had never been occupied. The Federation

soldiers were quartered in the Legion barracks within the first

wall, and the citizens of the city still lived and worked within

the second, housed in the city proper from where it ran back

along the plateau to the base of the cliffs south.

Par, Coil, and Morgan had never been to Tyrsis. What they

knew of the city, they knew from the stories they had heard of

the days of their ancestors. As they approached it now, they

realized how impossible it was for words alone to describe what

they were seemg. The city rose up against the skyline like a

great, hulking giant, a construction of stone blocks and mortar

that dwarfed anything they had ever encountered. Even in the

bright sunlight of midday, it had a black cast to it-as if die

sunlight were being absorbed somehow in the rock. The city

shimmered slightly, a side effect of me heat, and assumed a

miragelike quality. A massive rampway led up from me plains

to the base of the plateau, twisting like a snake through gates

and causeways. Traffic was heavy, wagons and animals traveling

in both directions in a steady stream, crawling through me heat

and me dust.

The company of seven worked their way steadily closer. As

they reached me lower end of me rampway, Padishar Creel

turned back to the others and said, "Careful now, lads. Nothing

to call attention to ourselves. Remember that it is as hard to get

out of this city as it is to get in."

They blended into me stream of traffic that climbed toward

the plateau's summit. Wheels thudded, traces jingled and

creaked, animals brayed, and men whistled and shouted. Fed-

eration soldiers manned me checkpoints leading up, but made

no effort to interfere with the flow. It was the same at the gates-

massive portals that loomed so high overhead that Par was aghast

to think that any army had managed to breach them-the soldiers

seeming to take no notice of who went in or out. It was an

occupied city. Par decided, that was working hard at pretending ,

to be free.

They passed beneath me gates, the shadow of me gatehouse

overhead falling over mem like a pall. The second wall rose

ahead, smaller, but no less imposing. They moved toward it,

keeping in the thick of me traffic. The grounds between the walls

were clear of everyone but soldiers and their animals and equip-

ment. There were plenty of each, a fair-sized army housed and

waiting. Par studied the rows of drilling men out of the comer

of one eye, keeping his head lowered in the shadow of his hooded

cloak.

Once through the second set of gates, Padishar pulled them

from the Tyrsian Way, the main thoroughfare of homes and busi-

nesses that wound through the center of the city to the cliff walls

and what was once the palace of its rulers, and steered them

into a maze of side streets. There were shops and residences

here as well, but fewer soldiers and more beggars. The buildings

grew dilapidated as they walked and eventually they entered a

district of ale houses and brothels. Padishar did not seem to

notice. He kept them moving, ignoring the pleas of the beggars

and street vendors, working his way deeper into the city.

At last they emerged into a bright, open district containing

markets and small parks. A sprinkling of residences with yards

separated the markets, and there were carriages with silks and

ribbons on the horses. Vendors sold banners and sweets to

laughing children and their mothers. Street shows were being

performed on every comer-actors, clowns, magicians, musi-

cians, and animal trainers. Broad, colorful canopies shaded the

markets and the park pavilions where families spread their pic-

nic lunches, and the air was filled with shouts, laughter, and

applause.

Padishar Creel slowed, casting about for something. He took

them through several of the stalls, along tree-shaded blocks

where small gatherings were drawn by a multitude of delights,

then stopped finally at a cart selling apples. He bought a small

sackful for them all to share, took one for himself, and leaned

back idly against a lamp pole to eat it. It took Par several mo-

ments to realize that he was waiting for something. The Valeman

ate his apple with the others and looked about watchfully. Fruits

of all sorts were on display in the stalls of a market behind him,

there were ices being sold across the way, a juggler, a mime, a

girl doing sleight of hand, a pair of dancing monkeys with their

trainer, and a scattering of children and adults watching it all.

He found his eyes returning to the girl. She had naming red hair

that seemed redder still against the black silk of her clothing

and cape. She was drawing coins out of astonished children's

ears, then making them disappear again. Once she brought fire

out of the air and sent it spinning away. He had never seen that

done before. The girl was very good.

He was so intent on watching her, in fact, that he almost

missed seeing Padishar Creel hand something to a dark-skinned

boy who had come up to him. The boy took what he was given

without a word and disappeared. Par looked to see where he

had gone, but it was as if the earth had swallowed him up.

They stayed where they were a few minutes longer, and then

the outlaw chief said, "Time to go," and led them away. Par

took a final look at the red-haired girl and saw that she was

causing a ring to float in midair before her audience, while a

tiny, blond-headed boy leaped and squealed after it.

The Valeman smiled at the child's delight.

On their way back through the gathering of market stalls,

Morgan Leah caught sight of Hirehone. The master of Kiltan

Forge was at the edge of a crowd applauding a juggler, his large

frame wrapped in a great cloak. There was only a momentary

glimpse of the bald pate and drooping mustaches, men he was

gone. Morgan blinked, deciding almost immediately that he had

been mistaken. What would Hirehone be doing in Tyrsis?

By the time they reached the next block, he had dismissed

the matter from his mind.

They spent the next several hours in the basement of a storage

house annexed to the shop of a weapons-maker, a man clearly

in the service of the outlaws, since Padishar Creel knew exactly

where in a crevice by the frame to find a key that would open

the door. He took them inside without hesitating. They found

food and drink waiting, along with pallets and blankets for

sleeping and water to wash up with. It was cool and dry in the

basement, and the heat of me day quickly left them. They rested

for a time, eating and talking idly among themselves, waiting

for whatever was to come next. Only the outlaw chief seemed

to know and, as usual, he wasn't saying. Instead, he went to

sleep.

It was several hours before he awoke. He stood up, stretched,

took time to wash his face, and walked over to Par. "We're

going out," he said. He turned to the others. "Everyone else

stay put until we get back. We won't be long and we won't be

doing anything dangerous."

Both Coil and Morgan started to protest, then thought better

of it. Par followed Padishar up the basement stairs, and the

trapdoor closed behind them. Padishar took a moment at me

outer door, then beckoned Par after him, and they stepped out

into the street.

The street was still crowded, filled with tradesmen and arti-

sans, buyers, and beggars. The outlaw chief took Par south to-

ward the cliffs, striding rapidly as the shadows of late afternoon

began to spread across the city. They did not return along any

of the avenues that had brought them in, but followed a different

series of small, rutted backstreets. The faces they passed were

masks of studied disinterest, but the eyes were feral. Padishar

ignored mem, and Par kept himself close to the big man. Bodies

pressed up against him, but he carried nothing of value, so he

worried less than he might have otherwise.

As they approached the cliffs, they turned onto the Tyrsian

Way. Ahead, the Bridge of Sendic lifted over the People's Park,

a carefully trimmed stretch of lawn with broad-leaf trees mat

spread away toward a low wall and a cluster of buildings where

the bridge ended. Beyond, a forest grew out of a wide ravine,

and beyond that the spires and walls of what had once been the

palace of the rulers of Tyrsis rose up against the fading light.

Par studied the park, the bridge, and the palace as they ap-

proached. Something about their configuration did not seem

quite right. Wasn't the Bridge of Sendic supposed to have ended

at the gates of the palace?

Padishar dropped back momentarily. "So, lad. Hard to be-

lieve that the Sword of Shannara could be hidden anywhere so

open,eh?"

Par nodded, frowning. "Where is it?"

"Patience now. You'll have your answer soon enough." He

put one arm about the Valeman and bent close. "Whatever hap-

pens next, do not act surprised."

Par nodded. The outlaw chief slowed, moved over to a flower

cart and stopped. He studied the flowers, apparently trying to

select a batch. He had done so when Par felt an arm go about

his waist and turned to find the red-haired girl who practiced

sleight of hand pressing up against him.

"Hello, Elf-boy," she whispered, her cool fingers brushing

at his ear as she kissed him on the cheek.

Then two small children were beside them, a girl and a boy,

the first reaching up to grasp Padishar's rough hand, the second

reaching up to grasp Par's. Padishar smiled, lifted the little girl

so that she squealed, kissed her, and gave half of the flowers to

her and half to the boy. Whistling, he started the five of them

moving into the park. Par had recovered sufficiently to notice

that the red-haired gid was carrying a basket covered with a

bright cloth. When they were close to the wall that separated

the park from the ravine, Padishar chose a maple tree for them

to sit under, the red-haired girl spread the cloth, and all of them

began unpacking the basket which contained cold chicken, eggs,

hard bread and jam, cakes, and tea.

Padishar glanced over at Par as they worked. "Par Ohmsford,

meet Damson Rhee, your betrothed for purposes of this little

outing."

Damson Rhee's green eyes laughed. "Love is fleeting. Par

Ohmsford. Let's make the most of it." She fed him an egg.

"You are my son," Padishar added. "These other two chil-

dren are your siblings, though their names escape me at the

moment. Damson, remind me later. We're just a typical family,

out for a late afternoon picnic, should anyone ask."

No one did. The men ate their meal in silence, listening to

the children as they chattered on and acted as if what was hap-

pening was perfectly normal. Damson Rhee looked after them,

laughing right along with them, her smile warm and infectious.

She was pretty to begin with, but when she smiled, Par found

her beautiful. When they were finished eating, she did me corn

trick with each child, (hen sent them off to play.

"Let's take a walk," Padishar suggested, rising.

The three of them strolled through the shade trees, moving

without seeming purpose toward the wall that blocked away the

ravine. Damson clung lovingly to Par's waist. He found he didn't

mind. "Things have changed somewhat in Tyrsis since the old

days," the outlaw chief said to Par as they walked. "When the

Buckhannah line died out, the monarchy came to an end. Tyrsis,

Varfleet, and Kem ruled Callahom by forming the Council of

the Cities. When the Federation made Callahorn a protectorate,

the Council was disbanded. The palace had served as an assem-

bly for the Council. Now the Federation uses it-except that no

one knows exactly what they use it for."

They reached the wall and stopped. The wall was built of

stone block to a height of about three feet. Spikes were embed-

ded in its top. "Have a look," the outlaw chief invited.

Par did. The ravine beyond dropped away sharply into a mass

of trees and scrub that had grown so thick it seemed to be chok-

ing on itself. Mist curled through the wilderness with an insis-

tence that was unsettling, clinging to even the uppermost reaches

of the trees. The ravine stretched away for perhaps a mile to

either side and a quarter of that distance to where the palace

stood, its doors and windows shuttered and dark, its gates

barred. The stone of the palace was scarred and dirty, and the

whole of it had the look of something that had not seen use for

decades. A narrow catwalk ran from the buildings in the fore-

ground to its sagging gates.

He looked back at Padishar. The outlaw chief was facing

toward the city. "This wall forms the dividing line between past

and present," he said quietly. "The ground we stand upon is

called the People's Park. But the true People's Park, the one

from the time of our ancestors-" He paused and turned back

to the ravine. "-is down there." He took a moment to let that

sink in. "Look. Below the Federation Gatehouse that wards the

catwalk.'' Par followed his gaze and caught sight of a scattering

of huge stone blocks barely poking up out of the forest.' "That,''

the outlaw chief continued somberly, "is what remains of the

real Bridge of Sendic. It was badly cracked, I am told, during

the assault on Tyrsis by the Warlock Lord during the time of

Panamon Creel. Some years later, it collapsed altogether. This

other bridge," he waved indifferently, "is merely for show."

He glanced sideways at Par. "Now do you see?"

Par did. His mind was working rapidly now, fitting the pieces

into place. "And the Sword of Shannara?'' He caught a glimpse

of Damson Rhee's startled look out of the comer of his eye.

"Down there somewhere, unless I miss my guess,'' Padishar

replied smoothly. "Right where it's always been. You have

something to say. Damson?"

The red-haired girl took Par's arm and steered him away from

the wall. "This is what you have come for, Padishar?" She

sounded angry.

"Forbear, lovely Damson. Don't let's be judgmental."

The girl's grip tightened on Par's arm. "This is dangerous

business, Padishar. I have sent men into the Pit before, as you

well know, and not one of them has returned.''

Padishar smiled indulgently. "The Pit-that's what Tyrsians

call the ravine these days. Pitting, I suppose."

"You take too many risks!" the girl pressed.

"Damson is my eyes and ears and strong right arm inside

Tyrsis," the other continued smoothly. He smiled at her. "Tell

the Valeman what you know of the Sword, Damson."

She gave him a dangerous look, then swung her face away.

"The collapse of the Bridge of Sendic occurred at the same time

the Federation annexed Callahom and began occupation of Tyr-

sis. The forest that now blankets the old People's Park, where

the Sword of Shannara was housed, grew up virtually overnight.

The new park and bridge came about just as quickly. I asked the

old ones of the city some years ago what they remembered, and

this is what I learned. The Sword didn't actually disappear from

its vault; it was the vault that disappeared into the forest. People

forget, especially when they're being told something else. Al-

most everyone believes there was only one People's Park and

one Bridge of Sendic-the ones they see. The Sword of Shan-

nara, if it ever existed, simply disappeared."

Par was looking at her in disbelief. "The forest, the bridge,

and the park changed overnight?"

She nodded. "Just so."

"But.. . ?"

"Magic, lad," Padishar Creel whispered in answer to his

unfinished question.

They walked on a bit, nearing the brightly colored cloth that

contained the remains of their picnic. The children were back,

nibbling contentedly at the cakes.

"The Federation doesn't use magic," Par argued, still con-

fused. "They have outlawed it."

"Outlawed its use by others, yes," the big man acknowl-

edged. "Perhaps the better to use it themselves? Or to allow

someone else to use it? Or something" He emphasized the last

syllable.

Par looked over sharply. "Shadowen, you mean?"

Neither Padishar nor Damson said anything. Par's mind spun.

The Federation and the Shadowen in league somehow, joined

for purposes none of them understood-was that possible?

"I have wondered about the fate of the Sword of Shannara

for a long time," Padishar mused, stopping just out of earshot

of the waiting children. "It is a part of the history of my family

as well. It always seemed strange to me that it should have

vanished so completely. It was embedded in marble and locked

in a vault for two hundred years. How could it simply disappear?

What happened to the vault that contained it? Was it all some-

how spirited away?" He glanced at Par. "Damson spent a long

time finding out the answer. Only a few remembered the truth

of how the disappearance came about. They're all dead now-

but they left their story to me."

His smile was wolfish. "Now I have an excuse to discover

whether that story is true. Is the Sword of Shannara down there

in that ravine? You and I shall discover the answer. Resurrection

of the magic of the Elven house of Shannara, young Ohmsford-

the key, perhaps, to the freedom of the Four Lands. We must

know."

Damson Rhee shook her titian head. "You are far too eager,

Padishar, to throw your life away. And the lives of others like

this boy. I will never understand.''

She moved away from them to gather up the children. Par

didn't care much for being called a boy by a girl who looked

younger still.

"Watch out for that one, Par Ohmsford," the outlaw chief

murmured.

"She doesn't have much faith in our chances," Par observed.

"Ah, she worries without cause! We have the strength of

seven of us to withstand whatever might guard the Pit. And

there's magic as well, we have your wishsong and the High-

lander's blade. Enough said."

He studied the sky. "It will be dark soon, lad." He put his

arm about the Valeman companionably and moved them for-

ward to join Damson Rhee and the children. "When it is," he

whispered, "we'll have a look for ourselves at what's become

of the Sword of Shannara.''

XIX

As Padishar Creel's makeshift family reached the edge '.

of the park and prepared to step out onto the Tyrsian

Way, Damson Rhee turned to the outlaw chief and;

said, "The sentries who patrol the wall make a change at mid

night in front of the Federation Gatehouse. I can arrange for

small disturbance that will distract them long enough for you to

slip into the Pit-if you are determined on this. Be certain to

go in at the west end."

Then she reached up and plucked a silver coin from behind

Par's ear and gave it to him. The coin bore her likeness. "For

luck, Par Ohmsford," she said. "You will be needing it if you

continue to follow him."

She gave Padishar a hard look, took the children by the hand,

and strode off into the crowds without looking back, her red hair

shining. The outlaw chief and the Valeman watched her go.

"Who is she, Padishar?" Par asked when she was no lonj

in view.

Padishar shrugged. "Whoever she chooses to be. There

as many stories about her origins as there are about my own.

Come now. Time for us to be going as well."

He took Par back through the city, keeping to the lesser streets

and byways. The crowds were still heavy, everyone pushing and

shoving, their faces dust-streaked and their tempers short. Twi-

light had chased the sunlight west, lengthening the shadows into

evening, but the heat of midday remained trapped by the city's

walls, rising out of the stone of the streets and buildings to hang

in the still summer air. It was like being in a furnace. Par glanced

skyward. Already the quarter-moon was visible northward, '

sprinkling of stars east. He tried to think about what he '

learned of the disappearance of the Sword of Shannara, but found

himself thinking instead of Damson Rhee.

Padishar had him safely back down in the basement of die

storage house behind the weapons shop before dark, where Coil

and Morgan waited impatiendy to receive them. Cutting short

a flurry of questions, the outlaw chief smiled cheerfully and

announced that everything was arranged. At midnight the Vale-

men, the Highlander, Ciba Blue, and he would make a brief

foray into the ravine that fronted what had once been the palace

of the city's rulers. They would descend using a rope ladder.

Stasas and Drutt would remain behind. They would haul the

ladder up when their companions were safely down and hide

until summoned. Any sentries would be dispatched, the ladder

would be lowered again, and they would all disappear back the

way they had come.

He was succinct and matter-of-fact. He made no mention of

why they were doing all this and none of his own men bothered

to ask. They simply let him finish, then turned immediately back

to whatever they had been doing before. Coil and Morgan, on

me other hand, could barely contain themselves, and Par was

forced to take them aside and tell them in detail everything that

had happened. The three of them huddled in one comer of the

basement, seated on sacks of scrubbing powder. Oil lamps lit

me darkness, and the city above them began to go still.

When Par concluded, Morgan shook his head doubtfully.

"It is hard to believe that an entire city has forgotten there

was more than one People's Park and Bridge of Sendic," he

declared softly.

"Not hard at all when you remember that they have had more

than a hundred years to work on it," Coil disagreed quickly.

Think about it, Morgan. How much more than a park and a

bridge has been forgotten in that time? The Federation has sad-

dled the Four Lands with three hundred years of revisionist

history."

"Coil's right," Par said. "We lost our only true historian

when Allanon passed from the Lands. The Druid Histories were

the only written compilations the Races had, and we don't know

what's become of those. All we have left are the storytellers,

with their word-of-mouth recitations, most of them imperfect.''

Everything about the old world has been called a lie," Coil

his dark eyes hard. "We know it to be the truth, but we

are virtually alone in that belief. The Federation has changed

everything to suit its own purposes. After a hundred years, it is

little wonder that no one in lyrsis remembers that the People's

Park and the Bridge of Sendic are not the same as they once

were. The fact of the matter is, who even cares anymore?"

Morgan frowned. "Perhaps so. But something's still not right

about this.'' His frown deepened.' 'It bothers me that the Sword

of Shannara, vault and all, has been down in this ravine all these

years and no one's seen it. It bothers me that no one who's gone

down to have a look has come back out again."

"That troubles me, too," Coil agreed.

Par glanced briefly at the outlaws, who were paying no atten-

tion to them. "None of us thought for a minute that it wouldn't

be dangerous trying to recover the Sword,'' he whispered, a hint

of exasperation in his voice. "Surely you didn't expect to just

walk up and take it? Of course no one's seen it! It wouldn't be

missing if they had, would it? And you can bet that the Feder-

ation has made certain no one who got down into the Pit got

back out again! That's the reason for the guards and the Gate-

house! Besides, the fact that the Federation has gone to so much

trouble to hide the old bridge and park suggests to me that the

Sword is down there!"

Coil looked at his brother steadily. "It also suggests that that's

where it's meant to stay."

The conversation broke off and the three of them drifted away

to separate comers of the basement. Evening passed quickly into

nightfall and the heat of the day finally faded. The little company

ate an uneventful dinner amid long stretches of silence. Only

Padishar had much of anything to say, ebullient as always, toss-

ing off stories and jokes as if this night were the same as any

other, seemingly heedless of the fact that his audience remained

unresponsive. Par was too excited to eat or talk and spent the

time wondering if Padishar were as unaffected as he appeared.

Nothing seemed to alter the mood of the outlaw chief. Padishar

Creel was either very brave or very foolish, and it bothered the

Valeman that he wasn't sure which it was.

Dinner ended and they sat around talking in hushed voices

and staring at the walls. Padishar came over to Par at one point

and crouched down beside him. "Are you anxious to be about

our business, lad?" he asked softly.

No one else was close enough to hear. Par nodded.

"Ah, well, it won't be long now." The outlaw patted his

knee. The hard eyes held his own. "Just remember what we're

about. A quick look and out again. If the Sword is there for the

taking, fine. If not, no delays." His smile was wolfish. "Cau-

tion in all things." He slipped away, leaving Par to stare after

him.

The minutes lengthened with the wearing slowness of shad-

ows at midday. Par and Coil sat side by side without speaking.

Par could almost hear his brother's thoughts in the silence. The

oil lamps flickered and spat. A giant swamp fly buzzed about

the ceiling until Ciba Blue killed it. The basement room began

to smell close.

Then finally Padishar stood up and said it was time. They

came to their feet eagerly, anticipation flickering in their eyes.

Weapons were strapped down and cloaks pulled close. They

went up the basement stairs through the trapdoor and out into

the night.

The city streets were empty and still. Voices drifted out of

ale houses and sleeping rooms, punctuated by raucous laughter

and occasional shouts. The lamps were mostly broken or unlit

on the back streets that Padishar took them down, and there was

only moonlight to guide them through the shadows. They did

not move furtively, only cautiously, not wishing to draw atten-

tion to themselves. They ducked back into alleyways several

times to avoid knots of swaying, singing revellers who were

making their way homeward. Drunks and beggars who saw them

pass barely glanced up from the doorways and alcoves in which

they lay. They saw no Federation soldiers. The Federation left

the back streets and the poor of Tyrsis to manage for themselves.

When they reached the People's Park and the Bridge of Sendic,

Padishar sent them across the broad expanse of the Tyrsian Way

in twos and threes into the shadows of the park, dispatching

them in different directions to regroup later, carefully watching

the well-lighted Way for any approach of the Federation patrols

he knew would be found there. Only one patrol passed, and it

saw nothing of the company. A watch was posted before the

Gatehouse at the center of the wall that warded the Pit, but the

soldiers had lamplight reflecting all about them and could not

see outside its glow to the figures lost in the dark beyond. Pad-

ishar took the company swiftly through the deserted park, west

to where the ravine approached its juncture with the cliffs. There,

he settled them in to wait.

Par crouched motionlessly in the dark and listened to the

sound of his heart pumping in his ears. The silence about him

was filled with the hum of insects. Locusts buzzed in raucous

cadence in the black. The seven men were concealed in a mass

of thicket, invisible to anyone without. But anyone beyond their

concealment was invisible to them as well. Par was uneasy with

their placement and wondered at its choice. He glanced at

Padishar Creel, but the outlaw chief was busy overseeing the

untangling of the rope ladder that would lower them into die

ravine. . .

Par hesitated. The Pit Lower them into me Pit. He forced

himself to say tie word.

He took a deep bream, trying to steady himself. He wondered

if Damson Rhee was anywhere close:

A patrol of four Federation soldiers materialized out of the

dark almost directly in front of them, walking the perimeter of

the wall. Though the sound of their boots warned of their com-

ing, it was chilling when they appeared, nevertheless. Par and

the others flattened themselves in the scratchy tangle of their

concealment. The soldiers paused, spoke quietly among them-

selves for a moment, then turned back the way they had come,

and were gone.

Par exhaled slowly. He risked a quick glance over at the dark

bowl of the ravine. It was a soundless, depthless well of ink.

Padishar and the other outlaws were fixing the rope ladder in

place, preparing for the descent. Par came to his feet, eager to

relieve the muscles that were beginning to cramp, anxious to be

done with this whole business. He should have felt confident.

He did not. He was growing steadily more uneasy and he

couldn't say why. Something was tugging at him frantically,

warning him, some sixth sense that he couldn't identify.

He thought he heard something-not ahead in the ravine, but

behind in the park. He started to turn, his sharp Elf eyes search-

ing.

Then abruptly there was a flurry of shouts from the direction

of the Gatehouse, and cries of alarm pierced the night.

"Now!" Padishar Creel urged, and they bolted their cover

for the wall.

The ladder was already knotted in place, tied down to a pair

of the wall spikes. Quickly, they lowered it into the black. Ciba

Blue went over first, the cobalt birthmark on his cheek a dark,

hollow place in the moonlight. He tested the ladder first with

his weight, then disappeared from view.

"Remember, listen for my signal," Padishar was saying hur-

riedly to Stasas and Drutt, his voice a rough whisper above the

distant shouts.

He was turning to start Par down the ladder after Ciba Blue

when a swarm of Federation soldiers appeared out of the dark

behind them, armed with spears and crossbows, silent figures

that seemed to come from nowhere. Everyone froze. Par felt his

stomach lurch with shock. He found himself thinking,"I should

have known, I should have sensed them," and thinking in the

next breath that indeed he had.

"Lay down your weapons," a voice commanded.

For just an instant. Par was afraid that Padishar Creel would

choose to fight rather than surrender. The outlaw chiefs eyes

darted left and right, his tall form rigid. But the odds were over-

whelming. His face relaxed, he gave a barely perceptible smile,

and dropped his sword and long knife in front of him wordlessly.

The others of the little company did the same, and the Federa-

tion soldiers closed about. Weapons were scooped up and arms

bound behind backs.

"There's another of them down in the Pit," a soldier advised

the leader of their captors, a smallish man with short-cropped

hair and commander's bars on his dark tunic.

The commander glanced over. "Cut the ropes, let him drop.''

The rope ladder was cut through in a moment. It fell sound-

lessly into the black. Par waited for a cry, but there was none.

Perhaps Ciba Blue had already completed his descent. He

glanced at Coil, who just shook his head helplessly.

The Federation commander stepped up to Padishar. "You

should know, Padishar Creel," he said quietly, his tone mea-

sured, ' 'that you were betrayed by one of your own.''

He waited momentarily for a response, but there was none.

Padishar's face was expressionless. Only his eyes revealed the

rage that he was somehow managing to contain.

Then the silence was shattered by a terrifying scream that

rose out of the depths of the Pit. It lifted into the night like a

stricken bird, hovering against the cliff rock until at last, mer-

cifully, it dropped away.

The scream had been Ciba Blue's, Par thought in horror.

The Federation commander gave the ravine a perfunctory

glance and ordered his prisoners led away.

They were taken through the park along the ravine wall to-

ward the Gatehouse, kept in single file and apart from each other

by the soldiers guarding them. Par trudged along with the others

in stunned silence, the sound of Ciba Blue's scream still echo-

ing in his mind. What had happened to the outlaw down there

alone in the Pit? He swallowed against me sick feeling in his

stomach and forced himself to think of something else. Be-

trayed, the Federation commander had said. But by whom? None

of them there, obviously-so someone who wasn't. One of Pad-

ishar's own . . .

He tapped over a tree root, righted himself and stumbled on.

His mind whirled with a scattering of thoughts. They were being

taken to the Federation prisons, he concluded. Once there, the

grand adventure was over. There would be no more searching

for the missing Sword of Shannara. There would be no further

consideration of the charge given him by Allanon. No one ever

came out of the Federation prisons.

He had to escape.

The thought came instinctively, clearing his mind as nothing

else could. He had to escape. If he didn't, they would all be

locked away and forgotten. Only Damson Rhee knew where

they were, and it occurred suddenly to Par that Damson Rhee

had been in the best position to betray them.

It was an unpleasant possibility. It was also unavoidable.

His breathing slowed. This was the best opportunity to break

free that he would get. Once within the prisons, it would be

much more difficult to manage. Perhaps Padishar would come

up with a plan by then, but Par didn't care to chance it. Un-

charitably, perhaps, he was thinking that Padishar was the one

who had gotten them into this mess.

He watched the lights of the Gatehouse flicker ahead through

the trees of the park. He only had a few minutes more. He

thought he could manage it, but he would have to go alone. He

would have to leave Coil and Morgan. There wasn't any choice.

Voices sounded from ahead, other soldiers waiting for their

return. The line began to string out and some of the guards were

straying a bit. Par took a deep breath. He waited until they

were passing along a cluster of scrub birch, then used the wish-

song. He sang softly, his voice blending into the sounds of the

night, a whisper of breeze, a bird's gentle call, a cricket's brief

chirp. He let the wishsong's magic reach out and fill the minds

of the guards immediately next to him, distracting mem, turn-

ing their eyes away from him, letting them forget that he was

there...

And then he simply stepped into me birch and shadows and

disappeared.

The line of prisoners passed on without him. No one had

noticed that he was gone. If Coil or Morgan or any of the others

had seen anything, they were keeping still about it. The Feder-

ation soldiers and their prisoners continued moving toward the

lights ahead, leaving him alone.

When they were gone, he moved soundlessly off into the

night.

He managed to free himself almost immediately of the ropes

that held his hands. He found a spike with a jagged edge on the

ravine wall a hundred yards from where he had slipped away

and, boosting himself up on the wall, sawed through the ropes

in only minutes. No alarm had gone up yet from the watch;

apparently he hadn't been missed. Maybe they hadn't bothered

to count the original number of their prisoners, he reasoned.

After all, it had been dark, and the capture had taken place in a

matter of seconds.

At any rate, he was free. So what was he going to do now?

He worked his way back through the park toward the Tyrsian

Way, keeping to the shadows, stopping every few seconds to

listen for the sounds of the pursuit that never came. He was

sweating freely, his tunic sticking to his back, his face streaked

with dust. He was exhilarated by his escape and devastated by

the realization that he didn't know how to take advantage of it.

There was no help for him in Tyrsis and no help for him without.

He didn't know who to contact within the city; there was no one

he could afford to trust. And he had no idea how to get back

into the Parma Key. Steff would help if he knew his companions

were in trouble. But how would the Dwarf find out before it was

too late to matter?

The lights of the Way came into view through the trees. Par

stumbled to the edge of the park, close to its western boundaries,

and collapsed in despair against the trunk of an old maple. He

had to do something; he couldn't just wander about. He brushed

at his face with his sleeve and let his head sink back against the

rough bark. He was suddenly sick and it took every ounce of

willpower he could muster to prevent himself from retching.

He had to get back to Coil and Morgan. He had to find a way

to free them.

Use the wishsong, he thought.

But how?

A Federation patrol came down the Way, boots clumping in

the stillness. Par shrank back into the shadows and waited until

they were out of sight. Then he moved from his cover along the

edge of the park toward a fountain bordering the walk. Once

there, he leaned over and hurriedly splashed water on his hands

and face. The water ran along his skin like liquid silver.

He paused, letting his head sink against his chest. He was

suddenly very tired.

The arm that yanked him around was strong and unyielding,

snapping his head back violently. He found himself face-to-face

with Damson Rhee.

"What happened?" she demanded, her voice low.

Frantically, Par reached for his long knife. But his weapons

were gone, taken by the Federation. He shoved at the girl, trying

to rip free of her grip, but she sidestepped the blow without

effort and kicked him so hard in the stomach that he doubled

over.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" she whispered angrily.

Without waiting for an answer, she hauled him back into the

concealing shadows of the park and threw him to the ground.

"If you try something like that again with me, I will break both

your arms!" she snapped.

Par pulled himself up to a sitting position, still looking for a

way to escape. But she shoved him back against the ground and

crouched close. "Why don't we try again, my beloved Elf-boy?

Where are the others? What has happened to them?"

Par swallowed against his rage. "The Federation has them!

They were waiting for us. Damson! As if you didn't know!"

The anger in her eyes was replaced by surprise. "What do

you mean, 'as if I didn't know'?"

"They were waiting for us. We never got past the wall. We

were betrayed! The Federation commander told us so! He said

it was one of our own-an outlaw, Damson!'' Par was shaking.

Damson Rhee's gaze was steady. "And you have decided that

it was me, have you. Par Ohmsford?"

Par forced himself up on his elbows. "Who better man you?

You were the only one who knew what we were about-me only

one not taken! No one else knew! If not you, then who could it

possibly have been?"

There was a long silence as they stared at each other in the

dark. The sound of voices nearby grew slowly distinct. Someone

was approaching.

Damson Rhee suddenly bent close. "I don't know. But it

wasn't me! Now lie still until they pass!"

She pushed him into a gathering of bushes, then backed in

herself and lay down beside him. Par could feel the warmth of

her body. He could smell the sweet scent of her. He closed his

eyes and waited. A pair of Federation soldiers worked their way

out of the park, paused momentarily, then started back again

and were gone.

Damson Rhee put her lips close against Par's ear. "Do they

know you are missing yet?"

Par hesitated. "I can't be certain," he whispered back.

She took his chin with her smooth hand and turned his face

until it was level with her own. "I didn't betray you. It may

seem as if I must have, but I didn't. If I intended to betray you

to the Federation, Par, I would have simply turned you over to

that pair of soldiers and been done with it."

The green eyes glittered faintly with moonlight that had pen-

etrated the branches of their concealment. Par stared at those

eyes and found no hint of deception mirrored there. Still, he

hesitated.

"You have to decide here and now whether you believe me,"

she said quietly.

He shook his head warily. "It isn't that easy!"

"It has to be! Look at me, Par. I have betrayed no one-not

you or Padishar or me others, not now, not ever! Why would I

do something like that? I hate the Federation as much as any-

one!" She paused, exasperated. "I told you that this was a dan-

gerous undertaking. I warned you that the Pit was a black hole

that swallowed men whole. Padishar was the one who insisted

you go!"

"That doesn't make him responsible for what happened."

"Nor me! What about the distraction I promised? Did it come

about as I said it would?"

Par nodded.

"You see! I fulfilled my part of the bargain! Why would I

bother if I intended your betrayal?''

Par said nothing.

Damson's nostrils flared. "You will admit to nothing, will

you?'' She shook back her auburn hair in a flash of color.' 'Will

you at least tell me what happened?"

Par took a deep breath. Briefly, he related the events that

surrounded their capture, including the frightening disappear-

ance of the outlaw Ciba Blue. He kept deliberately vague the

circumstances of his own escape. The magic was his business.

Its secret belonged to him.

But Damson was not about to be put off. "So the fact of the

matter is, you might as easily be the betrayer as I," she said.

"How else is it that you managed to escape when the others

could not?"

Par flushed, resentful of the accusation, irritated by her per-

sistence. "Why would I do such a thing to my friends?"

"My own argument exactly," she replied.

They studied each other wordlessly, each measuring the

strength of the other. Damson was right. Par knew. There was

as much reason to believe that he had been the-betrayer as she.

But that didn't change the fact that he knew he wasn't while he

didn't know the same of her.

"Decide, Par," she urged quietly. "Do you believe me or

not?"

Her features were smooth and guileless in the scattering of

light, her skin dappled with shadows from the tiny leaves of the

bushes. He found himself drawn to her in a way he had not

believed possible. There was something special about this giri,

something that made him push aside his misgivings and cast out

his doubts. The green eyes held him, insinuating and persuasive.

He saw only truth in them.

"Okay, I believe you," he said finally.

"Then tell me how it is that you escaped when the others did

not," she demanded. "No, don't argue the matter. I must have

proof of your own innocence if we are to be of any use to each

other or to our friends."

Par's resolve to keep to himself the secret of the wishsong

slipped slowly away. Again, she was right. She was asking only

what he would have asked in her place. "I used magic,'' he told

her.

She inched closer, as if to judge better the truth of what he

was saying. "Magic? What sort?"

He hesitated yet.

"Sleight of hand? Cloud spells?" she pressed. "Some sort

of vanishing act?"

"Yes," he replied. She was waiting. "I have the ability to

make myself invisible when I wish."

There was a long silence. He read the curiosity in her eyes.

"You command real magic, don't you?" she said finally. "Not

the pretend kind that I use, where coins appear and disappear

and fire dances on the air. You have the sort that is forbidden.

That is why Padishar is so interested in you.'' She paused.' 'Who

are you, Par Ohmsford? Tell me."

It was still within the park now, the voices of the watch passed

from hearing, the night gone deep and silent once more. There

might have been no one else in all the world but the two of them.

par weighed the advisability of his reply. He was stepping on

stones that floated in quicksand.

"You can see who I am for yourself," he said finally, hedg-

ing. "I am part Elf and that part of me carries the magic of my

forebears. I have their magic to command-or some small part

of it, at least."

She looked at him for a long time men, thinking. At last she

seemed to have made up her mind. She crawled from the con-

cealment of the bushes, pulling him out with her. They stood

together in the shadows, brushing themselves off, breathing

deeply the cool night air. The park was deserted.

She came up to him and stood close. "I was bom in Tyrsis,

the child of a forger of weapons and his wife. I had one brother

and one sister, both older. When I was eight, the Federation

discovered my father was supplying arms to the Movement.

Someone-a friend, an acquaintance, I never knew who-

betrayed him. Seekers came to our house in the middle of the

night, fired it and burned it to the ground. My family was locked

inside and bumed with it. I escaped only because I was visiting

my aunt. Within a year she was dead as well, and I was forced

to live in the streets. That is where I grew up. My family was

all gone. I had no friends. A street magician took me as his

apprentice and taught me my trade. That has been my life."

She paused. "You deserve to know why it is that I would never

betray anyone to the Federation."

She reached up wnh her hand and her fingers brushed his

cheek for just a moment. Then her hand trailed down to his arm

and fastened there.

"Par, we must do whatever it is we are going to do tonight

or it will be too late. The Federation knows who they have.

Padishar Creel. They will send for Rimmer Dall and his Seekers

to question Padishar. Once that happens, rescue will be point-

less." She paused, making certain that he took her meaning.

"We have to help them now."

Par went cold at the thought of Coil and Morgan in the hands

of Rimmer Dall-let alone Padishar. What would the First

Seeker do to the leader of the Movement?

"Tonight," she continued, her voice soft, but insistent.

"While they are not expecting it. They will still have Padishar

and the others in me cells at the Gatehouse. They won't have

moved them yet. They will be tired, sleepy with the coming of

morning. We won't get a better chance."

He stared at her incredulously. "You and I?"

"If you agree to come with me."

"But what can the two of us do?"

She pulled him close. Her red hair shimmered darkly in the

moonlight. "Tell me about your magic. What can you do with

it. Par Ohmsford?"

There was no hesitation now. "Make myself invisible," he

said. "Make myself to appear to be different man I am. Make

others think they are seeing things that aren't there." He was

growing excited. "Just about anything that I want if it's not for

too long and not too extended. It's just illusion, you under-

stand."

She walked away from him, paced into the trees close by and

stopped. She stood there in the shadows, lost in thought. Par

waited where he was, feeling the cool night air brush his skin

in a sudden breath of wind, listening to me silence that spread

across the city like the waters of an ocean across its floor. He

could almost swim through that silence, drifting away to better

times and places. There was fear in him that he could not sup-

press-fear at the thought of returning for his friends, fear at the

thought of failing in the attempt. But to attempt nothing at all

was unthinkable.

Still, what could they do-just this slip of a giri and him-

self?

As if reading his mind she came back to him then, green eyes

intense, seized his arms tightly, and whispered, "I think I know

away, Par."

He smiled in spite of himself.

"Tell me about it," he said.

Walker Boh journeyed directly back to Hearthstone

after taking leave of the company at the Hades-

hom. He rode his horse east across the Rabb,

bypassed Storlock and its Healers, climbed the Wolfsktaag

through the Pass of Jade, and worked his way upriver along the

Chard Rush until he entered Darldin Reach. Three days later he

was home again. He talked with no one on the way, keeping

entirely to himself as he traveled, pausing only long enough to

eat and sleep. He was not fit company for other men and he

knew it He was obsessed with thoughts of his encounter with

the shade of Allanon. He was haunted by them.

The Anar was enveloped by a particularly violent midsummer

storm within twenty-four hours of his return, and Walker se-

cluded himself truculently in his cottage home while winds

lashed its shaved-board walls and rains beat down upon its shin-

gled roof. The forested valley was deluged, wracked by the

crack and flash of lightning, shaken by me long, ominous peals

of thunder, pelted and washed. The cadence of the rains oblit-

erated every other sound, and Walker sat amid their constant

thrum in brooding silence, wrapped in blankets and a blackness

of spirit he would not have thought possible.

He found himself despairing.

It was the inevitability of things that he feared. Walker Boh,

whatever name he chose to bear, was nevertheless an Ohmsford

by blood, and he knew that Ohmsfords, despite their misgivings,

had always been made to take up the Druid cause. It had been

so with Shea and Flick, with Wil, and with Brin and Jair before

him. Now it was to be his turn. His and Wren's and Par's. Par

embraced the cause willingly, of course. Par was an incurable

romantic, a self-appointed champion of the downtrodden and

the abused. Par was a fool.

Or a realist, depending on how you viewed the matter. Be-

cause, if history proved an accurate indicator. Par was merely

accepting without argument what Walker, too, would be forced

to embrace-Allanon's will, the cause of a dead man. The shade

had come to them like some scolding patriarch out of death's

embrace-chiding them for their lack of diligence, scolding them

for their misgivings, charging them with missions of madness

and self-destruction. Bring back the Druids! Bring back Para-

nor! Do these things because I say they must be done, because

I say they are necessary, because I-a thing of no flesh and dead

mind-demand it!

Walker's mood darkened further as the weight of the matter

continued to settle steadily over him, a pall mirroring the op-

pressiveness of the storms without. Change the whole of the face

of the world-that was what the shade was asking of them, of

Par, Wren, and himself. Take three hundred years of evolution

in the Four Lands and dispense with it in an instant's time. What

else was the shade asking, if not that? A return of the magic, a

return of the wielders of that magic, of its shapers, of all the

things ended by this same shade those three hundred years past.

Madness! They would be playing with lives in the manner of

creators-and they were not entitled!

Through the gray haze of his anger and his fear, he could

conjure in his mind the features of the shade. Allanon. The last

of the Druids, the keeper of the Histories of the Four Lands, the

protector of the Races, the dispenser of magic and secrets. His

dark form rose up against the years like a cloud against the sun,

blocking away the warmth and the light. Everything that had

taken place while he lived bore his touch. And before that, it

was Bremen, and before that the Druids of the First Council of

the Races. Wars of magic, struggles for survival, the battles

between light and dark-or grays perhaps-had all been the re-

sult of the Druids.

And now he was being asked to bring all that back.

It could be argued that it was necessary. It had always been

argued so. It could be said that the Druids merely worked to

preserve and protect, never to shape. But had there ever been

one without the other? And necessity was always in the eye of

the beholder. Wariock Lords, Demons, and Mord Wraiths past-

they had been exchanged for Shadowen. But what were these

Shadowen that men should require the aid of Druids and magic?

Could not then take it upon themselves to deal with the ills of

the world rather than defer to power they scarcely understood?

Magic carried grief as well as joy, its dark side as apt to influence

and change as its light. Bring it back again, should he, only to

give it to men who had repeatedly demonstrated that they were

incapable of mastering its truths?

How could he?

Yet without it, the world might become the vision Allanon's

shade had shown them-a nightmare of fire and darkness in

which only creatures such as the Shadowen belonged. Perhaps

it was true after all that magic was the only means of keeping

the Races safe against such beings.

Perhaps.

The truth of the matter was that he simply didn't want to be

part of what was to happen. He was not a child of the Races of

the Four Lands, not in body or in spirit, and never had been.

He had no empathy with their men and women. He had no place

among them. He had been cursed with magic of his own, and

it had stripped him of his humanity and his place among humans

and isolated him from every other living thing. Ironic, because

he alone had no fear of the Shadowen. Perhaps he could even

protect against them, were he asked to do so. But he would not

be asked. He was as much feared as they. He was the Dark

Uncle, the descendent of Brin Ohmsford, the bearer of her

seed and her trust, keeper of some nameless charge from Al-

lanon . . .

Except, of course, that the charge was nameless no more.

The charge was revealed. He was to bring back Paranor and the

Druids, out of the void of yesteryear, out of the nothingness.

That was what the shade had demanded of him, and the de-

mand tracked relentlessly through the landscape of his mind,

hurdling arguments, circumventing reason, whispering that it

was and therefore must be.

So he worried the matter as a dog would its bone, and the

days dragged by. The storms passed and the sun returned to bake

the plains dry but leave the forestlands weltering in the heat and

damp. He went out after a time, walking the valley floor with

only Rumor for company, the giant moor cat having wandered

down out of the rain forests east with the changing of the weather,

luminous eyes as depthless as the despair the Dark Uncle felt.

The cat gave him companionship, but offered no solution to his

dilemma and no relief from his brooding. They walked and sat

together as the days and nights passed, and time hung suspended

against a backdrop of events taking place beyond their refuge

that neither could know nor see.

Until, on the same night that Par Ohmsford and his compan-

ions were betrayed in their attempt to lay hands upon the Sword

of Shannara, Cogline returned to the valley of Hearthstone and

the illusion of separateness that Walker had worked so hard to

maintain was shattered. It was late evening, the sun had gone

west, the skies were washed with moonlight and filled with

stars, and the summer air was sweet and clean with the smell of

new growth. Walker was coming back from a visit to the pin-

nacle, a refuge he found particularly soothing, the massive stone

a source from which it seemed he could draw strength. The

cottage door was open and the rooms within lighted as always,

but Walker sensed the difference, even before Rumor's purr

stilled and his neck ruff bristled.

Cautiously, he moved onto the porch and into the doorway.

Cogline sat at the old wooden dining table, skeletal face bent

against the glare of the oil lamps, his gray robes a weathered

covering for goods long since past repair. A large, squarish

package bound in oilcloth and tied with cord rested close beside

him. He was eating cold food, a glass of ale almost untouched

at his elbow.

"I have been waiting for you. Walker," he told the other

while he was still in the darkness beyond the entry.

Walker moved into the light. "You might have saved yourself

the trouble."

"Trouble?" The old man extended a sticklike hand, and Ru-

mor padded forward to nuzzle it familiarly. "It was time I saw

my home again."

"Is this your home?" Walker asked. "I would have thought

you more comfortable amid the relics of the Druid past.'' He

waited for a response, but there was none. "If you have come

to persuade me to take up the charge given me by the shade,

then you should know at once that I will never do so."

"Oh, my, Walker. Never is such an impossible amount of

time. Besides, I have no intention of trying to persuade you to

do anything. A sufficient amount of persuading has already been

done, I suspect."

Walker was still standing in the doorway. He felt awkward

and exposed and moved over to the table to sit across from

Cogline. The old man took a long sip of the ale.

"Perhaps you thought me gone for good after my disappear-

ance at the Hadeshom," he said softly. His voice was distant

and filled with emotions that me other could not begin to sort

out. "Perhaps you even wished it."

Walker said nothing.

"I have been out into the world. Walker. I have traveled into

the Four Lands, walked among the Races, passed through cities

and countrysides; I have felt the pulse of life and found that it

ebbs. A farmer speaks to me on the grasslands below the Strele-

heim, a man worn and broken by the futility of what he has

encountered. 'Nothing grows,' he whispers. 'The earth sickens

as if stricken by some disease.' The disease infects him as well.

A merchant of wooden carvings and toys journeys from a small

village beyond Varfleet, directionless. 'I leave,' he says, 'be-

cause there is no need for me. The people cease to have interest

in my work. They do nothing but brood and waste away.' Bits

and pieces of life in the Four Lands, Walker-they wither and

fade like a spotting that spreads across the flesh. Pockets here

and pockets there-as if the will to go on were missing. Trees

and shrubs and growing things fail; animals and men alike sick-

en and die. All become dust, and a haze of that dust rises up

and fills the air and leaves the whole of the ravaged land a still

life in miniature of the vision shown us by Allanon."

The sharp, old eyes squinted up at the other. "It begins,

Walker. It begins."

Walker Boh shook his head. "The land and her people have

always suffered failings, Cogline. You see the shade's vision

because you want to see it."

"No, not I, Walker." The old man shook his head firmly. "I

want no part of Druid visions, neither in their being nor in their

fulfillment. I am as much a pawn of what has happened as your-

self. Believe what you will, I do not wish involvement. I have

chosen my life in the same manner that you have chosen yours.

You don't accept that, do you?"

Walker smiled unkindly. "You took up the magic because

you wished to. Once-Druid, you had a choice in your life. You

dabbled in a mixture of old sciences and magics because they

interested you. Not so myself. I was born with a legacy I would

have been better bom without. The magic was forced upon me

without my consent. I use it because I have no choice. It is a

millstone that would drag me down. I do not deceive myself. It

has made my life a ruin." The dark eyes were bitter. "Do not

attempt to compare us, Cogline."

The other's thin frame shifted. "Harsh words, Walker Boh.

You were eager enough to accept my teaching in the use of that

magic once upon a time. You felt comfortable enough with it

then to learn its secrets.''

"A matter of survival and nothing more. I was a child trapped

in a Druid's monstrous casting. I used you to keep myself alive.

You were all I had." The white skin of his lean face was taut

with bitterness. "Do not look to me for thanks, Cogline. I

haven't the grace for it.''

Cogline stood up suddenly, a whiplash movement that beliew

his fragile appearance. He towered above the dark-robed figure

seated across from him, and there was a forbidding look to hi;

weathered face. "Poor Walker," he whispered. "You still deny

who you are. You deny your very existence. How long can you

keep up this pretense?"

There was a strained silence between them that seemed end

less. Rumor, curled on a rug before the fire at the far end of the

room, looked up expectantly. An ember from the hearth spa

and snapped, filling the air with a shower of sparks.

"Why have you come, old man?" Walker Boh said finally

the words a barely contained thrust of rage. There was a coppery

taste in his mouth that he knew came not from anger, but from

fear.

"To try to help you," Cogline said. There was no irony in

his voice. "To give you direction in your brooding."

"I am content without your interference."

"Content?" The other shook his head. "No, Walker. You

will never be content until you leam to quit fighting yourself

You work so hard at it. I thought that the lessons you received

from me on the uses of the magic might have weaned you away

from such childishness-but it appears I was wrong. You face

hard lessons, Walker. Maybe you won't survive them."

He shoved the heavy parcel across the table at the other man

"Open it."

Walker hesitated, his eyes locked on the offering. Then he

reached out, snapped apart the binding with a flick of his fingers

and pulled back the oilcloth.

He found himself looking at a massive, leatherbound book

elaborately engraved in gold. He reached out and touched it

experimentally, lifted the cover, peered momentarily inside, then

flinched away from it as if his fingers had been burned.

"Yes, Walker. It is one of the missing Druid Histories, a

single volume only." The wrinkled old face was intense.

"Where did you get it?" Walker demanded harshly.

Cogline bent close. The air seemed filled with me sound of

his breathing. "Out of lost Paranor."

Walker Boh came slowly to his feet. "You lie."

"Do I? Look into my eyes and tell me what you see."

Walker flinched away. He was shaking. "I don't care where

you got it-or what fantasies you have concocted to make me

believe what I know in my heart cannot possibly be so! Take it

back to where you got it or let it sink into the bogs! I'll have no

part of it!"

Cogline shook his wispy head. "No, Walker, I'll not take it

back. I carried it out of a realm of yesterdays filled with gray

haze and death to give to you. I am not your tormentor-never

that! I am the closest thing to a friend you will ever know, even

if you cannot yet accept it!" The weathered face softened. "I

said before that I came to help you. It is so. Read the book,

Walker. There are truths in there that need learning."

"I will not!'' the other cried furiously.

Cogline stared at the younger man for long minutes, then

sighed. "As you will. But the book remains. Read it or not, the

choice is yours. Destroy it even, if you wish." He drained off

the remainder of his ale, set the glass carefully on the table, and

looked down at his gnarled hands. "I am finished here."

He came around the table and stood before the other. "Good-

bye, Walker. I would stay if it would help. I would give you

whatever it is within my power to give you if you would take it.

But you are not yet ready. Another day, perhaps."

He turned then and disappeared into the night. He did not

look back as he went. He did not deviate from his course. Walker

Boh watched him fade away, a shadow gone back into the dark-

ness that had made him.

The cottage, as if by his going, turned empty and still.

"It will be dangerous, Par," Damson Rhee whispered. "If

there were a safer way, I should snatch it up in an instant.''

Par Ohmsford said nothing. They were deep within the Peo-

ple's Park once more, crouched in the shadows of a grove of

cedar just beyond the broad splash of light cast by the lamps of

the Gatehouse. It was midway toward dawn, the deepest, fullest

hours of sleep, when everything slowed to a crawl amid dreams

and rememberings. The Gatehouse rose up against the moonlit

darkness like massive blocks stacked one upon the other by a

careless child. Barred windows and bolted doors were shallow

indentations in a skin made rough and coarse by weather and

J. The walls warding the ravine ran off to either side and the

rossing bridge stretched away behind, a spider web connecting

to the tumbledown ruin of the old palace. A watch had been

stationed before the main entry where a pair of matched iron

portals stood closed behind a hinged grate of bars. The watch

dozed on its feet, barely awake in the enveloping stillness. No

sound or movement from the Gatehouse disturbed their rest.

"Can you remember enough of him to' conjure up a like-

ness? '' Damson asked, her words a brush of softness against his

ear. Par nodded. It was not likely he would ever forget the face

of Rimmer Dall.

She was quiet a moment. "If we are stopped, keep their

attention focused on yourself. I will deal with any threats."

He nodded once more. They waited, motionless within their

concealment, listening to the stillness, thinking their separate

thoughts. Par was frightened and filled with doubts, but he was

mostly determined. Damson and he were the only real chance

Coil and the others had. They would succeed in this risky busi-

ness because they must.

The Gate watch came awake as those patrolling the west wall

of the park appeared out of the night. The guards greeted each

other casually, spoke for a time, and then the watch from the

east wall appeared as well. A flask was passed around, pipes

were smoked, and then the guards dispersed. The patrols dis-

appeared east and west. The Gate watch resumed their station.

"Not yet," Damson whispered as Par shifted expectantly.

The minutes dragged by. The solitude that had shrouded the

Gatehouse earlier returned anew. The guards yawned and

shifted. One leaned wearily on the haft of his poleaxe.

"Now," Damson Rhee said. She caught the Valeman by the

shoulder and leaned into him. Her lips brushed his cheek.' 'Luck

to us. Par Ohmsford."

Then they were up and moving. They crossed into the circle

of light boldly, striding out of the shadows as if they were at

home in them, coming toward the Gatehouse from the direction

of the city. Par was already singing, weaving the wishsong's

spell through the night's stillness, filling the minds of the watch

with the images he wished them to see.

What they saw were two Seekers cloaked in forbidding black,

the taller of the two First Seeker Rimmer Dall.

They snapped to attention immediately, eyes forward, barely

looking at the two who approached. Par kept his voice even, the

magic weaving a constant spell of disguise in the minds of the

willing men.

"Open!" Damson Rhee snapped perfunctorily as they

reached the Gatehouse entry.

The guards could not comply quickly enough. They pulled

back the hinged grate, released the outer locks, and hammered

anxiously on the doors to alert the guards within. A tiny door

opened and Par shifted the focus of his concentration slightly.

Bleary eyes peered out in grouchy curiosity, widened, and the

locks released. The doors swung back, and Par and Damson

pushed inside.

They stood in a wardroom filled with weapons stacked in wall

racks and stunned Federation soldiers. The soldiers had been

playing cards and drinking, clearly convinced the night's excite-

ment was over. They were caught off guard by the appearance

of the Seekers and it showed. Par filled the room with the faint

hum of the wishsong, blanketing it momentarily with his magic.

It took everything he had.

Damson understood how tenuous was his hold. "Everyone

out!" she ordered, her voice flinty with anger.

The room emptied instantly. The entire squad dispersed

through adjoining doors and disappeared as if formed of smoke.

One guard remained, apparently the senior watch officer. He

stood uncertainly, stiffly, eyes averted, wishing he were any-

where else but where he was, yet unable to go.

"Take us to the prisoners," Damson said softly, standing at

the man's left shoulder.

The soldier cleared his throat after trying futilely to speak.

"I'll need my commander's permission," he ventured. Some

small sense of responsibility for his assigned duty yet remained

to him.

Damson kept her eyes fixed on the man's ear, forcing him

thereby to look elsewhere. "Where is your commander?" she

asked.

"Sleeping below," the man answered. "I'll wake him."

"No.'' Damson stayed his effort to depart. "We'll wake him

together."

They went through a heavily bolted door directly across the

room and started down a stairwell dimly lit by oil lamps. Par

kept the wishsong's music lingering in the frightened guard's

ears, teasing him with it, letting him see them as much bigger

than life and much more threatening. It was all going as planned,

the charade working exactly as Damson and he had hoped. Down

the empty stairs they went, circling from landing to landing, the

thudding of their boots the only sound in the hollow silence. At

the bottom of the well there were two doors. The one on the left

was open and led into a lighted corridor. The guard took them

through that door to another, stopped and knocked. When there

was no response, he knocked again, sharply.

"What is it, drat you?" a voice snapped.

"Open up at once, Commader!'' Damson replied in a voice

so cold it made even Par shiver.

There was a fumbling about and the door opened. The Fed-

eration commander with the short-cropped hair and the unpleas-

ant eyes stood there, his tunic half buttoned. Shock registered

on his face instantly as the wishsong's magic took hold. He saw

the Seekers. Worse, he saw Rimmer Dall.

He gave up trying to button his clothing and came quickly

into the hall. "I didn't expect anyone this soon. I'm sorry. Is

there a problem?''

"We'll discuss it later. Commander," Damson said severely

"For now, take us to the prisoners.''

For just an instant there was a flicker of doubt in the other

man's eyes, a shading of worry that perhaps everything was not

quite right. Par tightened the hold of the magic on the man's

mind, giving him a glimpse of the terror that awaited him should

he question the order. That glimpse was enough. The com-

mander hastened back down the corridor to the stairwell, pro-

duced a key from a ring at his waist, and opened the second

door.

They stepped into a passageway lit by a single lamp hung next

to the door. The commander took the lamp in hand and led the

way forward. Damson followed. Par motioned the watch officer

ahead of him and brought up the rear. His voice was beginning

to grow weary from the effort of maintaining the charade. It was

more difficult to project to several different points. He should

have sent the second man away.

The passageway was constructed of stone block and smelled

of mold and decay. Par realized that they were underground,

apparently beneath the ravine. Things of considerable size darted

from the light, and there were streaks of phosphorescence and

dampness in the stone.

They had only gone a short distance when they came to the

cells, a collection oflow-ceilinged cages, not high enough for a

man to stand in, dusty and cobwebbed, the doors constructed

of rusted iron bars. The entire company was crammed into the

first of these, crouched or sitting on a stone slab floor. Eyes

blinked in disbelief, widened as the lie of the magic played hide-

and-seek with the truth. Coil knew what was going on. He was

already on his feet, pushing to the door, motioning the others

up with him. Even Padishar obeyed the gesture, realizing what

was about to happen.

"Open the door," Damson ordered.

Again, the eyes of the Federation commander registered his

misgivings.

"Open the door. Commander," Damson repeated impa-

tiently. "Now!"

The commander fumbled for a second key within the cluster

at his belt, inserted it into the lock and tamed. The cell door

swung open. Instantly, Padishar Creel had the astonished man's

neck in his hands, tightening his grip until the other could

scarcely breathe. The watch officer stumbled back, tamed, tried

unsuccessfully to run over Par, was caught from behind by Mor-

gan, and hammered into unconsciousness.

The prisoners crowded into the narrow passageway, greeting

Par and Damson with handclasps and smiles. Padishar paid them

no heed. His attention was focused entirely on the hapless Fed-

eration commander.

"Who betrayed us?" he said with an impatient hiss.

The commander struggled to free himself, his face taming

bright red from the pressure on his throat.

"It was one of us, you said! Who?"

The commander choked. "Don't. . . know. Never saw . . ."

Padishar shook him. "Don't lie to me!"

"Never . . . Just a ... message."

"Who was it?" Padishar insisted, the cords on the back of

his hands gone white and hard.

The terrified man kicked out violently, and Padishar slammed

his head sharply against the stone wall. The commander went

limp, sagging like a rag doll.

Damson pulled Padishar about. "Enough of this," she said

evenly, ignoring the fury that still burned in the other's eyes.

"We're wasting time. He clearly doesn't know. Let's get out of

here. There's been enough risk-taking for one day."

The outlaw chief studied her wordlessly for a moment, then

let the unconscious man drop. "I'll find out anyway, I promise

you," he swore.

Par had never seen anyone so angry. But Damson ignored it.

She tamed and motioned for Par to get moving. The Valeman

led the way back up the stairwell, the others trailing behind him

in a staggered line. They had devised no plan for getting out

again when they had made the decision to come after their

friends. They had decided mat it would be best simply to take

what opportunity offered and make do.

Opportunity gave them everything they needed this night

The wardroom was empty when they reached it, and they movec

swiftly to pass through. Only Morgan paused, rummaging.

through the weapons racks until he had located the confiscatec

Sword of Leah. Smiling grimly, he strapped it across his bad

and went after the others.

Their luck held. The guards outside were overpowered before

they knew what was happening. All about, the night was silent,

the park empty, the patrols still completing their rounds, the city

asleep. The members of the little band melted into the shadows

and vanished.

As they hurried away. Damson swung Par around and gave

him a brilliant smile and a kiss full on the mouth. The kiss was

hungry and filled with promise.

Later, when there was time to reflect. Par Ohmsford savored

that moment. Yet it was not Damson's kiss that he remembered

most from the events of that night. It was the fact that the magic

of the wishsong had proved useful at last.

The druid history became for Walker Boh a challenge

that he was determined to win.

For three days after Cogline's departure, Walker ig-

nored the book. He left it on the dining table, still settled amid

its oilcloth wrappings and broken binding cord, its burnished

leather cover collecting motes of dust and gleaming faintly in

sunshine and lamplight. He disdained it. going about his busi-

ness as if it weren't there, pretending it was a part of his sur-

roundings that he could not remove, testing himself against its

temptation. He had thought at first to rid himself of it immedi-

ately, then decided against it. That would be too easy and too

quickly second-guessed later on. If he could withstand its lure

for a time, if he could live in its presence without giving in to

his understandable desire to uncover its secrets, then he could

dispose of it with a clean conscience. Cogline expected him

either to open it or dispose of it at once. He would do neither.

The old man would get no satisfaction in his efforts to manipu-

late Walker Boh.

The only one who paid any attention to the parcel was Rumor,

who sniffed at it from time to time but otherwise ignored it. The

three days passed and the book sat unopened.

But then something odd happened. On the fourth day of this

strange contest, Walker began to question his reasoning. Did it

really make any better sense to dispose of the book after a week

or even a month than it did to dispose of it immediately? Would

it matter either way? What did it demonstrate other than a sort

of perverse hardheadedness on his part? What sort of game was

he playing and for whose benefit was he playing it?

Walker mulled the matter over as the daylight hours waned

and darkness closed about, then sat staring at the book from

across the room while the fire in the hearth burned slowly to ash

and the midnight hour neared.

"I am not being strong," he whispered to himself. "I am

being frightened."

He considered the possibility in the silence of his thoughts.

Finally he stood up, crossed the room to the dining table anci

stopped. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he reached down

and picked up the Druid History. He hefted it experimentally.

Better to know the Demon that pursues you than to continue

to imagine him.

He crossed back to his reading chair and seated himself oner

more, the book settled on his lap. Rumor lifted his massive head

from where he slept in front of the fire, and his luminous eye

fixed on Walker. Walker stared back. The cat blinked and went

back to sleep.

Walker Boh opened the book.

He read it slowly, working his way through its thick parch-

ment pages with deliberate pacing, letting his eyes linger on the

gold edges and ornate calligraphy, determined that now that the

book was opened nothing should be missed. The silence after

midnight deepened, broken only by an occasional throaty sound

from the sleeping moor cat and the snapping of embers in the

fire. Only once he thought to wonder how Cogline had really

come by the book-surely not out of Paranor!-and then the

matter was forgotten as the recorded history caught him up and

swept him away as surely as if he were a leaf upon a windswept

ocean.

The time chronicled was that of Bremen when he was among

the last of the Druids, when the Warlock Lord and his minions

had destroyed nearly all of the members of the Council. There

were stories of the dark magic that had changed the rebel Druids

into the horrors they had become. There were accounts of its

varied uses, conjurings, and incantations that Bremen had un-

covered but had been smart enough to fear. All of the fright-

ening secrets of what the magic could do were touched upon,

interspersed with the cautions that so many who tried to master

the power would ignore. It was a time of upheaval and fright-

ening change in the Four Lands, and Bremen alone had under-

stood what was at stake.

Walker paged ahead, growing anxious now. Cogline had

meant for him to read something particular within this history.

Whatever it was, he had not yet come upon it.

The Skull Bearers had seized Paranor for themselves, the

chronicles related. Paranor, they had thought, would now be

their home. But the Warlock Lord had felt threatened there,

wary of latent magic within the stones of the Keep, within the

depths of the earth where the furnaces beneath the castle fortress

burned. So he had called the Skull Bearers to him and gone

north . . .

Walker frowned. He had forgotten that part. For a time

Paranor had been abandoned completely when it could have

belonged to the rebels. After all, the Second War of the Races

had dragged on for years.

He paged ahead once more, skimming the words, searching

without knowing exactly what it was he was searching for. He

had forgotten his resolve of earlier, his promise to himself that

he was not to be caught up in Cogline's snare. His curiosity and

intellect were too demanding to be stayed by caution. There

were secrets here that no man had set eyes upon for hundreds

of years, knowledge that only the Druids had enjoyed, dispens-

ing it to the Races as they perceived necessary and never oth-

erwise. Such power! How long had it been hidden from everyone

but Allanon, and before him Bremen, and before him Galaphile

and the first Druids, and before them . . . ?

He stopped reading, aware suddenly that the flow of the nar-

rative had changed. The script had turned smaller, more precise.

There were odd markings amid the words, runes that symbol-

ized gestures.

Walker Boh went cold to his bones. The silence that envel-

oped the room became enormous, an unending, suffocating

ocean.

Shades! he whispered in the darkest comer of his mind. It is

the invocation for the magic that sealed away Paranor!

His breathing sounded harsh in his own ears as he forced his

eyes away from the book. His pale face was taut. This was what

Cogline had meant for him to find-why, he didn't know-but

this was it. Now that he had found it, he wondered if he might

not be better off closing the book at once.

But that was the fear whispering in his ear again, he knew.

He lowered his eyes once more and began to read. The spell

was there, the invocation of magic that Allanon had used three

hundred years ago to close away Paranor from the world of men.

He found to his surprise that he understood it. His training with

Cogline was more complete than he would have imagined. He

finished the narrative of the spell and turned the page.

There was a single paragraph. It read-

Once removed, Paranor shall remain lost to the world of men

for the whole of time, sealed away and invisible within its

casting. One magic alone has the power to return it-that

singular Elfstone that is colored Black and was conceived by

the faerie people of the old world in the manner and form o

all Elfstones, combining nevertheless in one stone alone the

necessary properties of heart, mind, and body. Whosoever

shall have cause and right shall wield it-to its proper end.

That was all it said. Walker read on, found that the subject

matter abruptly changed and skipped back. He read the para-

graph again, slowly, searching for anything he might have

missed. There was no question in his mind that this was what

Cogline had meant for him to find. A Black Elfstone. A magic

that could retrieve lost Paranor. The means to the end of the

charge that the shade of Allanon had given him.

Bring back Paranor and restore the Druids. He could hear

again the words of the charge in his mind.

Of course, there were no longer any Druids. But maybe Al-

lanon intended that Cogline should take up the cause, once

Paranor was restored. It seemed logical despite the old man's

protestations that his time was past-but Walker was astute

enough to recognize that where Druids and their magics were

concerned logic often traveled a tortuous path.

He was two-thirds of the way through the history. He spent

another hour finishing it, found nothing further that he believed

was intended for him, and turned back again to the paragraph

on the Black Elfstone. Dawn was creeping out of the east, a

faint golden light in the dark horizon. Walker rubbed his eyes

and tried to think. Why was there so little digression on the

purpose and properties of this magic? What did it look like and

what could it do? It was a single stone instead of three-why?

How was it that no one had ever heard of it before?

The questions buzzed around inside his head like trapped

flies, annoying and at the same time intriguing him. He read the

paragraph several times more-read it, in fact, until he could

recite it from memory-and closed the book. Rumor stretched

and yawned on the floor in front of him, lifted his head and

blinked.

Talk to me, cat. Walker thought. There are always secrets

that only a cat knows. Maybe this is one of them.

But Rumor only got up and went outside, disappearing into

the fading shadows.

Walker fell asleep then and did not come awake again until

midday. He rose, bathed and dressed anew, ate a slow meal with

the closed book in front of him, and went out for a long walk.

He passed south through the valley to a favorite glade where a

stream rippled noisily over a meandering rock bed and emptied

into a pool that contained tiny fish colored brilliant red and blue.

He lingered there for a time, thinking, then returned again to

the cottage. He sat on the porch and watched the sun creep

westward in a haze of purple and scarlet.

"I should never have opened the book," he chided himself

softly, for its mystery had proven irresistible after all. "I should

have bound it back up and dropped it into the deepest hole I

could find."

But it was too late for that. He had read it and knowledge

acquired could not be readily forgotten. A sense of futility min-

gled with anger. He had thought it impossible that Paranor could

be restored. Now he knew that there was a magic that could do

exactly that. Once again, there was that sense of the inevitability

of things prophesied by the Druids.

Still, his life was his own, wasn't it? He needn't accept the

charge of Allanon's shade, whatever its viability.

But his curiosity was relentless. He found himself thinking

of the Black Elfstone, even when he tried not to. The Black

Elfstone was out there, somewhere, a forgotten magic. Where?

Where was it?

That and all the other questions pressed in about him as the

evening passed. He ate his dinner, walked again for a time, read

from the few precious books of his own library, wrote a bit in

his journal, and mostly thought of that single, beguiling para-

graph on the magic that would bring back Paranor.

He thought about it as he prepared for bed.

He was still thinking about it as midnight approached.

Teasingly, insinuatingly, it wormed about restlessly inside his

mind, suggesting this possibility and that, opening doors just a

crack into unlighted rooms, hinting at understandings and in-

sights that would bring him the knowledge he could not help but

crave.

And with it, perhaps, peace of mind.

His sleep was troubled and restless. The mystery of the Black

Elfstone was an irritation that would not be dispelled.

By morning, he had decided that he must do something about

it.

Par Ohmsford came awake that morning with a decision of

his own to make. It had been five days since Damson and he

had rescued Coil, Morgan, Padishar Creel, and the other two

outlaws from the cells of the Federation Gatehouse, and the

bunch of them had been on the run ever since. They had not

attempted to leave the city, certain that the gates would be closely

watched and the risk of discovery too great. They had not re-

turned to the basement of the weapons-maker's shop either, feel-

ing that it might have been compromised by their mysterious

betrayer. Instead, they had skipped from one shelter to the next,

never remaining more than one night, posting guards through-

out their brief stay at each, jumping at every sound they heard

and every shadow they saw.

Well, enough was enough. Par had decided that he was

through running.

He rose from the makeshift bed he occupied in the attic of

the grain house and glanced over at Coil next to him, who was

still asleep. The others were already up and presumably down-

stairs in the main warehouse, which was closed until the begin-

ning of the work week. Gingerly he crossed to the tiny, shuttered

window that let in what small amount of light the room enjoyed

and peered out. The street below was empty except for a stray

dog sniffing at a refuse bin and a beggar sleeping in the door of

the tin factory across the way. Clouds hung low and gray across

the skies, threatening rain before the close of the day.

When he crossed back to pull on his boots, he found Coil

awake and looking at him. His brother's coarse hair was ruffled

and his eyes were clouded with sleep and disgruntlement.

"Ho-hum, another day," Coil muttered and then yawned

hugely. "What fascinating storage room will we be visiting to-

day, do you suppose?"

"None, as far as I'm concerned." Par dropped down beside

him.

Coil's eyebrows arched. "That so? Have you told Padishar?''

"I'm on my way."

"I suppose you have an alternative in mind-to hiding out,

that is." Coil pushed himself up on one elbow. "Because I don't

think Padishar Creel is going to give you the time of day if you

don't. He hasn't been in the best of moods since he found out

he might not be as well-loved among his men as he thought he

was."

Par doubted that Padishar Creel ever had allowed himself to

become deluded enough to believe that he was well-loved by his

men but Coil was certainly right enough about the outlaw chief's

present temperament. His betrayal at the hands of one of his

own men had left him taciturn and bitter. He had retreated some-

where deep inside himself these several days past, still clearly

in command as he led them through the network of Federation

patrols and checkpoints that had been thrown out across the city,

still able to find them refuge when it seemed there could be

none, but at the same time had become uncharacteristically

withdrawn from everyone about him. Damson Rhee had come

with them, whether by choice or not Par still wasn't sure, but

even she could not penetrate the defenses the outlaw chief had

thrown up around himself. Except for exercising his authority

as leader, Padishar had removed himself from them as surely as

if he were no longer physically present.

Par shook his head. "Well, we have to do something besides

simply hop about from place to place for the rest of our lives."

He was feeling rather sullen about matters himself. "If there's

a need for a plan, Padishar should come up with one. Nothing's

being accomplished the way things stand now.''

Coil sat up and began dressing. "You probably don't want to

hear this. Par, but it may be time to rethink this whole business

of allying ourselves with the Movement. We might be better off

on our own again."

Par said nothing. They finished dressing and went downstairs

to find the others. There was cold bread, jam, and fruit for

breakfast, and they ate it hungrily. Par could not understand how

he could be so famished after doing so little. He listened as he

ate to Stasas and Drutt compare notes on hunting in the forests

of their respective homes somewhere below Varfleet. Morgan

was keeping watch by the doors leading into the warehouse and

Coil went to join him. Damson Rhee sat on an empty packing

crate nearby, carving something. He had seen little other during

the past several days; she was often out with Padishar, scout-

ing the city while the rest of them hid.

Padishar was nowhere to be seen.

After eating, Par went back upstairs to gather his things to-

gether, anticipating that, whatever the result of his confrontation

with Padishar, it would likely involve a move.

Damson followed him up. "You grow restless," she ob-

served when they were alone. She seated herself on the edge of

his pallet, shaking back her reddish mane. "An outlaw's life is

not what you had in mind, is it?"

He smiled faintly. "Sitting about in warehouses and base-

ments isn't what I had in mind. What is Padishar waiting around

for?"

She shrugged, "What we all wait around for from time to

time-that little voice buried somewhere deep inside that tells

us what to do next. It might be intuition or it might be common

sense or then again it might be the advent of circumstances

beyond our control.'' She gave him a wicked smile.' 'Is it speak-

ing now to you?''

"Something certainly is." He sat down next to her. "Why

are you still here, Damson? Does Padishar keep you?"

She laughed. "Hardly. I come and go as I please. He knows

I was not the one who betrayed him. Or you, I think."

"Then why stay?"

She considered him thoughtfully for a moment. "Maybe •

stay because you interest me," she said at last. She paused as

if she wanted to say more, but thought better of it. She smiled.

"I have never met anyone who uses real magic. Just the pretend

kind, like me."

She reached up and deftly plucked a'coin from behind his

ear. It was carved from cherry wood. She handed it to him. It

bore her likeness on one side and his on the other. He looked

up at her in surprise. "That's very good."

"Thank you." He thought she colored slightly. "You may

keep it with the other for good luck.''

He tucked the coin into his pocket. They sat silent for a time,

exchanging uncertain glances. "There isn't much difference,

you know, between your kind of magic and mine," he said

finally. "They both rely on illusion."

She shook her head. "No, Par. You are wrong. One is ai-

acquired skill, the other innate. Mine is learned and, once

learned, has become all it can. Yours is constantly growing, said

its lessons are limitless. Don't you see? My magic is a trade, a

way to make a living. Your magic is much more; it is a gift

around which you must build your life.''

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. She stood

up. "I have work to do. Finish your packing." She moved past

him and disappeared down the ladder.

The morning hours crawled past and still Padishar did not

return. Par busied himself doing nothing, growing anxious for

something-anything-to happen. Coil and Morgan drifted over

from time to time, and he spoke to them of his intention to

confront the outlaw chief. Neither seemed very optimistic about

his chances.

The skies grew more threatening, the wind picking up until

it made a rather mournful howl about the loose-fitting jambs and

shutters of the old building they were housed in, but still it didn't

rain. Card games were played to pass the time and topics of

conversation exhausted.

It was nearing midaftemoon when Padishar returned. He

slipped in through the front doors without a word, crossed the

room to Par and motioned him to follow. He took the Valeman

into a small office situated at the back of the main floor and shut

the door behind them.

When they were alone, he seemed at a loss for words.

"I have been thinking rather carefully about what we should

do," he said finally. "Or, if you prefer, what we should not do.

Any mistake we make now could be our last."

He pulled Par over to a bench that had been shoved back

against the wall and sat them both down. "There's the problem

of this traitor,'' he said quietly. His eyes were bright and hard

with something Par couldn't read. "I was certain at first that it

must be one of us. But it isn't me or Damson. Damson is above

suspicion. It isn't you. It might be your brother; but it isn't him

either, is it?"

He made it a statement of fact rather than a question. Par

shook his head in agreement.

"Or the Highlander.''

Par shook his head a second time.

"That leaves Ciba Blue, Stasas, and Drutt. Blue is likely

dead; that means that if he's the one, he was stupid enough to

let himself get killed in the bargain. Doesn't sound like Blue.

And the other two have been with me almost from the first. It

is inconceivable that either of them would betray me-whatever

the price offered or the reason supplied. Their hatred of the

Federation is nearly a match for my own.''

The muscles in his jaw tightened. "So perhaps it isn't any of

us after all. But who else could have discovered our plan? Do

you see what I mean? Your friend the Highlander mentioned this

morning something he had almost forgotten. When we first came

into the city and went down to the market stalls, he thought he

saw Hirehone. He thought then he was mistaken; now he won-

ders. Forgetting momentarily the fact that Hirehone held my life

in his hands any number of times before this and did not betray

me, how would he have gone about doing so now? No one,

outside of Damson and those I brought with me, knew the where,

when, how, or why of what we were about. Yet those Federation

soldiers were waitmg for us. They knew."

Par had forgotten momentarily his plan to tell Padishar he

was fed up with matters. "Then who was it?" he asked eagerly.

"Who could it have been?''

Padishar's smile was forced. "The question plagues me like

flies a sweating horse. I don't know yet. You may rest assured

that sooner or later I will. For, the moment, it doesn't matter.

We have bigger fish to fry.''

He leaned forward. "I spent the morning with a man I know,

a man who has access to what happens within the higher circles

of Federation authority in Tyrsis. He is a man I am certain of,

one I can trust. Even Damson doesn't know of him. He told me

some interesting things. It seems that you and Damson came to

my rescue just in time. Rimmer Dall arrived early the same

morning to see personally to my questioning and ultimate dis-

posal." The outlaw chief's voice emitted a sigh of satisfaction

"He was very disappointed to find I had left early."

Padishar shifted his weight and brought his head close

Par's. "I know you are impatient for something to happen. Par

I can read the signs of it in you as if you were a notice posted

on the wall by my bed. But haste results in an early demise in

this line of work, so caution is always necessary." He smiled

again. "But you and I, lad-we're a force to be reckoned with

in this business of the Federation and their game-playing. Fate

brought you to me, and she has something definite in mind for

the two of us, something that will shake the Federation and their

Coalition Council and their Seekers and all the rest right to the

foundation of their being!''

One hand clenched before Par's face, and the Valem

flinched back in spite of himself. "So much effort has been

into hiding all traces of the old People's Park-the Bridge

Sendic destroyed and rebuilt, the old park walled away, guards

running all about it like ants at a picnic dinner! Why? Because

there's something down there that they don't want anyone

know about! I can feel it, lad! I am as convinced of it now as

was when we went in five nights ago!"

"The Sword of Shannara?" Par whispered.

Padishar's smile was genuine this time. "I'd stake ten years

of my life on it! But there's still only one way to find out, isn't

there?"

He brought his hands up to grip Par's shoulders. The weath-

ered, sharp-boned face was a mask of cunning and ruthless

determination. The man who had led them for the past five days

had disappeared; this was the old Padishar Creel speaking.

"The man I spoke to, the one who has ears in the Federation

chambers, tells me that Rimmer Dall believes we've fled. He

thinks us back within the Parma Key. Whatever we came here

for we've given up on, he's decided. He lingers in the city only

because he has not decided what needs doing next. I suggest we

give him some direction, young Par."

Par's eyes widened. "What. . . ?"

„What he least expects, of course!'' Padishar anticipated his

question and pounced on it. "The last thing he and his black-

cloaked wolves will look for-that's what!" His eyes narrowed.

"We'll go back down into the Pit!"

Par quit breathing.

"We'll go back down before they have a chance to figure out

where we are or what we intend, back down into that most

carefully guarded hidey-hole, and if the Sword of Shannara is

there, why, we'll snatch it away from under their very noses!"

He brought an astonished Par to his feet with a jerk. "And

we'll do it tonight!"

XXII

It was nearing twilight by the time Walker Boh reached his

destination. He had been journeying northward from

Hearthstone since midmoming, traveling at a comfortable

pace, not hurrying, allowing himself adequate time to think

through what he was about to do. The skies had been clear and

filled with sunshine when he had set out, but as the day length-

ened toward evening clouds began to drift in from the west and

the air turned dense and gray. The land through which he trav-

eled was rugged, a series of twisting ridges and drops that broke

apart the symmetry of the forests and left the trees leaning and

bent like spikes driven randomly into the earth. Deadwood and

outcroppings of rock blocked the trail repeatedly and mist hung

shroudlike in the trees, trapped there it seemed, unmoving.

Walker stopped. He stared downward between two massive,

jagged ridgelines into a narrow valley that cradled a tiny lake.

The lake was barely visible, screened away by pine trees and a

thick concentration of mist that clung tenaciously above its sur-

face, swirling sluggishly, listlessly, haphazardly in the nearly

windless expanse.

The lake was the home of the Grimpond.

Walker did not pause long, starting down into the valley al-

most immediately. The mist closed quickly about him as he

went, filling his mouth with its metallic taste, clouding his vision

of what lay ahead. He ignored the sensations that attacked him-

the pressing closeness, the imagined whispers, the discomfiting

deadness-and kept his concentration focused on putting one

foot in front of the other. The air grew quickly cool, a damp

layer against his skin that smelled of things decayed. The pines

rose up about him, their numbers increasing until there was

nowhere they did not stand watch. Silence cloaked the valley

and there was only the soft scrape of his boots against the stone.

He could feel the eyes of the Grimpond watching.

It had been a long time.

Cogline had warned him early about the Grimpond. The

Grimpond was the shade that lived in the lake below, a shade

older than the world of the Four Lands itself. It claimed to pre-

date the Great Wars. It boasted that it had been alive in the age

of faerie. As with all shades, it had the ability to divine secrets

hidden from the living. There was magic at its command. But

it was a bitter and spiteful creature, trapped in this world for all

eternity for reasons no one knew. It could not die and it hated

the substanceless, empty existence it was forced to endure. It

vented itself on the humans who came to speak with it, teasing

them with riddles of the truths they sought to uncover, taunting

them with their mortality, showing them more of what they would

keep hidden than what they would reveal.

Brin Ohmsford had come to the Grimpond three hundred

years earlier to find a way into the Maelmord so that she might

confront the Hdatch. The shade toyed with her until she used

the wishsong to ensnare it by trickery, forcing it to reveal what

she wished to discover. The shade had never forgotten that; it

was the only time a human had bested it. Walker had heard the

story any number of times while growing up. It was only after

he came north to Hearthstone to live, forsaking the Ohmsford

name and legacy, that he discovered that the Grimpond was

waiting for him. Brin Ohmsford might be dead and gone, but

the Grimpond was alive forever and it had determined that

someone must be made to pay for its humiliation. If not the one

directly responsible, why, then another of that one's bloodline

would do nicely.

Cogline advised him to stay clear. The Grimpond would see

him destroyed if it was given the opportunity. His parents had

been given the same advice and had heeded it. But Walker Boh

had reached a point in his life when he was through making

excuses for who and what he was. He had come to the Wilderun

to escape his legacy; he did not intend to spend the rest of his

life wondering if there was something out there that could undo

him. Best to deal with the shade at once. He went looking for

the Grimpond. Because the shade never appeared to more than

one person at a time, Cogline was forced to remain behind.

When the confrontation came, it was memorable. It lasted for

almost six hours. During that time, the Grimpond assailed

Walker Boh with every imaginable trick and ploy at its disposal.

divulging real and imagined secrets of his present and his future

showering him with rhetoric designed to drive him into mad

ness, revealing to him visions of himself and those he loved that

were venomous and destructive. Walker Boh withstood it all

When the shade exhausted itself, it cursed Walker and disap-

peared back into the mist.

Walker returned to Hearthstone, feeling that the matter of time-

past was settled. He let the Grimpond alone and the Grimpond-

though it could be argued that he had no choice since he-

was bound to the waters of the lake-did the same to him.

Until today, Walker Boh had not been back.

He sighed. It would be more difficult this time, since this

time he wanted something from the shade. He could pretend

otherwise. He could keep to himself the truth of why he had

come-to learn from the Grimpond the whereabouts of the mys-

terious Black Elfstone. He could talk about this and that, or

assume some role that would confuse the creature, since it loved

games and the playing of them. But it was unlikely to make any

difference. Somehow the Grimpond always divined the reason

you were there.

Walker Boh felt the mist brush against him with the softness

of tiny fingers, clinging insistently. This was not going to be

pleasant.

He continued ahead as daylight failed and darkness closed

about. Shadows, where they could find purchase in the graying

haze, lengthened in shimmering parody of their makers. Walker

wrapped his cloak closer to his body, thinking through the words

he would say to the Grimpond, the arguments he would put

forth, the games he would play if forced to do so. He recounted

in his mind the events of his life that the shade was likely to play

upon-most of them drawn from his youth when he was discom-

fited by his differences and beset by his insecurities.

"Dark Uncle" they had called him even then-the playmates

of Par and Coil, their parents, and even people of the village of

Shady Vale that didn't know him. Dark for the color of his life

and being, this pale, withdrawn young man who could some-

times read minds, who could divine things that would happen

and even cause them to be so, who could understand so much

of what was hidden from others. Par and Coil's strange uncle,

without parents of his own, without a family that was really his,

without a history that he cared to share. Even the Ohmsford

name didn't seem to fit him. He was always the "Dark Uncle,"

somehow older than everyone else, not in years but in knowl-

edge. It wasn't knowledge he had learned; it was knowledge he

had been bom with. His father had tried to explain. It was the

legacy of the wishsong's magic that caused it. It manifested itself

this way. But it wouldn't last; it never did. It was just a stage he

must pass through because of who he was. But Par and Coil did

not have to pass through it, Walker would argue in reply. No,

only you and I, only the children of Brin Ohmsford, because we

hold the trust, his father would whisper. We are the chosen of

Allanon . . .

He swept the memories from his mind angrily, the bitterness

welling up anew. The "chosen of Allanon" had his father said?

The "cursed of Allanon" was more like it.

The trees gave way before him abruptly, startling him with the

suddenness of their disappearance. He stood at the edge

of the lake, its rocky shores wending into the mist on either

side, its waters lapping gently, endlessly in the silence. Walker

Boh straightened. His mind tightened and closed down upon

itself as if made of iron, his concentration focused, his thoughts

cleared.

A solitary statue, he waited.

There was movement in the fog, but it emanated from more

than one place. Walker tried to fix on it, but it was gone as

quickly as it had come. From somewhere far away, above the

haze that hung across the lake, beyond the rock walls of the

ridgelines enfolding the narrow valley, a voice whispered in

some empty heaven.

Dark Uncle.

Walker heard the words, tauntingly close and at the same time

nowhere he would ever be, not from inside his head or from any

other place discernible, but there nevertheless. He did not re-

spond to them. He continued to wait.

Then the scattered movements that had disturbed the mist

moments earlier focused themselves on a single point, coming

together in a colorless outline that stood upon the water and

began to advance. It took surer form as it came, growing in

size, becoming larger than the human shape it purported to rep-

resent, rising up as if it might crush anything that stood in its

way. Walker did not move. The ethereal shape became a shadow,

and the shadow became a person . . .

Walker Boh watched expressionlessly as the Grimpond stood

before him, suspended in the vapor, its face lifting out of shadow

to reveal who it had chosen to become.

"Have you come to accept my charge, Walker Boh?'' it asked.

Walker was startled in spite of his resolve. The dark, brooding

countenance of Allanon stared down at him.

The warehouse was hushed, its cavernous enclosure blan-

keted by stillness from floor to ceiling as six pairs of eyes fas-

tened intently on Padishar Creel.

He had just announced that they were going back down into

the Pit.

"We'll be doing it differently this time," he told them, his

raw-boned face fierce with determination, as if that alone might

persuade them to his cause. "No sneaking about through the

park with rope ladders this go-around. There's an entry into the

Pit from the lower levels of the Gatehouse. That's how we'll do

it. We'll go light into the Gatehouse, down into the Pit and back

out again-and no one the wiser."

Par risked a quick glance at the others. Coil, Morgan, Dam

son, the outlaws Stasas and Drutt-there was a mix of disbelief

and awe etched on their faces. What the outlaw chief was pro-

posing was outrageous; that he might succeed, even more so.

No one tried to interrupt. They wanted to hear how he was going

to do it.

"The Gatehouse watch changes shifts twice each day-once

at sunrise, once at sunset. Two shifts, six men each. A relief

comes in for each shift once a week, but on different days. Today

is one of those days. A relief for the day shift comes in just after

sunset. I know; I made it a point to find out."

His features creased with the familiar wolfish smile. "Today

a special detail will arrive a couple of hours before the shift

change because there's to be an inspection of the Gatehouse

quarters this evening at the change, and the commander of the

Gatehouse wants everything spotless. The day watch will be

happy enough to let the detail past to do its work, figuring it's

no skin off their noses." He paused. "That detail, of course,

will be us."

He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Once inside, we'll

dispatch the night watch. If we're quiet enough about it, the day

watch won't even know what's happening. They'll continue with

their rounds, doing part of our job for us-keeping everyone

outside. We'll bolt the door from within as a precaution in any

case. Then we'll go down through the Gatehouse stab's to the

lower levels and out into the Pit. It should still be light enough

to find what we're looking for fairly quickly. Once we have it,

we'll go back up the stairs and out the same way we came in."

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Drutt said, his

voice gravelly, "We'll be recognized, Padishar. Bound to be

some of the same soldiers there as when we were taken.''

Padishar shook his head. "There was a shift change three

days ago. That was the shift that was on duty when we were

seized."

"What about that commander?"

"Gone until the beginning of the work week. Just a duty

officer."

"We'd need Federation uniforms."

"We have them. I brought them in yesterday."

Drutt and Stasas exchanged glances. "Been thinking about

this for a time, have you?" the latter asked.

The outlaw chief laughed softly. "Since the moment we

walked out of those cells.''

Morgan, who had been seated on a bench next to Par, stood

up."If anything goes wrong and they discover what we're about,

they'll be all over the Gatehouse. We'll be trapped, Padishar."

The big man shook his head. "No, we won't. We'll carry in

grappling hooks and ropes with our cleaning equipment If we

can't go back the way we came, we'll climb out of the Pit using

those. The Federation will be concentrating on getting at us

through the Gatehouse entry. It won't even occur to them that

we don't intend to come back that way."

The questions died away. There was a long silence as the six

sifted through their doubts and fears and waited for something

inside to reassure them that the plan would work. Par found

himself thinking that there were an awful lot of things that could

go wrong.

"Well, what's it to be?" Padishar's patience gave out.

"Time's something we don't have to spare. We all know that

there's risks involved, but that's the nature of the business. I

want a decision. Do we try it or not? Who says we do? Who's

with me?"

Par listened to the silence lengthen. Coil and Morgan were

statues on the bench to either side of him. Stasas and Drutt, who

it had seemed might speak first, now had their eyes fixed firmly

on the floor. Damson was looking at Padishar, who in turn was

looking at her. Par realized all at once that no one was going to

say anything, that they were all waiting on him.

He surprised himself. He didn't even have to think about it

He simply said, "I'll go."

"Have you lost your mind?" Coil whispered urgently in his

ear. Stasas and Drutt had Padishar's momentary attention, d-'--

claring that they, too, would go. "Par, this was our chance to

get out!''

Par leaned close to him. "He's doing this for me, don't you

see? I'm the one who wants to find the Sword! I can't let Padishar

take all the risks! I have to go!"

Coil shook his head helplessly. Morgan, with a wink at Pi-

over Coil's shoulder, cast his vote in favor of going as well. Coil

just raised his hand wordlessly and nodded.

That left Damson. Padishar had his sharp gaze fixed on her

waiting. It suddenly occurred to Par that Padishar needn't have

asked who wanted to go with him; he simply could have ordered

it. Perhaps in asking he was also testing. There was still a traitor

loose. Padishar had told him earlier that he didn't believe it was

any of them-but he might have it in his mind to make sure.

"I will wait for you in the park," Damson Rhee said, and

everyone stared at her. She did not seem to notice. "I would

have to disguise myself as a man in order to go in with you. Tha-

is one more risk you would be taking-and to what end? There

is nothing I can offer by being with you. If there is trouble, I

will be of better use to you on the outside.''

Padishar's smile was immediately disarming. "Your thinking

is correct as usual. Damson. You will wait in the park."

It seemed to Par that he was a little too quick to agree.

Geysers exploded and died from the flat, gray surface of the

lake, and the spray felt like bits of ice where it landed on Walkei

Boh's skin.

"Tell me why you come here. Dark Uncle?'' Allanon's shade

whispered.

Walker felt the chill bum away as his determination caughr

fire. "I need tell you nothing," he replied. "You are not Allanon.

You are only the Grimpond."

Allanon's visage shimmered and faded in the half-light, re-

placed by Walker's own. The Grimpond emitted a hollow laugh.

"I am you, Walker Boh. Nothing more and nothing less. Do

you recognize yourself?"

His face went through a flurry of transformations-Walker as

a child, as a boy, as a youth, as a man. The images came and

went so quickly that Walker could barely register them. It was

somehow terrifying to watch the phases of his life pass by so

quickly. He forced himself to remain calm.

"Will you speak with me, Grimpond?" he asked.

"Will you speak with yourself?" came the reply.

Walker took a deep breath. "I will. But for what purpose

should I do so? There is nothing to talk about with myself. I

already know all that I have to say."

"Ah, as do I, Walker. As do I."

The Grimpond shrank until it was the same size as Walker.

It kept his face, taunting him with it, letting it reveal flashes of

the age that would one day claim it, giving it a beaten cast as if

to demonstrate the futility of his life.

"I know why you have come to me," the Grimpond said

suddenly. "I know the private-most thoughts of your mind, the

little secrets you would keep even from yourself. There need be

no games between us. Walker Boh. You are surely my equal in

the playing of them, and I have no wish to do battle with you

again. You have come to ask where you must go to find the

Black Elfstone. Fair enough. I will tell you."

Immediately, Walker mistrusted the shade. The Grimpond

never volunteered anything without twisting it. He nodded in

response, but said nothing.

"How sad you seem, Walker," soothed the shade. "No ju-

bilation at my submission, no elation that you will have what

you want? Is it so difficult then to admit that you have dispensed

with pride and self-resolution, that you have forsaken your lofty

principles, that you have been won over after all to the Druid

cause?"

Walker stiffened in spite of himself. "You misread matters,

Grimpond. Nothing has been decided."

"Oh, yes. Dark Uncle! Everything has been decided! Make

no mistake. Your life weaves out before my eyes as a thread

straight and undeviating, the years a finite number, their course

determined. You are caught in the snare of the Druid's words.

His legacy to Brin Ohmsford becomes your own, whether you

would have it so or not. You have been shaped!"

"Tell me, then, of the Black Elfstone," Walker tried.

"All in good time. Patience, now."

The words died away into stillness, the Grimpond shifting

within its covering of mist. Daylight had faded into darkness,

the gray turned black, the moon and stars shut away by the

valley's thick haze. Yet there was light where Walker stood, a

phosphorescence given off by the waters beneath the air on which

the Grimpond floated, a dull and shallow glow that played wick-

edly through the night.

"So much effort given over to escaping the Druids," the

Grimpond said softly. "What foolishness." Walker's face dis-

sipated and was replaced by his father's. His father spoke. "Re-

member, Walker, that we are the bearers of Allanon's trust. He

gave it to Brin Ohmsford as he lay dying, to be passed from one

generation to the next, to be handed down until it was needed,

sometime far, far in the distant future ..."

His father's visage leered at him. "Perhaps now?"

Images flared to life above him, borne on the air as if tapes-

tries threaded on a frame, woven in the fabric of the mist. One

after another they appeared, brilliant with color, filled with the

texture and depth of real life.

Walker took a step back, startled. He saw himself in the im-

ages, anger and defiance in his face, his feet positioned on clouds

above the cringing forms of Par and Wren and the others of the

little company who had gathered at the Hadeshom to meet with

the shade of Allanon. Thunder rolled out of a darkness that

welled away into the skies overhead, and lightning flared in

jagged streaks. Walker's voice was a hiss amid the rumble and

the flash, the words his own, spoken as if out of his memory. I

would sooner cut off my hand than see the Druids come again!

And then he lilted his arm to reveal that his hand, indeed, was

gone.

The vision faded, then sharpened anew. He saw himself again,

this time on a high, empty ridgeline that looked out across for-

ever. The whole world spread away below him, the nations and

their Races, the creatures of land and water, the lives of every-

one and everything that were. Wind whipped at his black robes

and whistled ferociously in his ears. There was a girl with him.

She was woman and child both, a magical being, a creature of

impossible beauty. She stunned him with the intensity of her

gaze, depthless black eyes from which he could not turn away.

Her long, silver hair flowed from her head in a shimmering

mass. She reached for him, needing his balance to keep her

footing on the treacherous rock-and he thrust her violently

away. She fell, tumbling into the abyss below, soundless as she

shrank from sight, silver hair fading into a ribbon of brightness

and then into nothing at all.

Again, the vision faded, then returned. He saw himself a third

time, now in a castle fortress that was empty of life and gray

with disuse. Death stalked him relentlessly, creeping through

walls and along corridors, cold fingers probing for signs of his

life. He felt the need to run from it, knew that he must if he

were to survive-and yet he couldn't. He stood immobile, let-

ting Death approach him, reach for him, close about him. As

his life ended, the cold filled him, and he saw that a dark, robed

shape stood behind him, holding him fast, preventing him from

fleeing. The shape bore the face of Allanon.

The visions disappeared, the colors faded, and the grayness

returned, shifting sluggishly in the lake's phosphorescent glow.

The Grimpond brought its robed arms downward slowly, and

the lake hissed and spit with dissatisfaction. Walker Boh flinched

from the spray that cascaded down upon him.

"What say you. Dark Uncle?" the Grimpond whispered. It

bore Walker's pale face once more.

"That you play games still," Walker said quietly. "That you

show lies and half-truths designed to taunt me. That you have

shown me nothing of the Black Elfstone."

"Have I not?" The Grimpond shimmered darkly. "Is it all

a game, do you think? Lies and half-truths only?" The laugh

was mirthless. "You must think what you will. Walker Boh. But

I see a future that is hidden from you, and it would be foolish

to believe I would show you none of it. Remember, Walker. I

am you, the telling of who and what you are-just as I am for

all who come to speak with me."

Walker shook his head. "No, Grimpond, you can never be

me. You can never be anyone but who you are-a shade without

identity, without being, exiled to this patch of water for all eter-

nity. Nothing you do, no game you play, can ever change that."

The Grimpond sent spray hissing skyward, anger in its voice.

"Then go from me, Dark Uncle! Take with you what you came

for and go!" The visage of Walker disappeared and was replaced

by a death's head. "You think my fate has nothing to do with

you? Beware! There is more of me in you than you would care

to know!"

Robes flared wide, throwing shards of dull light into the mist.

"Hear me. Walker! Hear me! You wish to know of the Black

Elfstone? Then listen! Darkness hides it, a black that light can

never penetrate, where eyes turn a man to stone and voices turn

him mad! Beyond, where only the dead lie, is a pocket carved

with runes, the signs of time's passing. Within that pocket lies

the Stone!"

The death's head disappeared into nothingness, and only the

robes remained, hanging empty against the fog. "I have given

you what you wish. Dark Uncle,'' the shade whispered, its voice

filled with loathing. "I have done so because the gift will destroy

you. Die, and you will end your cursed line, the last of it! How

I long to see that happen! Go, now! Leave me! I bid you swift

journey to your doom!"

The Grimpond faded into the mist and was gone. The light

it had brought with it dissipated as well. Darkness cloaked the

whole of the lake and the shore surrounding it, and Walker was

left momentarily sightless. He stood where he was, waiting for

his vision to clear, feeling the chill touch of the mist as it brushed

against his skin. The Grimpond's laughter echoed in the silence

of his mind.

Dark Uncle came the harsh whisper.

He cast himself in stone against it. He sheathed himself in

iron.

When his vision returned, and he could make out the vague

shape of the trees behind him, he turned from the lake with his

cloak wrapped close about him and walked away.

XXIIl

Afternoon slid toward evening. A slow, easy rain fell on

me city of Tyrsis, washing its dusty streets, leaving

them slick and glistening in me fading light. Storm

clouds brushed low against the trees of the People's Park, trail-

ing downward in ragged streamers to curi about the roughened

trunks. The park was empty, silent save for me steady patter of

the rain.

Then footsteps broke the silence, a heavy thudding of boots,

and a Federation squad of six materialized out of the gray,

cloaked and hooded, equipment packs rattling. A pair of black-

birds perched on a peeling birch glanced over alertly. A dog

rummaging amid the garbage slunk quickly away. From a still-

dry doorway, a homeless child huddled against the chill and

peered out, caution mirrored in its eyes. No other notice was

taken. The streets were deserted, the city hunkered down and

unseeing in the damp, unpleasant gloom.

Padishar Creel took his little band across the circle of the

Tyrsian Way and into the park. Wrapped against the weather,

they were indistinguishable one from the other, one from anyone

else. They had come all the way from their warehouse lair with-

out challenge. They had barely seen another living thing.

Everything was going exactly as planned.

Par Ohmsford watched the faint, dark outline of the Gate-

house appear through the trees and felt his mind fold in upon

itself. He hunched his shoulders against the chill of the rain and

the heat of the sweat that ran beneath his clothing. He was

trapped within himself and yet at the same time able to watch

from without as if disembodied. The way forward was far darker

than the day's light made it seem. He had stumbled into a tunnel,

its walls round and twisting and so smooth he could not find a

grip. He was falling, his momentum carrying him relentlessly

toward the terror he sensed waiting ahead.

He was in danger of losing control of himself, he knew. He

had been afraid before, yes-when Coil and he fled Varfleet,

when the woodswoman appeared to confront them below the

Runne, when Cogline told them what they must do, when they

crossed me Rainbow Lake in night and fog with Morgan, when

they fought the giant in the forests of the Anar, when they ran

from the Gnawl in the Wolfsktaag, and when the Spider Gnomes

and the giri-child who was a Shadowen seized him. He had been

afraid when AUanon had come. But his fear men and since was

nothing compared to what it was now. He was terrified.

He swallowed against the dryness he felt building in his throat

and tried to tell himself he was all right. The feeling had come

over him quite suddenly, as if it were a creature that had lain in

wait along the rain-soaked streets of the city, its tentacles lashing

out to snare him. Now he was caught up in a grip that bound

him like iron and there was no way to break free. It was pointless

to say anything to the others of what he was experiencing. After

all, what could he say that would have any meaning-that he

was frightened, even terrified? And what, did he suppose, were

they?

A gust of wind shook the water-laden trees and showered him

with droplets. He licked the water from his Ups, the moisture

cool and welcome. Coil was a bulky shape immediately ahead,

Morgan another one behind. Shadows danced and played about

him, nipping at his fading courage. This was a mistake, he heard

himself whispering from somewhere deep inside. His skin

prickled with the certainty of it.

He had a sense of his own mortality that had been missing

before, locked away in some forgotten storeroom of his mind,

kept there, he supposed, because it was so frightening to look

upon. It seemed to him in retrospect as if he had treated every-

thing that had gone before as some sort of game. That was

ridiculous, he knew; yet some part of it was true. He had gone

charging about the countryside, a self-declared hero in the mold

of those in the stories he sang about, determined to confront the

reality of his dreams, decided that he would know the truth of

who and what he was. He had thought himself in control of his

destiny; he realized now that he was not.

Visions of what had been swept through his mind in swift

disarray, chasing one another with vicious purpose. He had car-

omed from one mishap to the next, he saw-always wrongly

believing that his meddling was somehow useful. In truth, what

had he accomplished? He was an outlaw running for his life.

His parents were prisoners in their own home. Walker believed

him a fool. Wren had abandoned him. Coil and Morgan stayed

with him only because they felt he needed looking after. Padi-

shar Creel believed him something he could never be. Worst of

all as a direct result of his misguided decision to accept the

charge of a man three hundred years dead, five men were about

to offer up their lives.

"Watch yourself," he had cautioned Coil in a vain attempt

at humor as they departed their warehouse concealment.

"Wouldn't want you tripping over those feet, duck's weather or

no."

Coil had sniffed. "Just keep your ears pricked. Shouldn't be

hard for someone like you."

Teasing, playing at being brave. Fooling no one.

Allanon! He breathed the Druid's name like a prayer in the

silence of his mind. Why don't you help me ?

But a shade, he knew, could help no one. Help could come

only from the living.

There was no more time to think, to agonize over decisions

past making, or to lament those already made. The trees broke

apart, and the Gatehouse was before them. A pair of Federation

guards standing watch stiffened as the patrol approached. Pad-

ishar never hesitated. He went directly to them, informed them

of the patrol's purpose, joked about the weather, and had the

doors open within moments. In a knot of lowered heads and

tightened cloaks, the little band hastened inside.

The men of the night watch were gathered about a wooden

table playing cards, six of them, heads barely lifting at the arrival

of the newcomers. The watch commander was nowhere to be

seen.

Padishar glanced over his shoulder, nodded faintly to Mor-

gan, Stasas, and Drutt, and motioned them to spread out about

the table. As they did so, one of the players glanced up suspi-

ciously.

"Who're you?" he demanded.

"Clean-up detail,'' Padishar answered. He moved around be-

hind the speaker and bent over to read his cards. "That's a losing

hand, friend."

"Back off, you're dripping on me," the other complained.

Padishar hit him on the temple with his fist, and the man

dropped like a stone. A second followed almost as fast. The

guards surged to their feet, shouting, but the outlaws and Mor-

gan felled them all in seconds. Par and Coil began pulling ropes

and strips of cloth from their packs.

"Drag them into the sleeping quarters, tie and gag them,"

Padishar whispered. "Make sure they can't escape.''

There was a quick knock at the door. Padishar waited until

the guards were dispatched, then cracked the peep window. Ev-

erything was fine, he assured the guards without, who thought

they might have heard something. The card game was breaking

up; everyone thought it would be best to start getting things in

order.

He closed the window with a reassuring smile.

After the men of the night watch were secured in the sleeping

quarters, Padishar closed the door and bolted it. He hesitated,

then ordered the locks to the entry doors thrown as well. No

point in taking any chances, he declared. They couldn't afford

to leave any of their company behind to make certain they were

not disturbed.

With oil lamps to guide them, they descended through the

gloom of the stairwell to the lower levels of the Gatehouse, the

sound of the rain lost behind the heavy stone. The dampness

penetrated, though, so chill that Par found himself shivering.

He followed after the others in a daze, prepared to do whatever

was necessary, his mind focused on putting one foot in front of

the other until they were out of mere. There was no reason to

be frightened, he kept telling himself. It would all be over quick

enough.

At the lower level, they found the watch commander sleep-

ing-a new man, different from the one that had been waiting

for them when they bad tried to slip over the ravine wall. This

one fared no better. They subdued him without effort, bound

and gagged him, and locked him in his room.

"Leave the lamps,'' Padishar ordered.

They bypassed the watch commander's chambers and went

down to the end of the hall. A single, ironbound door stood

closed before them, twice as high as their tallest, the angular

Drutt. A massive handle, emblazoned with the wolf's head in-

signe of the Seekers, jutted out. Padishar reached down with

both hands and twisted. The latch gave, the door slid open.

Murk and darkness filled the gap, and the stench of decay and

mold slithered in.

"Stay close, now," Padishar whispered over his shoulder,

his eyes dangerous, and stepped out into the gloom.

Coil turned long enough to reach back and squeeze Par's

shoulder, then followed.

They stood in a forest of jumbled tree trunks, matted brush,

vines, brambles, and impenetrable mist. The thick, sodden can-

opy of the treetops overhead all but shut out the little daylight

that remained. Mud oozed and sucked in tiny bogs all about

them. Creatures flew in ragged jumps through the jungle-birds

or something less pleasant, they couldn't tell which. Smells as-

sailed them-the decay and me mold, but something more as

well, something even less tolerable. Sounds rose out of the murk,

distant, indistinguishable, threatening. The Pit was a well of

endless gloom.

Every nerve ending on Par Ohmsford's body screamed at him

to get out of there.

Padishar motioned them ahead. Drutt followed, then Coil,

Par, Morgan, and Stasas, a line of rain-soaked forms. They

picked their way forward slowly, following the edge of the ra-

vine, moving in the direction of the rubble from the old Bridge

of Sendic. Par and Coil carried me grappling hooks and ropes,

the others drawn weapons. Par glanced over his shoulder mo-

mentarily and saw the light from the open door leading back

into the Gatehouse disappear into the fog. He saw the Sword of

Leah glint dully in Morgan's hand, the rain trickling off its pol-

ished metal.

The earth they walked upon was soft and yielding, but it held

them as they pushed steadily into the gloom. The Pit had the

feel of a giant maw, open and waiting, smelling of things already

eaten, its breath the mist that closed them away. Things wriggled

and crawled through the pools of stagnant water, oozed down

decaying logs, and flashed through bits of scrub like quicksilver.

The silence was deafening; even the earlier sounds had disap-

peared at their approach. There was only the rain, slow and

steady, seeping downward through the murk.

They walked for what seemed to Par a very long time. The

minutes stretched away in an endless parade until there was no

longer either beginning or end to them. How far could it be to

the fallen bridge, he wondered? Surely they should be there by

now. He felt trapped within the Pit, the wall of the ravine on his

left, the trees and mist to his right, gloom and rain overhead and

all about. The black cloaks of his companions gave them the

look of mourners at a funeral, buriers of the dead.

Then Padishar Creel stopped, listening. Par had heard it, too-

a sort of hissing sound from somewhere deep within the murk,

like steam escaping from a fissure. The others craned their neck

and peered unsuccessfully about. The hissing stopped, the si-

lence filling again with the sound of their breathing and the rail

Padishar's broadsword glimmered as he motioned them ahead

once more. He took them more quickly now, as if sensing that

all was not right, that speed might have to take precedence over

caution. Scores of massive, glistening trunks came and went

silent sentinels in the gloom. The light was fading rapidly, tumeri

from gray to cobalt.

Par sensed suddenly that something was watching them. The

hair on the back of his neck stiffened with the feel of its gaze,

and he glanced about hurriedly. Nothing moved in the mist

nothing showed.

"What is it?" Morgan whispered in his ear, but he could

only shake his head.

Then the stone blocks of the shattered Bridge of Sendic came

into view, bulky and misshapen as they jutted like massive teeth

from the tangled forest. Padishar hurried forward, the others

following. They moved away from the ravine wall and deeper

into the trees. The Pit seemed to swallow them in its mist and

dark. Bridge sections lay scattered amid the stone rubble be

neath the covering of the forest, moss-grown and worn, spectral

in the fading light.

Par took a deep breath. The Sword of Shannara had been

embedded blade downward in a block of red marble and placed

in a vault beneath the protective span of the Bridge of Sendic,

the old legends told.

It had to be here, somewhere close.

He hesitated. The Sword was embedded in red marble; could

he free it? Could he even enter me vault?

His eyes searched the mist. What if it was buried beneath the

rubble of the bridge? How would they reach it then?

So many unanswered questions, he thought, feeling suddenly

desperate. Why hadn't he asked them before? Why hadn't he

considered the possibilities?

The cliffs loomed faintly through the murky haze. He could

see me west comer of the crumbling palace of the Kings of

Callahom, a dark shadow through a break in the trees. He felt

his throat tighten. They were almost to the far wall of the ravine.

They were almost out of places to look.

I won't leave without the Sword, he swore wordlessly. No

matter what it takes, I won't! The fire of his conviction burned

through him as if to seal the covenant.

Then the hissing sounded again, much closer now. It seemed

to be coming from more than one direction. Padishar slowed

and stopped, turning guardedly. With Drutt and Stasas on either

side, he stepped out a few paces to act as a screen for the Vale-

men and the Highlander, then began inching cautiously along

the fringe of the broken stone.

The hissing grew louder, more distinct. It was no longer hiss-

ing. It was breathing.

Par's eyes searched the daikness frantically. Something was

coming for them, the same something that had devoured Ciba

Blue and all those before him who had gone down into the Pit

and not come out again. His certainty of it was terrifying. Yet

it wasn't for their stalker that he searched. It was for the vault

that held the Sword of Shannara. He was desperate now to find

it. He could see it suddenly in his mind, as clear as if it were a

picture drawn and mounted for his private viewing. He groped

for it uncertainly, within his mind, then without in the mist and

the da*.

Something strange began to happen to him.

He felt a tightening within that seemed grounded in the magic

of me wishsong. It was a pulling, a tugging that wrenched against

shackles he could neither see nor understand. He felt a pressure

building within himself that he had never experienced before.

Coil saw his face and went pale. "Par?" he whispered anx-

iously and shook him.

Red pinpricks of light appeared in the mist all about them,

burning like tiny fires in the damp. They shifted and winked

and drew closer. Faces materialized, no longer human, the flesh

decaying and half-eaten, the features twisted and fouled. Bodies

shambled out of the night, some massive, some gnarled, all

misshapen beyond belief. It was as if they had been stretched

and wrenched about to see what could be made of them. Most

walked bent over; some crawled on all fours.

They closed about the little company in seconds. They were

things out of some loathsome nightmare, the fragments and

shards of sleep's horror come into the world of waking. Dark,

substanceless wraiths flitted in and out of their bodies, through

mouths and eyes, from the pores of skin and the bristles of hair.

Shadowen!

The pressure inside Par Ohmsford grew unbearable. He felt

something drop away in the pit of his stomach. He was seeing

the vision in his dreams come alive, the dark world of animal-

like humans and Shadowen masters. It was seeing Allanon's

promise come to pass.

The pressure broke free. He screamed, freezing his compan-

ions with the sharpness of his cry. The sound took form and

became words. He sang, the wishsong ripping through the air

as if a flame, the magic lighting up the daikness. The Shadowen

jericed away, their faces horrible in the unexpected glare, the

lesions and cuts on their bodies vivid streaks of scariet. Par

stiffened, flooded with a power he had never known the wish-

song to possess. He was aware of a vision within his mind-a

vision of the Sword of Shannara.

The light from the magic, only an illusion at first, was sud-

denly real. It brightened, lancing the daikness in a way Par

found strangely familiar, flaring with intensity as it probed the

gloom. It twisted and turned like a captured thing trying to

escape, winding past the stone wreckage of the fallen Bridge of

Sendic, leaping across the carcasses of fallen trees, burning

through the ragged brush to where a singular stone chamber sat

alone amid a tangle of vines and grasses not a hundred yards

from where he stood.

He felt a surge of elation race through him.

There!

The word hissed in the white silence of his mind, cocooned

away from the magic and the chaos. He saw weathered black

stone, the light of his magic burning into its peeked surface,

scouring its cracks and crevices, picking out the scrolled words

carved into its facing:

Herein lies the heart and soul of the nations.

Their right to be free men,

Their desire to live in peace,

Their courage . . .

His strength gave out suddenly before he could complete his

reading, and the magic flared sharply and died into blackness,

gone as quickly as it had come. He staggered backward with a

cry, and Coil caught him in his arms. Par couldn't hear him. He

couldn't hear anything but the strange ringing that was the wish-

song's residue, the leavings of a magic he now realized he had

not yet begun to understand.

And in his mind the vision lingered, a shimmering image at

the forefront of his thoughts-all that remained of what mo-

ments earlier the magic had uncovered in the mist and dark.

The weathered stone vault. The familiar words in scroll.

The Sword of Shannara.

Then the ringing stopped, the vision disappeared, and he was

back in the Pit, drowning in weakness. The Shadowen were

closing, shambling forward from all directions to trap them

against the stone of the bridge. Padishar stepped forward, tall

and forbidding, to confront the nearest, a huge bearish thing

with talons for hands. It reached for him and he cut at it with

the broadsword-once, twice, a thud time-the strokes so rapid

par could barely register them. The creature sagged back, limbs

drooping-but it did not fall. It barely seemed aware of what

had been done to it, its eyes fixed, its features twisting with

some inner torment.

Par watched the Shadowen through glazed eyes. Its limbs

reconnected in me manner of the giant they had fought in me

Anar.

"Padishar, the Sword . . ."he started to say, but the outlaw

chief was already shouting, directing them back the way they

had come, retreating along the wall of stone. "No!" Parshrieked

in dismay. He could not put into words the certainty he felt.

They had to reach the Sword. He lurched up, trying to break

free of Coil, but his brother held him fast, dragging him along

with me others.

The Shadowen attacked in a shambling rush. Stasas went

down, dragged beyond the reach of his companions. His throat

was ripped out and then something dark entered his body while

he was still alive, gasping. It jerked him upright, brought him

about to face them, and he became another attacker. The com-

pany retreated, swords slashing. Ciba Blue appeared-or what

was left of him. Impossibly strong, he blocked Drutt's sword,

caught hold of his arms, and wrapped himself about his former

comrade like a leech. The outlaw shrieked in pain as first one

arm and then the other was ripped from his body. His head went

last. He was left behind, Ciba Blue's remains still fastened to

him, feeding.

Padishar was alone then, besieged on all sides. He would have

been dead if he were not so quick and so strong. He feinted and

slashed, dodging the fingers that grappled for him, twisting to

stay free. Hopelessly outnumbered, he began to give ground

quickly.

It was Morgan Leah who saved him. Abandoning his role as

defender of Par and Coil, the Highlander rushed to the aid of

the outlaw chief. His red hair flying, he charged into the midst

of the Shadowen. The Sword of Leah arced downward, catching

fire as it struck. Magic surged through the blade and into the

dark things, burning them to ash. Two fell, three, then more.

Padishar fought relentlessly beside him, and together they began

cutting a path through the gathering of eyes, calling wildly for

Par and Coil to follow. The Valemen stumbled after them, avoid-

ing the grasp of Shadowen who had slipped behind. Par aban-

doned all hope of reaching the Sword. Two of their number were

already dead; the rest of them would be killed as well if they

didn't get out of there at once.

Back toward the wall of the ravine they staggered, warding

off the Shadowen as they went, the magic of the Sword of Leah

keeping the creatures at bay. They seemed to be everywhere, as

if the Pit were a nest in which they bred. Like the woodswoman

and the giant, they seemed impervious to any damage done to

them by conventional weapons. Only Morgan could hurt them

his was magic that they could not withstand.

The retreat was agonizingly slow. Morgan grew weary, and

as his own strength drained away so did the power of the Sword

of Leah. They ran when they could, but more and more fre-

quently the Shadowen blocked their way. Par attempted in vain

to invoke the magic of the wishsong; it simply would not come

He tried not to think of what that meant, still struggling to make

sense of what had occurred, to understand how the magic had

broken free. Even in flight, his mind wrestled with the memory

How could he have lost control like that? How could the magic

have provided him with that strange light, a thing that was real

and not illusion. Had he simply willed it to be? What was it that

had happened to him?

Somehow they reached the wall of the ravine and sagged

wearily against it. Shouts sounded from the park above and

torches flared. Their battle with the Shadowen had alerted the

Federation watch, in moments, the Gatehouse would be under

siege.

"The grappling hooks!" Padishar gasped.

Par had lost his, but Coil's was still slung across his shoulder.

The Valeman stepped back, uncoiled the rope, and heaved the

heavy iron skyward. It flew out of sight and caught. Coil tested

it with his weight and it held.

Padishar braced Par against the wall, and their eyes met. Be-

hind him, the forests of the Pit were momentarily empty.

"Climb," he ordered roughly. His breath came in short gasps.

HeJMilled Coil to him as well. "Both of you. Climb until you

are safely out, then flee into the park. Damson will find you and

take you back to the Jut."

"Damson," Par repeated dumbly.

"Forget your suspicions and mine as well,'' the outlaw whis-

pered harshly. There was a glint of something sad in his hard

eyes. "Trust her, lad-she is the better part of me!"

The Shadowen materialized once more out of the murk, their

breathing a slow hiss in the night air. Morgan had already pushed

out from the wall to face them. "Get out of here, Par," he called

back over his shoulder.

"Climb!" Padishar Creel snapped. "Now!"

"But you. . ."Par began.

"Shades!" the other exploded. "I remain with the High-

lander to see that you escape! Don't waste the gesture!" He

caught Par roughly by the shoulders. "Whatever happens to any

of me rest of us, you must live! The Shannara magic is what

will win this fight one day, and you are the one who must wield

it! Now go!"

Coil took charge then, half-pushing and half-lifting Par onto

the rope. It was knotted, and the Valeman found an easy grip.

He began to climb, tears of frustration filling his eyes. Coil

followed him up, urging him on, his blocky face taut beneath

its sheen of sweat.

Par paused only once to glance downward. Shadowen ringed

Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah as they stood protectively be-

fore the ravine wall.

Too many Shadowen.

The Valeman looked away again. Biting back against his rage,

he continued to climb into black.

Morgan Leah did not turn around as the scraping of boots on

the ravine wall faded away; his eyes remained fixed on the en-

circling Shadowen. He was aware of Padishar standing at his

left shoulder. The Shadowen were no longer advancing on them;

they were hanging back guardedly at the edge of the mist's thick

curtain, keeping their distance. They had learned what Morgan's

weapon could do, and they had grown cautious.

Mindless things, the Highlander thought bitterly. I could have

come to a better end than this, you'd think!

He feinted at the nearest of them, and they backed away.

Morgan's weariness dragged at him like chains. It was the

work of the magic, he knew. Its power had gone all through

him, a son of inner fire drawn from the sword, an exhilarating

rush at first, then after a time simply a wearing down. And then

was something more. There was an insidious binding of its

magic to his body that made him crave it in a way he could not

explain, as if to give it up now, even to rest, would somehow

take away from who and what he was.

He was suddenly afraid that he might not be able to relinquish

it until he was too weak to do otherwise.

Or too dead.

He could no longer hear Par and Coil climbing. The Pit was

again encased in silence save for the hissing of the Shadowen.

Padishar leaned close to him. "Move, Highlander!'' he rasped

softly.

They began to ease their way down the ravine wall, slowly at

first, and then, when the Shadowen did not come at them ng»

away, more quickly. Soon they were running, stumbling really

for they no longer had the strength to do anything more. M^t

swirled about them, gray tendrils against the night. The tre'

shimmered in the haze of falling rain and seemed to nun,

Morgan felt himself ease into a world of unfeeling half-sleep

that stole away time and place.

Twice more the Shadowen attacked as they fled, brief foiq^'

each time, and twice they were driven back by the magic of the

Sword of Lean. Grotesque bodies launched themselves like slow

rolling boulders down a mountainside and were turned to ash

Fire burned in the night, quick and certain, and Morgan felt a

bit of himself fall away with each burst.

He began to wonder if in some strange way he was killing

himself.

Above, where the park lay hidden behind the wall of the ra-

vine, the shouts continued to grow, reaching out to them like a

false lifeline of hope. There were no friends to be found there,

Morgan knew. He stumbled, and it required an incredible

amount of effort to right himself.

And then, at last, the Gatehouse came into view, a shadowy,

massive tower lifting out of the trees and mist.

Morgan was dimly aware mat something was wrong.

"Get through the door!" Padishar Creel cried frantically,

shoving at him so hard he almost fell.

Together they sprinted for the door-or where the door should

have been, for it was unexplainably missing. No light seeped

through the opening they had left; the stone wall was black and

faceless. Morgan felt a surge of fear and disbelief well up in the

pit of his stomach.

Someone-or something-had sealed off their escape!

With Padishar a step behind, he came up against the Gate-

house wall, against the massive portal that had admitted them

into the Pit, now closed and barred against their re-entry. They

heaved against it in desperation, but it was fastened securely.

Morgan's fingers searched its edges, probing, finding to his hor-

ior small markings all about, markings they had somehow over-

looked before, runes of magic that glowed faintly in the graying

mist and prevented their escape more certainly than any lock

and key ever could.

Behind him, he could hear the Shadowen massing. He

wheeled away, rushed the night things in a frenzy and caused

them to scatter. Padishar was hammering at the invisible lock,

not yet aware that it was magic and not iron that kept them out.

Morgan turned back, his lean face a mask of fury. "Stand

away, Padishar!" he shouted.

He went at me door as if it were one of the Shadowen, the

Sword of Leah raised, its blade a brilliant silver streak against

the dark. Down came the weapon like a hammer-once, twice,

then again and again. The runes carved into the door's iron

surface glowed a deep, wicked green. Sparks flew with each

blow, shards of flame that screamed in protest. Morgan howled

as if gone mad, and the power of the sword's magic drew the

last of his strength from him in a rush.

Then everything exploded into white fire, and Morgan was

consumed by darkness.

Par lifted himself out of the Pit's murky blackness to the edge

of the ravine wall and pulled himself over its spikes. Cuts and

scrapes burned his arms and legs. Sweat stung his eyes, and his

breath came in short gasps. For a moment, his vision blurred,

the night about him an unpenetrable mask dotted with weaving

bits of light.

Torches, he realized, clustered about the entry to the Gate-

house. There were shouts as well and a hammering of heavy

wood. The watch and whoever else had been summoned were

trying to break down the bolted door.

Coil came over the wall behind him, grunting with the effort

as he dropped wearily to the cool, sodden earth. Rain matted

his dark hair where the hood of his cloak had fallen away, and

his eyes glittered with something Par couldn't read.

"Can you walk?" his brother whispered anxiously.

Par nodded without knowing if he could or not. They came

to their feet slowly, their muscles aching, their breathing

bored. They stumbled from the wall into the shadow of the trc •-

and paused in the blackness, waiting to discover if they had been

seen, listening to the commotion that surrounded the Gate

house.

Coil bent his head close. "We have to get out of here. Par

Par's eyes lifted accusingly. "I know! But we can't help them

anymore. Not now, at least. We have to save ourselves." He

shook his head helplessly. "Please!"

Par clasped him momentarily and nodded into his shoulder,

and they stumbled ahead. They made their way slowly, keeping

to the darkest shadows, staying clear of the paths leading toward

the Gatehouse. The rain had stopped without their realizing it,

and the great trees shed their surface water in sudden showers

as the wind gusted in intermittent bursts. Par's mind spun with

the memory of what had happened to them, whispering anew

the warning it had given him eariier, teasing him with se3'

satisfied, purposeless glee. Why hadn't he listened, it whis-

pered? Why had he been so stubborn?

The lights of the Tyrsian Way burned through the darkness

ahead, and moments later they stumbled to the edge of the street

There were people clustered there, dim shapes in the night, fac

less shadows that stood mute witness to the chaos beyond

Most were farther down near the park's entry and saw nothing

of the two ragged figures who emerged. Those who did so

quickly looked away when they recognized the Federation uni-

forms.

"Where do we go now?'' Par whispered, leaning against Coil

for support. He was barely able to stand.

Coil shook his head wordlessly and pulled his brother towam

the street, away from the lights. They had barely reached it'

cobblestones when a lithe figure materialized out of the shadow

some fifty feet away and moved to intercept them. Damson, Par

thought. He whispered her name to Coil, and they slowed e^

pectantly as she hurried up.

"Keep moving," she said quietly, boosting Par's free arm

about her shoulders to help Coil support him. "Where are the

others?"

Par's eyes lifted to meet hers. He shook his head slowly and

saw the stricken look that crossed her face.

Behind them, deep within the park, there was a brilliant ex-

plosion of fire that rocketed skyward into the night. Gasps of

dismay rose out of those gathered on the streets.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Don't look back," Damson whispered, tight-lipped.

The Valemen didn't need to.

Morgan Leah lay sprawled upon the scorched earth of the Pit,

steam rising from his doming, the acrid stench of smoke in his

mouth and nostrils. Somehow he was still alive, he sensed-

barely. Something was terribly wrong with him. He felt broken,

as if everything had been smashed to bits within his skin, leaving

him an empty, scoured shell. There was pain, but it wasn't phys-

ical. It was worse somehow, a sort of emotional agony that

wracked not only his body but his mind as well.

"Highlander!"

Padishar's rough voice cut through the layers of hurt and

brought his eyes open. Flames licked the ground inches away.

"Get up-quickly!" Padishar was pulling at him, hauling him

forcibly to his feet, and he heard himself scream. A muddled

sea of trees and stone blocks swam in the mist and darioiess,

slowly steadied and at last took shape.

Then he saw. He was still gripping the hilt of the Sword of

Leah, but its blade was shattered. No more than a foot re-

mained, a jagged, blackened shard.

Morgan began to shake. He could not stop himself. "What

have I done?" he whispered.

"You saved our lives, my friend!" Padishar snapped, drag-

ging him forward. "That's what you did!" Light poured through

a massive hole in the wall of the Gatehouse. The door that had

been sealed against their return had disappeared. Padishar's voice

was labored. "Your weapon did that. Your magic. Shattered that

door into smoke! Gives us the chance we need, if we're quick

enough. Hurry, now! Lean on me. Another minute or two ..."

Padishar shoved him through the opening. He was dimly

aware of the corridor they stumbled down, the stairs they

climbed. The pain continued to rip through his body, leaving

him incoherent when he tried to speak. He could not take his

eyes from the broken sword. His sword-his magic-himself.

He could not differentiate among them.

Shouts and a heavy thudding broke into his thoughts, causing

him to flinch. "Easy, now," Padishar cautioned, the outlaw's

voice a buzzing in his ears that seemed to come from very far

away.

They reached the ward room with its weapons and debris.

There was a frantic pounding on the entry doors. Their in

shielding was budded and staved.

"Lie here," Padishar ordered, leaning nun back against the

wall to one side. "Say nothing when they enter, just keep still.

With luck, they'll think us victims of what's happened here and

nothing more. Here, give me that." He reached down and pried

me broken Sword of Leah from Morgan's nerveless fingers

"Back in its case with this, lad. We'll see to its fixing later.''

He shoved the weapon into its shoulder scabbard, patted Mor-

gan's cheek, and moved to open the entry doors.

Black-garbed Federation soldiers poured into the room

shouting and yelling and filling the chamber with a din that was

suffocating. A disguised Padishar Creel shouted and yelled back

directing them down the stairwell, into the sleeping quarters

over this way and out that. There was mass confusion. Merge'

watched it all without really understanding or even caring. The

sense of indifference he felt was outweighed only by his seat.

of loss. It was as if his life no longer had a purpose, as if all

reason for it had evaporated as suddenly and thoroughly as the

blade of the Sword of Leah.

No more magic, he thought over and over. I have lost it.

have lost everything.

Then Padishar was back, hauling him to his feet again, stee.

ing him through the chaos of me Gatehouse to the entry doo»

and from there into the park. Bodies surged past, but no orr

challenged them. "It's a fine madness we've let loose with this

night's work," Padishar muttered darkly. "I just hope it doesn't

come back to haunt us."

He took Morgan swiftly from the circle of the Gatehouse

lights into me concealing shadows beyond.

Moments later, they were lost from sight.

XXIV

It was just after dawn when Par Ohmsford came awake me

first time. He lay motionless on his pallet of woven mats,

collecting his scattered thoughts in the silence of his mind.

It took him awhile to remember where he was. He was in a

storage shed behind a gardening shop somewhere in me center

of Tyrsis. Damson had brought them there last night to hide

after. . .

The memory returned to him in an unpleasant rush, images

mat swept through his mind with horrific clarity.

He forced his eyes open and the images disappeared. A faint

wash of gray, hazy light seeped through cracks in the shuttered

windows of the shed, lending vague definition to me scores of

gardening tools stacked upright like soldiers at watch. The smell

of dirt and sod filled me air, rich and pungent. It was silent

beyond the walls of their concealment, the city still sleeping.

He lifted his head cautiously and glanced about. Coil was

asleep beside him, his breathing deep and even. Damson was

nowhere to be seen.

He lay back again for a time, listening to the silence, letting

himself come fully awake. Then he rose, gingerly easing himself

from beneath his blankets and onto his feet. He was stiff and

cramped, and there was an aching in his joints that caused him

to wince. But his strength was back; he could move about again

unaided.

Coil stirred fitfully, turning over once before settling down

again. Par watched his brother momentarily, studying the shad-

owed line of his blunt features, then stepped over to the nearest

window. He was still wearing his clothing; only his boots had

been removed. The chill of eariy morning seeped up from the

plank flooring into his stockinged feet, but he ignored it. He put

his eye to a crack in the shutters and looked out. It had stopped

raining, but the skies were clouded and the world had a dark

empty look. Nothing moved within the range of his vision. A

jumbled collection of walls, roofs, streets, and shadowed niches

stared back at him from out of the mist.

The door behind him opened, and Damson stepped noise-

lessly into the shed. Her clothing was beaded with moisture and

her red hair hung limp.

"Here, what are you doing?" she whispered, her forehead

creasing with annoyance. She crossed me room quickly and

took hold of him as if he were about to topple over. "You're not

to be out of bed yet! You're far too weak! Back you go at once;

She steered him to his pallet and forced him to lie down agah,

He made a brief attempt to resist and discovered that he had le-ss

strength than he first believed.

"Damson, listen . . ." he began, but she quickly put a hai c;

over his mouth.

"No, you listen, Elf-boy." She paused, staring down at hisn

as she might a curious discovery.' 'What is the matter with you

Par Ohmsford? Haven't you an ounce of common sense to call

your own? You barely escaped with your life last night and all-

ready you are looking to risk it again. Haven't you the least

regard for yourself?''

She took a deep bream, and he found himself thinking su-

denly of how warm her hand felt against his face. She seemed

to read his thoughts and lifted it away. Her fingers trailed acres'

his cheek.

He caught her hand in his and held it. "I'm sony. I couldn't

sleep anymore. I was drifting in and out of nightmares about

last night." Her hand felt small and light in his own. "I can't

stop thinking about Morgan and Padishar..."

He trailed off, not wanting to say more. It was too frighten

ing, even now. Next to him, Coil's eyes blinked open and fixeo

on him. "What's going on?" he asked sleepily.

Damson's fingers tightened on Par's. "Your brother cannot

seem to sleep for worrying about everyone but himself.''

Par stared up at her wordlessly for a moment, then said, "Is

there any news. Damson?"

She smiled faintly. "I will make a bargain with you. If you

promise me that you will try to go back to sleep for a time-or

at least not leave this bed - I promise you that I will try to leam

the answer to your question. Fair enough?''

The Valeman nodded. He found himself pondering anew

padishar's final admonition to him: Trust her. She is the better

part of me!

Damson glanced over at Coll. "I depend on you to make

certain that he keeps his word." Her hand slipped from Par's

and she stood up. "I will bring back something to eat as well.

Stay quiet, now. No one will disturb you here.''

She paused momentarily, as if reluctant even then to leave,

then turned and disappeared out the door.

Silence filled the shadowed room. The brothers looked at

each other without speaking for a moment, and then Coil said

quietly, "She's in love with you."

Par flushed, then quickly shook his head. "No. She's just

being protective, nothing more."

Coil lay back, sighed and closed his eyes. "Oh, is that it?"

He let his breathing slow. Par thought he was sleeping again

when he suddenly said, "What happened to you last night. Par?''

Par hesitated. "You mean me wishsong?''

Coil's eyes slipped open. "Of course I mean the wishsong.''

He glanced over sharply. "I know how the magic works better

than anyone other than yourself, and I've never seen it do that.

That wasn't an illusion you created; that was the real thing! I

didn't think you could do mat."

"I didn't either."

"Well?"

Par shook his head. What had happened indeed? He closed

his eyes momentarily and then opened them again. "I have a

theory," he admitted finally. "I came up with it between steep

and bad dreams, you might say. Remember how the magic of

the wishsong came about in the first place? Wil Ohmsford used

the Elfstones in his battle with the Reaper. He had to in order

to save the Elf-girl Ambeiie. Shades, we've told that story often

enough, haven't we? It was dangerous for him to do so because

he hadn't enough true Elf blood to allow it. It changed him in a

way he couldn't determine at first. It wasn't until after his chil-

dren were born, until after Brin and Jair, that he discovered what

had been done. Some part of the Elf magic of the Stones had

gone into him. That part was passed to Brin and Jair in the form

of the wishsong."

He raised himself up on one elbow; Coil did likewise. The

light was sufficient now to let them see each other's faces cleady.

"Cogline told us that first night that we didn't understand the

magic. He said that it works in different ways-something like

that-but that until we understood it, we could only use it in

one. Then, later, at the Hadeshom, he told us how the magic

changes, leaving wakes in its passing like the water of a lake

disturbed. He made specific reference to Wil Ohmsford's legacy

of magic, the magic that became the wishsong."

He paused. The room was very still. When he spoke again,

his voice sounded strange in his ears. "Now suppose for a mo-

ment that he was right, that the magic is changing all the time,

evolving in some way. After all, that's what happened when the

magic of the Elfstones passed from Wil Ohmsford to his chil-

dren. So what if it has changed again, this time in me?"

Coil stared. "What do you mean?" he asked finally. "How

do you think it could change?''

"Suppose that the magic has worked its way back to what it

was in the beginning. The blue Elfstones that Allanon gave to

Shea Ohmsford when they went in search of the Sword of Shan-

nara all those years ago had the power to seek out that which

was hidden from the holder.''

"Par!" Coil breathed his name softly, me astonishment ap-

parent in his voice.

"No, wait. Let me finish. Last night, the magic released itself

in a way it has never done before. I could barely control it.

You're right. Coil; there was no illusion in what it did. But it

did respond in a recognizable way. It sought out what was hid-

den from me, and I think it did so because subconsciously I

willed it." His voice was fierce. "Coil. Suppose that the power

that once was inherent in the magic of the Elfstones is now

inherent in the magic within me!"

There was a long silence between them. They were close

now, their faces not two feet apart, their eyes locked. Coil's

rough features were knotted in concentration, the enormity of

what Par was suggesting weighing down on him like a massive

stone block. Doubt mirrored in his eyes, then acceptance, and

suddenly fear.

His face went taut. His rough voice was very soft. "The

Elfstones possessed another property as well. They could de-

fend the holder against danger. They could be a weapon of tre-

mendous power."

Par waited, saying nothing, already knowing what was

coming.

"Do you think that the magic of the wishsong can now do

the same for you?"

Par's response was barely audible. "Yes, Coil. I think maybe

it can."

By midday, the haze of early morning had burned away and

the clouds had moved on. Sunshine shone down on Tyrsis, blan-

keting the city in heat. Puddles and streams evaporated as the

temperature rose, the stone and clay of the streets dried, and the

air grew humid and sticky.

Traffic at the gates of the Outer Wall was heavy and slow-

moving. The Federation guards on duty, double the usual num-

ber as a result of the previous night's disturbance, were already

sweating and irritable when the bearded gravedigger approached

from out of the backstreets beyond the inner wall. Travelers and

merchants alike moved aside at his approach. He was ragged

and stooped, and he smelled to the watch as if he had been

living in a sewer. He was wheeling a heavy cart in front of him,

the wood rotted and splintered. There was a body in the cart,

wrapped in sheets and bound with leather ties.

The guards glanced at one another as the gravedigger trudged

up to them, his charge wheeled negligently before him, rolling

and bouncing.

"Hot one for work, isn't it, sirs?" the gravedigger wheezed,

and the guards flinched in spite of themselves from the stench

of him.

"Papers," said one perfunctorily.

"Sure, sure.'' One ragged hand passed over a document that

looked as if it had been used to wipe up mud. The gravedigger

gestured at the body. "Got to get this one in the ground quick,

don't you know. Won't last long on a day such as this."

One of the guards stepped close enough to prod the corpse

with the point of his sword. "Easy now," the gravedigger ad-

vised. "Even the dead deserve some respect."

The soldier looked at him suspiciously, then shoved the sword

deep into the body and pulled it out again. The gravedigger

cackled. "You might want to be cleaning your sword there, sir-

seeing as how this one died of the spotted fever."

The soldier stepped back quickly, pale now. The others re-

treated as well. The one holding the gravedigger's papers handed

them hastily back and motioned him on.

The gravedigger shrugged, picked up the handles of the cart

and wheeled his body down the long ramp toward the plain

below, whistling tunelessly as he went.

What a collection of fools, Padishar Creel thought disdain-

fully to himself.

When he reached the first screening of trees north, the city

of Tyrsis a distant grayish outline against the swelter, Padishar

eased the handles of the cart down, shoved the body he had been

hauling aside, took out an iron bar and began prying loose the

boards of the cart's false bottom. Gingerly, he helped Morgan

extricate himself from his place of hiding. Morgan's face was

pale and drawn, as much from the heat and discomfort of his

concealment as from the lingering effects of last night's battle.

"Take a little of this." The outlaw chief offered him an ale-

skin, trying unsuccessfully not to look askance. Morgan accepted

the offering wordlessly. He knew what the other was thinking-

that me Highlander hadn't been right since their escape from the

Pit.

Abandoning the cart and its body, they walked a mile further

on to a river where they could wash. They bathed, dressed in

clean clothes that Padishar had hidden with Morgan in the cart's

false bottom, and sat down to have something to eat.

The meal was a silent one until Padishar, unable to stand it

any longer, growled, "We can see about fixing the blade, High-

lander. It may be the magic isn't lost after all.''

Morgan just shook his head. "This isn't something anyone

can fix," he said tonelessly.

"No? Tell me why. Tell me how the sword works, then. You

explain it to me." Padishar wasn't about to let the matter alone.

Morgan did as the other asked, not because he particularly

wanted to, but because it was the easiest way to get Padishar to

stop talking about it. He told the story of how the Sword of Leah

was made magic, how Allanon dipped its blade in the waters of

the Hadeshom so that Rone Leah would have a weapon with

which to protect Brin Ohmsford. "The magic was in the blade,

Padishar," he finished. He was having trouble being patient by

now. "Once broken, it cannot be repaired. The magic is lost."

Padishar frowned doubtfully, then shrugged. "Well, it was

lost for a good cause, Highlander. After all, it saved our lives.

A good trade any day of the week.''

Morgan looked up at nun, his eyes haunted. "You don't un-

derstand. There was some sort of bond between us, the sword

and me. When the sword broke, it was as if it was happening to

me! It doesn't make any sense, I know-but it's there anyway.

When the magic was lost, some part of me was lost as well.''

"But that's just your sense of it now, lad. Who's to say that

won't change?'' Padishar gave him an encouraging smile.' 'Give

yourself a little time. Let the wound heal, as they say."

Morgan put down his food, disinterested in eating, and

hunched his knees close against his chest. He remained quiet,

ignoring the fact that the outlaw chief was waiting for a re-

sponse, contemplating instead the nagging recognition that

nothing had gone right since their decision to go down into the

Pit after the missing Sword of Shannara.

Padishar's brow furrowed irritably. "We have to go," he

announced abruptly and stood up. When Morgan didn't move

right away, he said, "Now, listen to me, Highlander. We're alive

and that's the way we're going to stay, sword or no sword, and

I'll not allow you to continue acting like some half-dead

puppy. . ."

Morgan came to his feet with a bound. "Enough, Padishar!

I don't need you worrying about me!'' His voice sounded harsher

than he had meant it to, but he could not disguise the anger he

was feeling. That anger quickly found a focus. "Why don't you

try worrying about the Valemen? Do you have any idea at all

what's happened to them? Why have we left them behind like

this?"

"Ah." The other spoke the word softly. "So that's what's

really eating at you, is it? Well, Highlander, the Valemen are

likely better off than we are. We were seen getting out of that

Gatehouse, remember? The Federation isn't so stupid that it will

overtook the report of what happened and the fact that two so-

called guards are somehow missing. They'll have our descrip-

tion. If we hadn't gotten out of the city right away, we likely

wouldn't have gotten out at all!"

He jabbed his finger at the Highlander. "Now the Valemen,

on the other hand-no one saw them. No one will recognize

their faces. Besides, Damson will have them in hand by now.

She knows to bring them to the Jut. She'll get them out of Tyrsis

easily enough when she has the chance."

Morgan shook his head stubbornly. "Maybe. Maybe not.

You were confident as well about our chances of retrieving the

Sword of Shannara and look what happened.''

Padishar flushed angrily. "The risks involved in that were

hardly a secret to any of us!"

"Tell that to Stasas and Drutt and Ciba Blue!''

The big man snatched hold of Morgan's tunic and yanked

him forward violently. His eyes were hard with anger. "Those

were my friends that died back there, Highlander-not yours.

Don't be throwing it up in my face! What I did, I did for all of

us. We need the Sword of Shannara! Sooner or later we're going

to have to go back for it-Shadowen or not! You know that as

well as I! As for the Valemen, I don't like leaving them any

better than you do! But we had precious little choice in the

matter!''

Morgan tried unsuccessfully to jerk free. "You might have

gone looking for them, at least!"

"Where? Where would I look? Do you think they would be

hidden in any place we could find? Damson's no fool! She has

them tucked away in the deepest hole in Tyrsis! Shades, High-

lander! Don't you realize what's happening back there? We un-

covered a secret last night that the Federation has gone to great

pains to conceal! I'm not sure either of us understands what it

all means yet, but it's enough that the Federation thinks we

might! They'll want us dead for that!''

His voice was a snad. "I caught a glimpse of what's to come

when I passed you through the gates. The Federation authorities

no longer concern themselves merely with doubling guards and

increasing watch patrols. They have mobilized the entire garri-

son! Unless I am badly mistaken, young Morgan Leah, they

have decided to eliminate us once and for all-you and me and

any other members of the Movement they can run to earth. We

are a real threat to them now, because, for the first time, we

begin to understand what they are about-and that's something

they will not abide!"

His grip tightened, fingers of stone. "They'll come hunting

us, and we had best not be anywhere we can be found!"

He released the Highlander with a shove. He took a deep

breath and straightened, "In any case, I don't choose to argue

the matter with you. I am leader here. You fought well back

there in the Pit, and perhaps it cost you something. But that

doesn't give you the right to question my orders. I understand

the business of staying alive better than you, and you had best

remember it."

Morgan was white with rage, but he kept himself in check.

He knew there was nothing to be gained by arguing the matter

farther; the big man was not about to change his mind. He knew

as well, deep down inside where he could admit it to himself,

that what Padishar was saying about staying around in an effort

to find Par and Coil was the truth.

He stepped away from Padishar and smoothed his rumpled

clothing carefully. "I just want to be certain that we are agreed

that the Valemen will not be forgotten."

Padishar Creel's smile was quick and hard. "Not for a mo-

meat. Not by me, at least. You are free to do as you choose in

the matter."

He wheeled away, moving off into the trees. After a moment's

hesitation, Morgan swallowed his anger and pride and followed.

Par came awake for the second time that day toward midaf-

temoon. Coil was shaking him and me smell of hot soup filled

the close confines of their shelter. He blinked and sat up slowly.

Damson stood at a pruning bench, spooning broth into bowls,

me steam rising thickly as she worked. She glanced over at the

Valeman and smiled. Her flaming hair shimmered brightly in

the shards of sunlight that filtered through the cracks in the

shuttered windows, and Par experienced an almost irresistible

need to reach out and stroke it.

Damson served the Valemen the soup together with fresh fruit,

bread, and milk, and Par thought it was the most wonderful

meal he had ever tasted. He ate everything he was given, Coil

with him, both ravenous beyond what they would have thought

possible. Par was surprised that he had been able to go back to

sleep, but he was unquestionably me better for it, his body rested

now and shed of most of its aches and pains. There was little

talk during me meal, and that left him free to mink. His mind

had begun working almost immediately on waking, skipping

quickly from the memory of last night's horrors to the prospect

of what lay ahead-to sift through the information he had gath-

ered, to consider carefully what he suspected, to make plans for

what he now believed must be.

The process made him shudder inwardly with excitement and

foreboding. Already, he discovered, he was beginning to relish

the prospect of attempting the unthinkable.

When the Valemen had finished eating, they washed in a

basin of fresh water. Then Damson sat them down again and

told mem what had become of Padishar and Morgan.

"They escaped," she began without preamble. Her green

eyes reflected amusement and awe. "I don't know how they

managed it, but they did. It took me awhile to verify that they

had indeed gotten free, but I wanted to make certain of what I

was being told."

Par grinned at his brother in relief. Coil stifled his own grin

and instead simply shrugged. "Knowing those two, they prob-

ably talked their way out," he responded gruffly.

"Where are they now?" Par asked. He felt as if years had

been added back onto his life. Padishar and Morgan had es-

caped-it was the best news he could have been given.

"That I don't know," Damson replied. "They seem to have

disappeared. Either they have gone to ground in the city or-

more likely-they have left it altogether and are on their way

back to the Jut. The latter seems the better guess because the

entire Federation garrison is mobilizing and there's only one

reason they would do that. They mean to go after Padishar and

his men in the Parma Key. Apparently, whatever he-and you-

did last night made them very angry. There are all sorts of ru-

mors afloat. Some say dozens of Federation soldiers were killed

at me Gatehouse by monsters. Some say the monsters are loose

in the city. Whatever the case, Padishar will have read the signs

as easily as I. He'll have supped out by now and gone home."

"You're certain the Federation hasn't found him instead?"

Par was still anxious.

Damson shook her head. "I would have heard." She was

propped against the leg of the pruning bench as they sat on the

pallets that had served as their beds the night before. She let her

head tilt back against me roughened wood so that me soft curve

of her face caught the light, "It is your turn now. Tell me what

happened, Par. What did you find in the Pit?"

With help from Coil, Par related what had befallen them,

deciding as he did that he would do as Padishar had urged, mat

he would trust Damson in me same way that he had trusted the

outlaw chief. Thus he told her not only of their encounter with

the Shadowen, but of the strange behavior of the wishsong, of

the unexpected way its magic had performed, even of his sus-

picions of the influence of the Elfstones.

When he had finished, the three of them sat staring wordlessly

at one another for a moment, of different minds as they reflected

on what the foray into the Pit had uncovered and what it all

meant.

Coil spoke first. "It seems to me that we have more questions

to answer now than we did when we went in."

"But we know some things, too, Coil," Par argued. He bent

forward, eager to speak. "We know that there is some sort of

connection between the Federation and the Shadowen. The Fed-

eration has to know what it has down there; it can't be ignorant

of the truth. Maybe it even helped create those monsters. For

all we know they might be Federation prisoners thrown into the

Pit like Ciba Blue and changed into what we found. And why

are they still down there if the Federation isn't keeping them so?

Wouldn't they have escaped long ago if they could?"

"As I said, there are more questions than answers," Coil

declared. He shifted his heavy frame to a more comfortable

position.

Damson shook her head. "Someming seems wrong here.

Why would the Federation have any dealings with the Shad-

owen? The Shadowen represent everything the Federation is

against-magic, the old ways, the subversion of the Southland

and its people. How would the Federation even go about making

such an arrangement? It has no defense against the Shadowen

magic. How would it protect itself?"

"Maybe it doesn't have to," Coil said suddenly. They looked

at him. "Maybe the Federation has given the Shadowen some-

one else to feed on besides itself, someone the Federation has

no use for in any case. Perhaps that's what became of the Elves.''

He paused. "Perhaps that's what's happening now to the

Dwarves."

They were silent as they considered the possibility. Par hadn't

thought about the Dwarves for a time, the horrors of Culhaven

and its people shoved to the back of his mind these past few

weeks. He remembered what he had seen there-the poverty,

the misery, the oppression. The Dwarves were being extermi-

nated for reasons that had never been clear. Could Coil be right?

Could me Federation be feeding the Dwarves to the Shadowen

as a part of some unspeakable bargain between them?

His face tightened in dismay. "But what would the Federation

get in return?"

"Power,'' Damson Rhee said immediately. Her face was still

and white.

"Power over the Races, over the Four Lands," Coil agreed,

nodding. "It makes sense, Par."

Par shook his head slowly. "But what happens when there is

no one left but the Federation? Surely someone must have

thought of that. What keeps the Shadowen from feeding on men

as well?"

No one answered "We're still missing something," Par said

softly. "Something important."

He rose, walked to the other side of the room, stood looking

into space for a long moment, shook his head finally, turned,

and came back. His lean face was stubborn with determination

as he reseated himself.

"Let's get back to the matter of the Shadowen in me Pit," he

declared quietly, "since that, at least, is a mystery that we might

be able to solve." He folded his legs in front of him and eased

forward. He looked at each of them in turn, then said, "I think

that the reason they are down there is to keep anyone from

getting to the Sword of Shannara."

"Par!" Coil tried to object, but his brother cut him off with

a quick shake of his head.

"Think about it a moment. Coil. Padishar was right. Why

would the Federation go to all the trouble of remaking the Peo-

ple's Park and the Bridge of Sendic? Why would they hide what

remains of the old park and bridge in that ravine? Why, if not

to conceal the Sword? And we've seen the vault, Coil! We've

seen it!"

"The vault, yes-but not the Sword," Damson pointed out

quietly, her green eyes intense as they met those of the Valemen.

"But if the Sword isn't down in the Pit as well, why are the

Shadowen there?" Par asked at once. "Surely not to protect an

empty vault! No, the Sword is still there, just as it has been for

three hundred years. That's why Allanon sent me after it-he

knew it was there, waiting to be found.''

"He could have saved us a lot of time and trouble by telling

us as much," said Coil pointedly.

Par shook his head. "No, Coll. That isn't the way he would

do it. Think about the history of the Sword. Bremen gave it to

Jerle Shannara some thousand years ago to destroy the Warlock

Lord and the Elf King couldn't master it because he wasn't

prepared to accept what it demanded of him. When Allanon

chose Shea Ohmsford to finish me job five hundred years later,

he decided that the Valeman must first prove himself. If he was

not strong enough to wield it, if he did not want it badly enough,

if he were not willing to give enough of himself to the task that

finding it entailed, then the power of the Sword would prove too

much for him as well. And he knew if that happened, the War-

lock Lord would escape again.''

"And he believes it will be the same now with you,'' Damson

finished. She was looking at Par as if she were seeing him for

the first time. "If you are not strong enough, if you are not

willing to give enough, the Sword of Shannara will be useless

to you. The Shadowen will prevail."

Par's answering nod was barely discernible.

"But why would the Shadowen-or the Federation, for that

matter-leave the Sword in the Pit all these years?" Coil de-

manded, irritated that they were even talking about the matter

after what had happened to them last night. "Why not simply

remove it-or better yet, why not destroy it?"

Par's face was intense. "I don't think either the Federation or

the Shadowen can destroy it-not a talisman of such power. I

doubt that the Shadowen can even touch it. The Warlock Lord

couldn't. What I can't figure out is why the Federation hasn't

taken it out and hidden it."

He clasped his hands tightly before him. "In any case, it

doesn't matter. The fact remains the Sword is still there, still in

its vault." He paused, eyes level. "Waiting for us."

Coil gaped at him, realizing for the first time what he was

suggesting. For a moment, he couldn't speak at all. "You can't

be serious. Par," he managed finally, the disbelief in his voice

undisguised. "After what happened last night? After seeing ..."

He forced himself to stop, then snapped, "You wouldn't

last two minutes.''

"Yes, I would," Par replied. His eyes were bright with de-

termination. "I know I would. Allanon told me as much."

Coil was aghast. "Allanon! What are you talking about?"

"He said we had the skills needed to accomplish what was

asked-Walker, Wren, and myself. Remember? In my case, I

think he was talking about the wishsong. I think he meant that

the magic of the wishsong would protect me."

"Well, it's done a rather poor job of it up to now!" Coil

snapped, lashing out furiously.

"I didn't understand what it could do then. I think I do now.''

"You think? You think? Shades, Par!"

Par remained calm. "What else are we to do? Run back to

the Jut? Run home? Spend the rest of our days sneaking about?''

Par's hands were shaking. "Coil, I haven't any choice. I have

to try."

Coil's strong face closed in upon itself in dismay, his mouth

tightening against whatever outburst threatened to break free.

He wheeled on Damson, but the girt had her eyes locked on Par

and would not look away.

The Valeman turned back, gritting his teeth. "So you would

go back down into the Pit on the strength of an unproven and

untested belief. You would risk your life on the chance that the

wishsong-a magic that has failed to protect you three times

already against the Shadowen-will somehow protect you now.

And all because of what you perceive as your newfound insight

into a dead man's words!" He drew his breath in slowly. "I

cannot believe you would do anything so ... stupid! If I could

think of anything worse to call it, I would!"

"Coil. . ."

"No, don't say another word to me! I have gone with you

everywhere, followed after you, supported you, done everything

I could to keep you safe-and now you plan to throw yourself

away! Just waste your life! Do you understand what you are

doing, Par? You are sacrificing yourself! You still think you have

some special ability to decide what's right! You are obsessed!

You can't ever let go, even when common sense tells you you

should!"

Coil clenched his fists before him. His face was rigid and

furrowed, and it was all he could do to keep his voice level. Par

had never seen him so angry. "Anyone else would back away,

think it through, and decide to go for help. But you're not plan-

ning on any of that, are you? I can see it in your eyes. You haven't

the time or the patience. You've made up your mind. Forget

Padishar or Morgan or anyone else but yourself. You mean to

have that Sword! You'd even give up your life to have it, wouldn't

you?"

"I am not so blind . . ."

"Damson, you talk to him!'' Coil interrupted, desperate now.

"I know you care for him; tell him what a fool he is!"

But Damson Rhee shook her head. "No. I won't do that."

Coil stared at her, stunned. "I haven't the right," she finished

softly.

Coil went silent then, his rough features sagging in defeat.

No one spoke immediately, letting the momentary stillness set-

tle across the room. Daylight had shifted with the sun's move-

ment west, gone now to the far side of the little storage shed,

the shadows beginning to lengthen slightly in its wake. A scat-

tering of voices sounded from somewhere in the streets beyond

and faded away. Par felt an aching deep within himself at the

look he saw on his brother's face, at the sense of betrayal he

knew Coil was feeling. But there was no help for it. There was

but one thing Par could say that would change matters, and he

was not about to say it.

"I have a plan,'' he tried instead. He waited until Coil's eyes

lifted. "I know what you think, but I don't propose to take any

more chances than I have to." Coil gave him an incredulous

look, but kept still. "The vault sits close to the base of the cliffs,

just beneath the walls of the old palace. If I could get into the

ravine from the other side, I would have only a short distance

to cover. Once I had the Sword in my hands, I would be safe

from the Shadowen."

There were several huge assumptions involved in that last

statement, but neither Coil nor Damson chose to raise them. Par

felt the sweat bead on his forehead. The difficulty of what he

was about to suggest was terrifying.

He swallowed. "That catwalk from the Gatehouse to the old

palace would give me a way across.''

Coil threw up his hands. ' 'You plan to go back into the Gate-

house yet a third time?" he exclaimed, exasperated beyond rea-

son.

"All I need is a ruse, a way to distract. . ."

"Have you lost your mind completely? Another ruse won't

do the trick! They'll be looking for you this go-around! They'll

spy you out within two seconds of the time you ..."

"Coil!" Par's own temper slipped.

"He is right," Damson Rhee said quietly.

Par wheeled on her, then caught himself. He jerked back

toward his brother. Coil dared him to speak, red-faced, but

silent. Par shook his head. "Then I'll have to come up with

another way."

Coil looked suddenly weary. "The truth of the matter is,

there isn't any other way.''

"There might be one." It was Damson who spoke, her low

voice compelling. "When the armies of the Warlock Lord be-

sieged Tyrsis in the time of Balinor Buckhannah, the city was

betrayed twice over from within-once by the front gates, the

second time by passageways that ran beneath the city and the

cliffs backing the old palace to the cellars beneath. Those pas-

sageways might still exist, giving us access to the ravine from

the palace side."

Coil looked away wordlessly, disgust registering on his blocky

features. Cleariy, he had hoped for better than this from Dam-

son.

Par hesitated, then said carefully, "That all happened more

than four hundred years ago. I had forgotten about those pas-

sageways completely-even telling the stories as often as I do."

He hesitated again. "Do you know anything about them-where

they are, how to get into them, whether they can be traversed

anymore?"

Damson shook her head slowly, ignoring the deliberate lift of

Coil's eyebrows. She said, "But I know someone who might. If

he will talk to us." Then she met Coil's gaze and held it. There

was a sudden softness in her face that surprised Par. "We all

have a right to make our own choices," she said quietly.

Coil's eyes seemed haunted. Par studied his brother momen-

tarily, debating whether to say anything to him, then turned

abruptly to Damson. "Will you take me to this person-

tonight?"

She stood up then, and both Valemen rose with her. She

looked small between them, almost delicate; but Par knew the

perception was a false one. She seemed to deliberate before

saying, "That depends. 'You must first promise me something.

When you go back into the Pit, however you manage it, you will

take Coil and me with you.''

There was a stunned silence. It was hard to tell which of the

Valemen was more astonished. Damson gave them a moment

to recover, then said to Par, "I'm not giving you any choice in

the matter, I'm afraid. I cannot. You would feel compelled to

do the right thing and leave us both behind to keep us safe-

which would be exactly the wrong thing. You need us with you.'

The she turned to Coil. "And we need to be there. Coil.

Don't you see? This won't end, any of it, not Federation op-

pression or Shadowen evil or the sickness that infects all the

Lands, until someone makes it end. Par may have a chance to

do that. But we cannot let him try it alone. We have to do

whatever we can to help because this is our fight, too. We cannot

just sit back and wait for someone else to come along and help

us. No one will. If I've learned anything in this life, it's that."

She waited, looking from one to the other. Coil looked con-

fused, as if he thought there ought to be an obvious alternative

to his choices but couldn't for the life of him recognize what it

was. He glanced briefly at Par and away again. Par had gone

blank, his gaze focused on the floor, his face devoid of expres-

sion.

"It is bad enough that I must go," he said finally.

"Worse than bad," Coil muttered.

Par ignored him, looking instead at Damson. "What if it

turns out that only I can go in? "

Damson came up to him, took his hands in her own and

squeezed them. "That won't happen. You know it won't." She

leaned up and kissed him softly. "Are we agreed?"

Par took a deep breath, and a frightening sense of inevitability

welled up inside him. Coil and Damson Rhee-he was risking

both their lives by going after the Sword. He was being stubborn

beyond reason, intractable to the point of foolhardiness; he was

letting himself be caught up in his own self-perceived needs and

ambitions. There was every reason to believe that his insistence

would kill them all.

Then give it up, he whispered fiercely to himself. Just walk

away.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn't.

"Agreed," he said.

There was a brief silence. Coil looked up and shrugged.

"Agreed," he echoed quietly.

Damson reached up to touch Par's face, then stepped over to

Coil and hugged him. Par was more than a little surprised whsn

his brother hugged her back.

XXV

It was dusk on the following day when Padishar Creel and

Morgan Leah finally reached the Jut. Both were exhausted

They had traveled hard since leaving Tyrsis, stopping

only for meals. They had slept less than six hours the previous

night. Nevertheless, they would have arrived even sooner and

in better condition if not for Padishar's insistence on doing ev-

erything possible to disguise their trail. Once they entered the

Parma Key, he backtracked continuously, taking them down ra-

vines, through riverbeds, and over rocky outcroppings, all the

while watching the land behind him like a hawk.

Morgan had thought the outlaw chief overcautious and, after

growing impatient enough, had told him so. "Shades, Padi-

shar-we're wasting time! What do you think is back there any

way?''

"Nothing we can see, lad," had been the other's enigmatic

reply.

It was a sultry evening, the air heavy and still, and the skies

hazy where the red ball of the sun settled into the horizon. As

they rose in the basket lift toward the summit of the Jut, they

could see night's shadows begin to fill the few wells of daylight

that still remained in the forests below, turning them to pools of

ink. Insects buzzed annoyingly about them, drawn by their body

sweat. The swelter of the day lay across the land in a suffocating

blanket. Padishar still had his gaze turned south toward Tyrsis,

as if he might spy whatever it was he suspected had followed

them. Morgan looked with him, but as before saw nothing. The

big man shook his head. "I can't see it," he whispered. "But I

can feel it coming."

He didn't explain what he meant by that and the Highlander

didn't ask. Morgan was tired and hungry, and he knew that

nothing either Padishar or he did was likely to change the plans

of whatever might be out there. Their journey was completed,

they had done everything humanly possible to disguise their

passing, and there wasn't anything to be gained by worrying

now. Morgan felt his stomach rumble and thought of the dinner

that would be waiting. Lunch that day had been a sparse affair-

a few roots, stale bread, hard cheese, and some water.

"I realize that outlaws are supposed to be able to subsist on

next to nothing, but surely you could have done better than

this!" he had complained. "This is pathetic!"

"Oh, surely, lad!" the outlaw chief had replied. "And next

time you be the gravedigger and I'll be the body!"

Their differences had been put aside by then-not forgotten

perhaps, but at least placed in proper perspective. Padishar had

dismissed their confrontation five minutes after it ended, and

Morgan had concluded by the end of the day that things were

back to normal. He bore a grudging respect for the man-for

his brash and decisive manner, because it reminded the High-

lander of his own, for the confidence he so readily displayed in

himself, and for the way he drew other men to him. Padishar

Creel wore the trappings of leadership as if they were his birth-

right, and somehow that seemed fitting. There was undeniable

strength in Padishar Creel; it made you want to follow him. But

Padishar understood that a leader must give something back to

his followers. Acutely aware of Morgan's role in bringing the

Valemen north, he had made a point of acknowledging the le-

gitimacy of the Highlander's concern for their safety. Several

times after their argument he had gone out of his way to reassure

Morgan that Par and Coil Ohmsford would never be abandoned,

that he would make certain that they were safe. He was a com-

plex, charismatic fellow, and Morgan liked him despite a nag-

ging suspicion that Padishar Creel would never in the world be

able to deliver everything he promised.

Outlaws clasped Padishar's hand in greeting at each station

of their ascent. If they believe so strongly in him, Morgan asked

himself, shouldn't I?

But he knew that belief was as ephemeral as magic. He

thought momentarily of the broken sword he carried. Belief and

magic forged as one, layered into iron, then shattered. He took

a deep breath. The pain of his loss was still there, deep and

insidious despite his resolve to put it behind him, to do as Pad-

ishar had suggested and to give himself time to heal. There was

nothing he could do to change what had happened, he had told

himself; he must get on with his life. He had lived for years

without the use of the sword's magic-without even knowing it

existed. He was no worse off now than he had been then. He

was the same man.

And yet the pain lingered. It was an emptiness that scraped

the bones of his body from within, leaving him fragmented and

in search of the parts that would make him whole again. He

could argue that he was unchanged, but what he had experienced

through wielding of the magic had left its stamp upon him as,

surely as if he had been branded by a hot iron. The memories

remained, the images of his battles, the impressions made b)

the power he had been able to call upon, the strength he had

enjoyed. It was lost to him now. Like the loss of a parent or a

sibling or a child, it could never be completely forgotten.

He looked out across the Parma Key and felt himself shrink-

ing away to nothing.

When they reached the Jut, Chandos was waiting. Padishar's

one-eyed second-in-command looked larger and blacker than

Morgan remembered, his bearded, disfigured face furrowed and

lined, his body wrapped in a great cloak that seemed to lend his

massive body added size. He seized Padishar's hand and gripped

it hard. "Good hunting?"

"Dangerous would be a better word for it," the big man

replied shortly.

Chandos glanced at Morgan. "The others?"

"They've fought their last, save for the Valemen. Where's

Hirehone? Somewhere about or gone back to Varfleet?"

Morgan glanced quickly at him. So Padishar was still looking

to discover who had betrayed them, he thought. There had been

no mention of the master of Kiltan Forge since Morgan had

reported seeing him in Tyrsis.

"Hirehone?" Chandos looked puzzled. "He left after you

did, same day. Went back to Varfieet like you told him, I expect.

He's not here." He paused. "You have visitors, though."

Padishar yawned. "Visitors?"

"Trolls, Padishar."

The outlaw chief came awake at once. "You don't say? Trolls?

Well, well. And how do they come to be here?"

They started across the bluff toward the fires, Padishar and

Chandos shoulder to shoulder, Morgan trailing. "They won't

say," Chandos said. "Came out of the woods three days back,

easy as you please, as if finding us here wasn't any trouble at all

for them. Came in without a guide, found us like we were

camped in the middle of a field with our pennants flying." He

grunted. "Twenty of them, big fellows, down out of the north

country, the Chamals. Kelktic Rock, they call themselves. Just

hung about until I went down to talk to them, then asked to

speak with you. When I said you were gone, they said they'd

wait."

"No, is that so? Determined, are they?"

"Like falling rock looking to reach level ground. I brought

them up when they agreed to give over their arms. Didn't seem

right leavmg them sitting down in the Parma Key when they'd

come all that way to find you-and done such a good job of it

in the bargain." He smirked within his beard. "Besides, I fig-

ured three hundred of us ought to be able to stop a handful of

Trolls."

Padishar laughed softly. "Doesn't hurt to be cautious, old

friend. Takes more than a shove to bring down a Troll. Where

are they?"

"Over there, the fire on the left.''

Morgan and Padishar peered through the gloom. A cluster of

faceless shadows were already on their feet, watching their ap-

proach. They looked huge. Unconsciously, Morgan reached

back to finger the handle of his sword, remembering belatedly

that a handle was just about all he had.

"The leader's name is Axhind," Chandos finished, his voice

deliberately low now. "He's the Maturen."

Padishar strode up to the Trolls, his weariness shed some-

where back, his tall form commanding. One of the Trolls stepped

forward to meet him.

Morgan Leah had never seen a Troll. He had heard stories

about them, of course; everyone told stories about the Trolls.

Once, long before Morgan was born. Trolls had come down out

of the Northland, their traditional home, to trade with the mem-

bers of the other Races. For a time, some of them had even lived

among the men of Callahom. But all that ended with the coming

of the Federation and its crusade for Southland domination.

Trolls were no longer welcome below the Streleheim, and the

few who had come south quickly went north again. Reclusive

by nature, it took very little to send them back to their mountain

strongholds. Now, they never came out-or at least no one Mor-

gan knew had ever heard of them coming out. To find a band

this far south was very unusual.

Morgan tried not to stare at the visitors, but it was hard. The

Trolls were heavily muscled, almost grotesque, their bodies tall

and wide, their skin nut-brown and rough like bark. Their faces

were flat and nearly featureless. Morgan couldn't find any ears

at all. They wore leather and heavy armor, and great cloaks lay

scattered about their fire like discarded shadows.

"I'm Baron Creel, Leader of the Movement." Padishar's

voice boomed out.

The Troll facing him rumbled something incomprehensible.

Morgan caught only the name Axhind. The two gripped hands

briefly, then Axhind beckoned Padishar to sit with him at their

fire. The Trolls stepped aside as the outlaw chief and his com-

panions moved into the light to seat themselves. Morgan glanced

about uneasily as the massive creatures closed about. He had

never felt so unprotected. Chandos seemed unconcerned, po-

sitioning himself behind Padishar and a few feet back. Morgan

eased down next to him.

The talk began in earnest then, but the Highlander didn't

understand any of it. It was all done in the guttural language of

the Trolls, a language of which Morgan knew nothing. Padishar

seemed comfortable with it, however, pausing only infrequently

to consider what he was saying. There was a great deal of what

sounded like grunting, some heavy slurs, and much of what was

said was emphasized by sharp gestures.

"How does Padishar speak their language?" Morgan whis-

pered early on to Chandos.

The other never even glanced at him. "We see a bit more of

life in Callahom than you Highlanders," he said.

Morgan's hunger was threatening to consume him, but he

forced it from his mind, holding himself erect against encroach-

ing weariness, keeping himself deliberately still. The talk went

on. Padishar seemed pleased with its direction.

"They want to join us," Chandos whispered after a time,

apparently deciding that Morgan should be rewarded for his

patience. He listened some more. "Not just these few-an en-

tire twenty-one tribes!'' He grew excited. ' 'Five thousand men!

They want to make an alliance!"

Morgan grew excited himself. "With us? Why?"

Chandos didn't answer right away, motioning for Morgan to

wait. Then he said, "The Movement has approached them be-

fore, asked them to help. But they always believed it too divided,

too undependable. They've changed their minds of late." He

glanced over briefly. "They say Padishar has pulled the separate

factions together sufficiently to reconsider. They're looking for

a way to slow the Federation advance on their homelands.'' His

rough voice was filled with satisfaction. "Shades, what a stroke

of good fortune this might turn out to be!"

Axhind was passing out cups now and filling them with some-

thing from a great jar. Morgan took the cup he was offered and

glanced down. The liquid it contained was as black as pitch. He

waited until both the Troll leader and Padishar saluted, then

drank. It was all he could do to keep from retching. Whatever

he had been given tasted like bile.

Chandos caught the look on his face. "Troll milk," he said

and smiled.

They drained the offering, even Morgan who found that it

curbed his appetite instantly. Then they rose, Axhind and Pad-

ishar shook hands once more, and the Southlanders moved away.

"Did you hear?" Padishar asked quietly as they disappeared

into the shadows. Stars were beginning to wink into view over-

head, and the last of the daylight had faded away.' 'Did you hear

it all, the whole of it?''

"Every, last word," Chandos replied, and Morgan nodded

wordlessly.

"Five thousand men! Shades! We could challenge the best

that the Federation had to offer if we had a force like that!"

Padishar was ecstatic. "There might be two thousand and some

that the Movement could call upon, and more than that from the

Dwarves! Shades!"

He slammed his fist into his open palm, then reached over

and clapped both Chandos and Morgan heartily on the back.

"It's about time something went our way, wouldn't you agree,

lads?"

Morgan had dinner after that, sitting alone at a table near the

cooking fire, his appetite restored by the smells that emanated

from the stew kettles. Padishar and Chandos had gone off to

confer on what had been happening during the former's absence,

and Morgan saw no need to be part of that. He looked about for

Steffand Teel, but there was no sign of either, and it wasn't until

he was almost finished eating that Steff appeared out of the

darkness and slumped down beside him.

"How did it go?" the Dwarf asked perfunctorily, forgoing

any greeting, his gnarled hands clutched about a tankard of ate

he had carried over. He looked surprisingly worn.

Briefly, Morgan related the events of the past week. When he

was finished, Steff rubbed at his cinnamon beard and said,

"You're lucky to be alive-any of you." His scarred face was

haggard-looking; the mix of half-light and shadows seemed to

etch more deeply its lines. "There's been some strange happen-

ings taking place while you were away."

Morgan pushed back his plate and looked over, waiting.

The Dwarf cleared his throat, glancing about before he spoke

"Teel took sick the same day you left. They found her collapsed

by the bluff about noon. She was breathing, but I couldn't bring

her awake. I took her inside and wrapped her in blankets and

sat with her for most of a week. I couldn't do anything for her.

She just lay there, barely alive." He took a deep breath. "I

thought she'd been poisoned."

His mouth twisted. "Could of been, it seemed to me. Lots

in the Movement have no use for the Dwarves. But then she

woke finally, retching and so weak she could barely move. I fed

her broth to give her back her strength, and she came around

finally. She doesn't know what happened to her. She said the

last thing she remembered was wondering something about

Hirehone ..."

Morgan's sharp intake of breath stopped him. "That mean

something to you, Morgan?"

Morgan nodded faintly. "It might. I thought I saw Hirehone

in Tyrsis after we arrived there. He shouldn't have been, and I

decided then I must have been mistaken. I 'm not so certain now.

Someone gave us over to the Federation. It could have been

Hirehone."

Steff shook his head. "Doesn't sound right. Why Hirehone,

of all people? He could have turned us in that first time in Var-

fleet. Why wait until now?" The stocky form shifted. "Besides,

Padishar trusts him completely."

"Maybe," Morgan muttered, sipping at his ale. "But Padi-

shar was quick enough to ask about him when we got back

here."

Steff considered that a moment, then dismissed the matter.

"There's more. They found a handful of guards at the cliff edge

two days back, night watch, the ones on the lifts, all dead, their

throats torn out. No sign of who did it." He looked away mo-

mentarily, then back again. Shadows darkened his eyes. "The

baskets were all up, Morgan."

They stared at each other. Morgan frowned. "So it was some-

one already here who did it?"

"Don't know. Seems like. But what was the reason for it,

then? And if it was someone from the outside, how did they get

up and then back down again with the baskets in place?"

Morgan looked off into the shadows and thought about it, but

no answers would come. Steff rose. "I thought you should know.

Padishar will hear on his own, I expect." He drained his tan-

kaid.' 'I 've got to get back to Teel; I don't like leaving her alone

after what's happened. She's still awfully weak." He rubbed his

forehead and grimaced. "I don't feel so well myself."

"Off you go, then," Morgan said, rising with him. "I'll

come see you both m the morning. Right now, though, I'm in

desperate need of about two days' sleep." He paused. "You

know about the Trolls?"

"Know about them?'' Steff gave him a wry smile. "I 've spo-

ken with them already. Axhind and I go back a ways."

"Well, well. Another mystery. Tell me about it tomorrow,

will you?"

Steff began moving away. "Tomorrow, it is." He was almost

out of sight when he said, "Better watch your back, High-

lander."

Morgan Lean had already decided as much.

He slept well that night and woke rested. The midmoming

sun had crested the treeline and begun to heat up the day. There

was activity in the outlaw camp, more so than usual, and Mor-

gan was immediately anxious to find out what was happening.

He thought momentarily that the Valemen might have returned,

but then discarded the possibility, deciding that he would have

been awakened if they had. He pulled on his clothing and boots,

rolled up his blankets, washed, ate, and went down to the bluff

edge. He caught sight of Padishar immediately, dressed once

more in his crimson garb, shouting orders and directing men

this way and that.

The outlaw chief glanced over as the Highlander approached

and grunted. "I trust the noise didn't wake you." He turned to

yell instructions to a group of men by the lifts before continuing

in a normal tone of voice, "I would hate to think you were

disturbed.''

Morgan muttered something under his breath, but stopped

when he caught a glimpse of the other's mocking grin. "Ah, ah.

Just teasing you a bit, Highlander," the other soothed. "Let's

not begin the day on the wrong foot-there's too much that

needs doing. I've sent scouts to sweep the Parma Key to reassure

myself that my neck hairs mislead me about what's out there,

and I've sent south for Hirehone. We will see what we will

see. Meanwhile, the Trolls await, Axhind and his brood. Close

kin, the bunch of them, I'm told. Yesterday was merely an over-

tore. Today we talk about the how and the wherefore of it all

You want to come along?"

Morgan did. Budding on the scabbard that held the remained

of the Sword of Leah, which he was carrying now mostly out ot

habit, he followed Padishar along the bluff face and then back

toward the campsite where the Trolls were already gathering

As they walked, he asked if there was any news of Par and

Coll. There wasn't. He looked about expectantly for Steff and

Teel, but there was no sign of either. He promised himself that

he would seek them out later.

When they reached the Trolls, Axhind embraced the outlaw

chief, then greeted the Highlander with a solemn nod and a

handclasp like iron, and beckoned them both to take seats. Mo

ments later, Chandos appeared with several companions, that

Morgan didn't know, and the meeting got under way.

It lasted the remainder of the morning and the better part of

the afternoon. Once again, Morgan was unable to follow what

was being said, and this time Chandos was too preoccupied with

his own participation to worry about him. Morgan listened at-

tentively nevertheless, studying the gestures and movements ot

the bearish Trolls, trying to read something of what they were

thinking behind their expressionless faces. He was mostly un-

successful. They looked like great tree stamps brought to life

and given the rudiments of human form to allow them to move

about. Few did much of anything besides watch. The ones who

spoke did so sparingly, even Axhind. There was an economy of

effort behind everything they did. Morgan wondered briefly what

they were like in a fight and decided that he probably already

knew.

The sun moved across the sky, changing the light from dim

to bright and back again, erasing and then lengthening shadows,

filling the day with heat and then letting it linger in a suffocating

swelter that left everyone shifting uncomfortably in a futile search

for relief. There was a short break for lunch, an exchange of

ales and wines, and even a brief allusion to the Highlander that

had something to do with the extent of the support that the

Movement enjoyed. Morgan stayed wisely silent during that ex-

change. He knew he had been brought there for support, not to

contradict.

The afternoon was waning when the runner appeared, winded

and frightened-looking. Padishar caught sight of him, frowned

in annoyance at the interruption, and excused himself. He lis-

tened intently to what the runner had to say, hesitated, then

glanced at the Highlander and beckoned. Morgan came to his

feet in a hurry. He did not care for what he saw in Padishar

Creel's face.

Padishar dismissed the runner when Morgan reached them.

"They found Hirehone," he said softly, evenly. "Out along the

west edge of the Parma Key, close to the path we followed on

our return. He's dead." His eyes shifted uncomfortably. "The

patrol that found him said he looked as if he had been tamed

inside out."

Morgan felt his throat tighten at the image. "What's going

on, Padishar?" he asked quietly.

"Be sure you let me know when you figure it out, Highlander.

Meantime, there's worse news still. My neck hairs never lie.

There's a Federation army not two miles off-the garrison at

Tyrsis or I'm not my mother's favorite son." The hard face

creased with lines of irony. "They're coming right for us, lad.

Not a whit of deviation in their approach. Somehow they've

discovered where we are-and I guess we both know how that

might have happened, don't we?"

Morgan was stunned.' 'Who?'' He barely breathed the word.

Padishar shrugged and laughed softly. "Does it really matter

now?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Time to finish up here.

I don't relish telling Axhind and his clan what's happened, but

it wouldn't do to play games with them. If I were them, I'd

disappear out of here faster than a hare gone to ground.''

The Trolls were of a different mind, however. When the meet-

ing broke up, Axhind and his companions showed no inclination

to leave. Instead, they requested their weapons back-an im-

pressive collection of axes, pikes, and broadswords-and on

receiving them sat down and began in a leisurely fashion to

sharpen the blades. It seemed as if they were looking for a fight.

Morgan went off to find the Dwarves. They were camped in

a small, secluded grove of fir at the far end of the cliff base

where an outcropping of rock formed a natural shelter from the

weather. Steff greeted him without much enthusiasm. Teel was

sitting up, her strange, masked face revealing nothing of her

thoughts, though her eyes glittered watchfully. She looked

stronger, her dusky hair brushed out, her hands steady as they

accepted Morgan's own. He spoke with her briefly, but she said

almost nothing in return. Morgan gave them the news of Hire-

hone and the approaching Federation army. Staff nodded so-

berly; Teel didn't even do that. He left them feeling vaguely

dissatisfied with the entire visit.

The Federation army arrived with the coming of nightfall,

spread out in the forestlands directly below the cliffs of the Jut,

and began clearing the land for its use, working with the indus-

trious determination of ants. They streamed out of the trees,

several thousand strong, their pennants flying, their weapons

gleaming. Standards were raised before each company-banners

of solid black with one red and one white stripe where there

were regular Federation soldiers and a grinning white wolf's

head where there were Seekers. Tents went up, weapons racks

were assembled, supplies were positioned to the rear, and fires

sparked to life. Almost immediately teams of men began build-

ing siege weapons, and the sounds of saws felling trees and axes

hewing limbs filled the air.

The outlaws watched from the heights, their own fortifica-

tions already in place. Morgan watched with them. They seemed

relaxed and easy. There were only three hundred of them, but

the Jut was a natural fortification that could resist an army five

times the size of this one. The lifts had already been drawn to

the bluff, and now there was no way up or down except by

scaling the walls. That would require climbing by hand, ladder,

or grappling hook. Even a handful of men could put a stop to

that.

It was fully dark by the time Morgan was able to speak again

with Padishar. They stood by the lifts, now under heavy guard,

and looked out over the broad scattering of watch fires below.

The men of the Federation continued to work, the sound of their

building rising out of the darkened forests into the still night air.

"I don't mind telling you that all this effort bothers me," the

outlaw chief muttered, his brow furrowing.

Morgan frowned with him. "Even with siege equipment, how

can they possibly hope to reach us?"

Padishar shook his head. "They can't. That's what bothers

me."

They watched a bit longer, then Padishar steered Morgan to

a secluded part of the bluff, keeping him close as he whispered.

"I needn't remind you that we've been betrayed twice now.

Whoever's responsible is still out there-probably still among

us. If the Jut's to be taken, that's my guess as to how it's to be

done."

He turned to Morgan, his strong, weathered face close. "I'll

do my part to see that the Jut's kept secure. But you keep your

eyes open as well, Highlander. You might see things differently

from me, being fresh here. Maybe you'll see something I'd oth-

erwise miss. Watch us all, and it's a big favor I'll owe you if

you turn up something."

Morgan nodded wordlessly. It gave him a purpose for being

there, something he was beginning to suspect he lacked. He was

consumed by the feeling of emptiness he had experienced on

shattering his sword. He was distressed that he had been forced

to leave Par and Coil Ohmsford behind. This charge, if nothing

else, would give him something to concentrate on. He was grate-

ful to Padishar for that.

When they finished, he went to the armorer and asked to be

given a broadsword. He picked one that suited him, withdrew

his own broken sword and replaced it with the new one. Then

he hunted about for a discarded scabbard until he found one the

Sword of Leah would fit, cut the scabbard to the sword's short-

ened length, bound the severed end, and strapped the makeshift

sheath carefully to his belt.

He felt better about himself for the first time in days.

He slept well that night, too-even though the Federation

continued to assemble its siege weapons until dawn. When the

sun appeared, the building ceased. He woke then, the sudden

stillness disconcerting, pulled on his clothes, strapped on his

weapons, and hurried down to the bluff edge. The outlaws were

settling into place, arms at the ready. Padishar was there, with

Steff, Teel, and the contingent of Trolls. All watched silently

what was taking place below.

The Federation army was forming up, squads into compa-

nies. They were well drilled, and there was no confusion as they

marched into place. They encircled the base of the Jut, stretch-

ing from one end of the cliffs to the other, their lines just out of

range of long bow and sling. Scaling ladders and ropes with

grappling hooks were piled next to them. Siege towers stood

ready, though the towers were crude and scarcely a third of the

height of the cliffs leading up. Commanders barked orders

crisply, and the gaps between companies slowly began to fill.

Morgan touched Steff briefly on the shoulder. The Dwarf

glanced about uncertainly, nodded without saying anything, and

looked away again.

Morgan frowned. Steff wasn't carrying any weapons.

Trumpets sounded, and the Federation lines straightened. Ev-

erything went still once more. Sunlight glinted off armor and

weapons as the skies in the east brightened. Dew glistened off

leaves and grasses, the birdsongs lifted cheerfully, the sound of

water running came from somewhere distant, and it seemed to

Morgan Lean that it might have been any of a thousand mom-

ings he had greeted when he still roamed and hunted the hills

of his homeland.

Then from back in the trees, behind the long lines of soldiers,

something moved. There was a jerking of limbs and trunks and

a rasping of scraped bark. The Federation ranks suddenly split

in two, opening a hole that was better than a hundred feet across.

The outlaws and their allies stiffened expectantly, frowns creas-

ing their faces as the forest continued to shake with the approach

of whatever was hidden there.

Shades, Morgan whispered to himself.

The thing emerged from out of the fading shadows. It was

huge, a creature of impossible size, an apparition comprised of

the worst bits and pieces of things scavengers might have left. It

was formed of hair and sinew and bone, but at the same time of

metal plates and bars. There were jagged ends and shiny sur-

faces, iron grafted onto flesh, flesh grown into iron. It had the

look of a monstrous, misshapen crustacean or worm, but was

neither. It shambled forward, its glittering eyes rolling upward

to find the edge of the bluff. Pinchers clicked like knives and

claws scraped heedlessly the roughened stone.

For an instant, Morgan thought it was a machine. Then, a

heartbeat later, he realized it was alive.

"Demon's blood!" Steff cried in recognition, his gruff voice

angry and frightened. "They've brought a Creeper!"

Hunching its way slowly through the ranks of the Federation

army, the Creeper came for them.

XXVI

Morgan Lean remembered the stories then.

It seemed as if there had always been stories of

the Creepers, tales that had been handed down from

grandfather to father, from father to son, from generation to

generation. They were told in the Highlands and in most parts

of the Southland he had visited. Men whispered of the Creepers

over glasses of ale around late night fires and sent shivers of

excitement and horror down the spines of boys like Morgan,

who listened at the circle's edge. No one put much stock in the

stories, though; after all, they were told in the same breath as

those wild imaginings of Skull Bearers and Mord Wraiths and

other monsters out of a time that was all but forgotten. Yet no

one was quite ready to dismiss them out-of-hand, either. Be-

cause whatever the men of the Southland might believe, there

were Dwarves in the Eastland who swore by them.

Steff was one of those Dwarves. He had repeated the stories

to Morgan-long after Morgan had already heard them-not as

legend but as truth. They had happened, he insisted. They were

real.

It was the Federation, he told Morgan, who made the Creep-

ers. A hundred years ago, when the war against the Dwarves

had bogged down deep in the wilderness of the Anar, when the

armies of the Southland were thwarted by the jungle and the

mountains and by the tangle of brush and the walls of rock that

prevented them from engaging and trapping their elusive quarry,

the Federation had called the Creepers to life. The Dwarves had

taken the offensive away from the Federation by then, a sizeable

resistance force that was determined to avoid capture and to

harass the invaders until they were driven from their homeland.

From their fortress lairs within the maze of canyons and defiles

of the Ravenshom and the cavelike hollows of the surrounding

forests, the Dwarves counterattacked the heavier and more cum-

bersome Federation armies almost at will and slipped away with

the ease of night's shadows. The months dragged on as me Fed-

eration effort stalled, and it was then that the Creepers appeared.

No one knew for certain where they came from. There were

some who claimed they were simply machines constructed by

the Federation builders, juggernauts without capacity to think,

whose only function was to bring down the Dwarf fortifications

and the Dwarves with them. There were others who said that

no machine could have done what the Creepers did, that such

things possessed cunning and instinct. A few whispered that

they were formed of magic. Whatever their origin, the Creepers

materialized within the wilderness of the central Anar and began

to hunt. They were unstoppable. They tracked the Dwarves re-

lentlessly and, when they caught up to them, destroyed them

all. The war ended in a little more than a month, the Dwarf

armies annihilated, the backbone of the resistance shattered.

After that, the Creepers vanished as mysteriously as they had

appeared, as if the earth had swallowed them whole. Only the

stories remained, growing more lurid and at the same time less

accurate with each telling, losing the force of truth as time

passed, until only the Dwarves themselves remained certain of

what had happened.

Morgan Leah stared downward for a moment longer as the

stories of his childhood came to life, then wrenched his eyes

away from the drop, away from the nightmare below, and looked

frantically at Steff. The Dwarf was staring back at him, half-

turned as if to bolt from the fortifications, his scarred face

stricken.

"A Creeper, Morgan. A Creeper-after all these years. Do

you know what that means?''

Morgan didn't have time to speculate. Padishar Creel was

suddenly beside them, having heard the Dwarf speak. His hands

gripped Steff's shoulders and he pulled the other about to face

him. ' 'Tell me now, quickly! What do you know of this thing?''

"It's a Creeper,'' Steff repeated, his voice stiff and unnatural,

as if naming it said everything.

"Yes, yes, fine and well!" Padishar snapped impatiently. "I

don't care what it is! I want to know how to stop it!''

Steff shook his head slowly, as if trying to clear it, as if dazed

and unable to think. "You can't stop it. There isn't any way to

stop it. No one has ever found a way."

There were mutterings from the men closest to them as they

heard the Dwarf's words, and a sense of restless misgiving be-

gan to ripple through the lines of defenders. Morgan was

stunned; he had never heard Steff sound so defeated. He glanced

quickly at Teel. She had moved Steff away from Padishar pro-

tectively, her eyes bits of hard, glistening rock within her mask.

Padishar ignored them, turning instead to face his own men.

"Stand where you are!" he roared angrily at those who had

begun to whisper and move back. The whispers and the move-

ment stopped immediately. "I'll skin the first rabbit who does

otherwise!"

He gave Steff a withering glance. "No way, is there? Not for

you, perhaps-though I would have thought it otherwise and you

a better man, Steff." His voice was low, controlled. "No way?

There's always a way!"

There was a scraping sound from below, and they all pushed

back to the breastworks. The Creeper had reached the base of

the cliff wall and was beginning to work its way up, securing a

grip in cracks and crevices where human hands and feet could

not hope to find purchase. Sunlight glinted off patches of armor-

plating and bits of iron rod, and the muscles of its wormlike

body rippled. The marching drums of the Federation had begun

to sound, pounding a steady cadence to mark the monster's ap-

proach.

Padishar leaped recklessly atop the defenses. "Chandos! A

dozen archers to me-now!"

The archers appeared immediately and as rapidly as they could

manage sent a rain of arrows into the Creeper. It never slowed.

The arrows bounced off its armor or buried themselves in its

thick hide without effect. Even its eyes, those hideous black orbs

that shifted and turned lazily with the movement of its body,

seemed impervious.

Padishar withdrew the archers. A cheer went up from the

ranks of the Federation army and a chanting began, matching

the throb of the drums. The outlaw chief called for spearmen,

but even the heavy wooden shafts and iron heads could not slow

the monster's approach. They broke off or shattered on the rocks,

and the Creeper came on.

Massive boulders were brought forward and sent rolling over

the cliff edge. Several crashed into the Creeper. They grazed it

or struck it full on, and the result was the same. It kept coming.

The mutterings resumed, born of fear and frustration. Padishar

shouted angrily to quiet them, but the task was growing harder.

He called for brush to be brought forward, had it fired and sent

tumbling into the Creeper-to no effect. Furious, he had a cask

of cooking oil brought up, broken open and spilled down the

cliff wall, then ignited. It burned ferociously against the barren

rock, engulfing the approaching Creeper in a haze of black

smoke and flames. Cries rose from the ranks of the Federation

and the drums went still. Heat lifted into the morning air in

waves so suffocating that the defenders were forced back. Mor-

gan retreated with the rest, Steff and Teel next to him. Steff's

face was drawn and pale, and he seemed strangely disoriented.

Morgan helped him step away, unable to fathom what had hap-

pened to his friend.

"Are you sick?" he asked, whispering to the other as he

eased him to a sitting position. "Steff, what's wrong?"

But the other didn't appear to have an answer. He simply

shook his head. Then with an effort he said, "Fire won't stop

it. It's been tried, Morgan. It doesn't work."

He was right. When the flames and the heat died away enough

to permit the defenders to return to the walls, the Creeper was

still there, working its way steadily upward, almost halfway up

by now, as scorched and blackened as the rock to which it clung

but otherwise unchanged. The drumming and the chanting from

the Federation soldiers below resumed, an eager, confident swell

of sound that engulfed the whole of the Jut.

The outlaws were dismayed. Arguments began to spring up,

and it was clear that by now no one believed that the Creeper

could be stopped. What would they do when it reached them?

Seemingly invulnerable to spears and arrows, could it be stopped

by swords? The frantic outlaws could make a pretty good guess.

Only Axhind and his Rock Trolls seemed unperturbed by

what was happening. They stood at the far end of the outlaw

defenses, protecting a shelf that slanted down from the main

bluff to the cliff wall, weapons held ready, a small island of calm

amid the tumult. They were not talking. They did not appear

nervous. They were watching Padishar Creel, apparently wait-

ing to see what he would do next.

Padishar was quick to show them. He had noticed something

that everyone else had missed, and it gave him a glimmer of

hope for the besieged outlaws.

"Chandos!" he called out, shoving and pushing his men back

into place as he walked down the breastworks. His burly, black-

bearded lieutenant appeared. "Bring up whatever oil we've got-

cooking, cleaning, anything! Don't waste time asking questions,

just do it!"

Chandos closed his mouth and hurried off. Padishar wheeled

and came back down the line toward Morgan and the Dwarves.

"Ready one of the lifts!" he called past them. Then unexpect-

edly he stopped. "Steff. How are these things on slick surfaces,

these Creepers? How do they grip?"

Steff looked at him blankly, as if the question were too per-

plexing for him to consider. "I don't know."

"But they have to grip to climb, don't they?" the other de-

manded. "What happens if they can't?"

He turned away without wailing for an answer. The morning

had grown hot, and he was sweating heavily now. He stripped

off his tunic, throwing it aside irritably. Snatching a set of cross

belts from another outlaw, he buckled them on, picked up a

short-handled axe, shoved it through one of the belt loops, and

moved ahead to the lifts. Morgan followed, beginning to see

now what the outlaw planned to do. Chandos hurried up from

the caves, followed by a knot of men carrying casks of varying

sizes and weights.

"Load them," Padishar ordered, motioning. When the load-

ing was begun, he put his hands on his lieutenant's broad shoul-

ders. "I'm going over in the lift, down where the beast climbs,

and dump the oil on it.''

"Padishar!" Chandos was horrified.

"No, listen now. The Creeper can't get up here if it can't

climb, and it can't climb if it can't grip. The oil will make

everything so slick the slug won't be able to move. It might even

fall." He grinned fiercely. "Wouldn't that put a nice finish to

things?"

Chandos shook his woolly head, a frantic look in his eyes.

The Trolls had drifted over and were listening. "You think the

Federation will let you get that far? Their bowmen will cut you

to pieces!"

"Not if you keep them back, they won't.'' The grin vanished.

"Besides, old friend-what other choice do we have?"

He sprang into the lift, crouching within the shelter of its

railing to present the smallest target possible. "Just don't let me

drop," he shouted and gripped the axe tightly.

The lift went over the side, Chandos letting it down quickly,

bringing the boom close above where the Creeper worked its

way upward, now high on the wall, a large black smudge that

oozed across the rock. A howl went up from the Federation

army as they saw what was happening, and lines of bowmen

surged forward. The outlaws were waiting. Shooting unob-

structed from their defenses far above, they broke the assault w

moments. Immediately more lines rushed forward, and arro'

began to shatter against the cliff face all about the dropping h' i

The outlaws returned the Federation fire. Again, the assa^',

broke apart and fell back.

But by now catapults had been brought forward, and mass

rocks began to hurtle mto the cliff face,' smashing all about the

fragile lift as Federation marksmen sought to find the range

One barrage of loose rock hammered into the lift and sent it

careenmg into the wall. Wood splintered and cracked. From

directly below, the Creeper looked up.

Morgan Leah stood at the edge of the bluff and watched in

horror, Steff and Teel beside him. The lift with Padishar Creel

twisted and spun as if caught in a fierce wind.

"Hold him!" Chandos screamed to the men on the ropes,

turning back in dismay. "Hold him steady!"

But they were losing him. The rope slipped, and the effort to

retrieve it dragged its handlers toward the cliff edge where they

frantically struggled to brace themselves. Federation arrows

raked the bluff, and two of the handlers dropped. No one took

their place, uncertain what to do in the chaos of the attack.

Chandos looked back over his shoulder, eyes wide. The rope

slipped further.

They can't hold it, Morgan realized in horror.

He darted forward, shouting frantically. But Axhind was

quicker. With a speed that belied his size, the Maturen of the

Kelktic Rock bounded through the onlookers and seized the

rope in his massive hands. The other holders fell back in con-

fusion. Alone, the giant Troll held the lift and Padishar Creel.

Then another Troll appeared and then two more. Bracing them-

selves, they hauled back on the rope as Chandos shouted instruc-

tions from the edge.

Morgan peered out over the bluff again. The Parma Key

stretched away in a sea of deep green that disappeared into a

midmoming sky that was cloudless and blue, filled with sweet

smells and a sense of tunelessness. The Jut was an island of

chaos in its midst. At the base of the cliffs, Federation soldiers

lay dying in heaps. The orderly lines were ragged now, their

neat formations scattered in the rush to attack. Catapults

launched their missiles and arrows flew from everywhere. The

lift still dangled from its rope, a tiny bit of bait that was seem-

inely only inches above the black monstrosity that hunched its

way steadily closer.

Then suddenly, almost unexpectedly, Padishar Creel was

lifted into view, short-handled axe splintering the first of the oil

casks and spilling its contents down the cliff side and over the

Creeper. The head and upper body of the creature were satu-

rated in the glistening liquid, and the Creeper stopped moving.

The contents of a second cask followed the first, and then the

contents of a third. The Creeper and the cliff wall were satu-

rated. Arrows from the Federation bows pinged all about Padi-

shar as he stood exposed. Then he was struck, once, twice, and

he went down.

"Haul him up!" Chandos screamed.

The Trolls jerked on the line in response, the watching out-

laws howling in fury and shooting down into the ranks of the

Federation archers.

But then somehow Padishar was back on his feet, and the last

two remaining casks were splintered and their contents dumped

down the rock wall onto the Creeper. The beast hung there, no

longer moving, letting the oil run down into it, under it, over it,

streams of glistening oil and grease spreading down the cliff face

in the harsh glare of the morning sun.

A catapult struck the lift squarely then and shattered it to

pieces. The outlaws on the bluff cried out as the lift fell apart.

But Padishar did not fall; he caught hold of the rope and dangled

there, arrows and stones flying all about him, a perfect target.

There was blood on his chest and arms, and the muscles of his

body were corded with the effort it required for him to hang on.

Swiftly the rope came up, Padishar Creel was hauled to the

edge of the bluff, and his men reached out to pull him to safety.

For a moment the battle was forgotten. Chandos shouted in vain

for everyone to get back, but the outlaws ignored him as they

crowded around their fallen leader. Then Padishar was on his

feet, blood streaming down his body from his wounds, arrows

protruding from deep within his right shoulder and through the

fleshy part of his left side, his face pale and drawn with pain.

Reaching down, he snapped the arrow in his side in two and

with a grimace pulled the shaft clear.

"Get back to the wall!" he roared. "Now!"

The outlaws scattered. Padishar pushed past Chandos and

staggered to the breastworks, peering down at the Creeper.

The Creeper was still hanging there, still not moving, as if

glued to the rock. The Federation archers and catapults were

continuing their barrage on the outlaw defenses, but the effort

had become a halfhearted one as they, too, waited to see what

would happen.

"Fall, drat you!" Padishar cried furiously.

The Creeper stirred, shifting slightly, edging right, trying to

maneuver away from the glistening sheet of oil. Claws raspe

as it hunched and squirmed to keep its hold. But the oil hac

done its job. The creature's grip began to loosen, slowly at first

then more rapidly as one after another of its appendages slippec

free. A howl of dismay went up from the Federation ranks &

cheer from the outlaws. The Creeper was sliding down more

quickly now, skidding on a track of oil that followed after it

relentlessly, coating its tubular body. Its grip gave way alto

gether and down it went, tumbling, rolling, falling with a crunch

of metal and bone. When it struck the earth at last, dust rose in

a massive cloud, and the whole of the cliff face shook with the

impact.

The Creeper lay motionless at the base of the cliffs, its oiled

bulk shuddering.

"That's more like it!" Padishar Creel sighed and slid down

the breastworks into a sitting position, his eyes closing wearily.

"You've finished him sure enough!'' Chandos exclaimed, drop-

ping into a crouch beside him. His smile was ferocious. Morgan,

standing close at hand, found himself grinning as well.

But Padishar simply shook his head. "This doesn't finish

anything. That was today's horror. Tomorrow will surely bring

another. And what do we do for oil then, with the last of it

spilled out today?" The dark eyes opened. "Cut this other ar-

row out of me so I can get some sleep."

The Federation did not attack again that day. It withdrew its

army to the edge of the forest, there to tend to the dead and

wounded. Only the catapults were left in place, sending their

loads skyward periodically, though most fell short and the as-

sault proved more annoying than effective.

The Creeper, unfortunately, was not dead. After a time, it

seemed to recover, and it rolled over sluggishly and crawled off

into the shelter of the Parma Key. It was impossible to guess

how badly it had been damaged, but no one was ready to predict

that they had seen the last of it.

Padishar Creel was treated for his wounds, bound up, and

put to bed. He was weak from loss of blood and in no small

amount of pain, but his injuries would not leave him disabled.

Even as Chandos was seeing to his care, Padishar was giving

instructions for continuing the defense of the Jut. A special

weapon was to be built. Morgan heard Chandos speak of it as

he gathered a select group of men and sent them off into the

largest of the caves to construct it. Work began almost imme-

diately, but when Morgan asked what it was that was being

assembled, Chandos was unwilling to talk about it.

"You'll see it when it's completed, Highlander," he re-

sponded gruffly. "Leave it at that."

Morgan did, but only because he hadn't any other choice. At

something of a loss as to what to do with himself, he drifted

over to where Steff had been taken by Teel and found his friend

wrapped in blankets and feverish. Teel watched suspiciously as

the Highlander felt Steff's forehead, a watchdog that no longer

trusted anyone. Morgan could hardly blame her. He spoke qui-

etly with Steff for a few moments, but the Dwarf was barely

conscious. It seemed better to let him sleep. The Highlander

stood up, glanced a final time at the unresponsive Teel, and

walked away.

He spent the remainder of the day passing back and forth

between the fortifications and the caves, checking on the Fed-

eration army and the secret weapon and on Padishar Creel and

Steff. He didn't accomplish much, and the hours of the late

morning and then the afternoon passed slowly. Morgan found

himself wondering once again what good he was doing anyone,

trapped at the Jut with these outlaws, resistance fighters or no,

far from Par and Coil and what really mattered. How would he

ever find the Valemen again, now that they had been separated?

Certainly they would not attempt to come into the Parma Key,

not while a Federation army had them under siege. Damson

Rhee would never permit it.

Or would she? It suddenly occurred to Morgan that she might,

if she thought there was a safe way to do so. That made him

think. What if there was more than one way into the Jut? Didn't

there have to be, he asked himself? Even with the defenses as

strong as they were, Padishar Creel would never take the chance

that they might somehow be breached, leaving the outlaws

trapped against the rocks. He would have an escape route, an-

other way out. Or in.

He decided to find out. It was almost dusk, however, before

he got his chance. Padishar was awake again by then, and Mor-

gan found him sitting on the edge of his bed, heavily bandaged,

streaks of blood showing vividly against his weathered skin,

studying a set of crudely sketched drawings with Chandos. An-

other man would still be sleeping, trying to regain his strength;

Padishar looked ready to fight. The men glanced up as he ap-

proached, and Padishar tucked the drawings out of sight. Mor-

gan hesitated.

"Highlander," the other greeted. "Come sit with me."

Surprised, Morgan came over, taking a seat on a packing

crate filled with metal fittings. Chandos nodded, got up without

a word, and walked out.

"And how is our friend the Dwarf?" Padishar asked, rather

too casually. "Better, now?"

Morgan studied the other man. "No. Something is very wrong

with him, but I don't know what it is." He paused. "You don't

trust anyone, do you? Not even me."

"Especially not you." Padishar waited a moment, grinned

disarmingly, and then made the smile disappear in the quickness

of an eye's blink. "I can't afford to trust anyone anymore. Too

much has happened to suggest that I shouldn't." He shifted his

weight and grimaced with the pain it caused.' 'So tell me. What

brings you to visit? Have you seen something you think I should

know about?"

The truth was that with the excitement of the events of that

morning, Morgan had forgotten about the charge that Padishar

had given him to try to find out who it was that had betrayed

them. He didn't say so, however, he simply shook his head.

"I have a question," he said. "About Par and Coil Ohms-

ford. Do you think that Damson Rhee might still try to bring

them here? Is there another way into the Jut that she might use?''

The look that Padishar Creel gave him was at once indeci-

pherable and filled with meaning. There was a long silence, and

Morgan felt himself grow suddenly cold as he realized how it

must look for him to be asking such a question.

He took a deep breath. "I'm not asking where it is, only

if. . ."

"I understand what you're asking and why," the other said,

cutting short his protestation. The hard face furrowed about the

eyes and mouth. Padishar said nothing for a moment, studying

the Highlander intently. "As a matter of fact, there is another

way," he said finally. "You must have figured that out on your

own, though. You understand enough of tactics to know that

there must always be more than one way in or out of a refuge.''

Morgan nodded wordlessly.

"Well, then, Highlander, I can only add that Damson would

not put the Valemen at risk by trying to bring them here while

the Jut was under siege. She would keep them safe in Tyrsis or

elsewhere, whatever the situation might require."

He paused, eyes hard with hidden thoughts. Then he said,

"No one but Damson, Chandos, and I know the other way-

now that Hirehone is dead. Better that we keep it so until the

identity of our traitor is discovered, don't you think? I wouldn't

want the Federation walking in through the back door while we

were busy holding shut the front.''

Morgan hadn't considered the possibility of such a thing hap-

pening until now. It was a chilling thought. "Is the back way

secure?" he asked hesitantly.

Padishar pursed his lips. "Very. Now take yourself off to

dinner, Highlander. And remember to keep your eyes open.''

He turned back to his drawings. Morgan hesitated a moment,

thinking to say something more, then turned abruptly and left.

That night, as daylight faded into evening and stars began to

appear, Morgan sat alone at the far end of the bluff where a

grove of aspen trees sheltered a small grassy clearing, looked

out across the valley of the Parma Key to where the moon, half-

full again, lifted slowly out of the horizon into the darkening

skies, and marshalled his powers of reason. The camp was quiet

now except for the muffled sounds of work being done back in

the caves on Padishar's secret weapon. The catapults and bows

were stilled, the men of both the Federation army and the Move-

ment sleeping or lost in their own private contemplations. Pad-

ishar was meeting with the Trolls and Chandos, a meeting to

which Morgan had not been invited. Steff was resting, his fever

seemingly no worse, but his strength sapped and his general

health no better. There was nothing to be done, nothing to oc-

cupy the time but to sleep or think, and Morgan Leah had chosen

the latter.

For as long as he could remember, he had been clever. It was

a gift, admittedly, one that could be traced to his ancestors, to

men such as Menion and Rone Leah-real Princes in those days,

heroes-but an ability, too, that Morgan had worked long and

hard to perfect. The Federation had supplied him with both a

purpose and a direction for his skill. He had spent almost the

whole of his youth concentrating on finding ways to outwit the

Federation officials who occupied and governed his homeland,

to irritate them at every opportunity so that they might never

feel secure, to make them experience a futility and a frustration

that would one day drive them from Leah forever. He was very

good at it; perhaps he was the best there was. He knew all the

tricks, had conceived most of them himself. He could outthink

and outsmart almost anyone, if he were given time and oppor-

tunity to do so.

He smiled ruefully. At least, that was what he had always told

himself. Now it was time to prove that it was so. It was time to

figure out how the Federation had known so often what they

were about, how it was that they had been betrayed-the out-

laws, the Valemen, the little company from Culhaven, everyone

connected with this misadventure-and most important of all,

who was responsible.

It was something he could reason out.

He let his lean frame drape itself against the grassy base of a

twisted, old trunk, drew his knees partway up to his chest, and

considered what he knew.

The list of betrayals was a long one. Someone had informed

the Federation when Padishar had taken them into Tyrsis to re-

cover the Sword of Shannara. Someone had found out what they

were going to do and gotten word to the Federation watch com-

mander ahead of their arrival. One of your own, the watch com-

mander had told Padishar. Then someone had revealed the

location of the Jut to the army that now besieged it- again,

someone who knew where it could be found and how to find

it.

He frowned. The betrayals had actually begun before that,

though. If you accepted the premise-and he was now prepared

to-that someone had sent the Gnawl to track them in the

Wolfsktaag and had gotten word to the Shadowen on Toner Ridge

where the Spider Gnomes could snatch Par, why then, the be-

trayals went all the way back to Culhaven.

So had someone been tracking them all the way from Cul-

haven?

He discarded the possibility immediately. No one could have

managed such a feat.

But there was more to the puzzle. There was the sighting of

Hirehone in Tyrsis and his subsequent murder in the Parma Key.

And there was the killing of the lift watch with the lifts still

drawn up. What did those events have to do with anything?

He let all the pieces sift through his mind for a few minutes,

waiting to see if he would discover something he had missed.

Night birds called out from below in the darkness of the Parma

Key, and the wind blew gently across his face, warm and fra-

grant. When nothing further occurred, he took each piece in

turn and tried to fit it to the puzzle, working to see if a recog-

nizable picture would emerge. The minutes paraded past him

silently. The pieces refused to fit.

He was missing something.

He rubbed his hands together briskly. He would try it another

way. He would eliminate what didn't work and see what was

left. He took a steadying breath and relaxed.

No one could have followed them-not for all that time. So

it must be someone among them. One of them. But if that some-

one were responsible for the Gnawl and the Shadowen as well

as everything that had happened since their arrival at the outlaw

camp, then didn't it have to be one of the members of the orig-

inal company? Par, Coil, Steff, Teel, or himself? He went back

to Teel momentarily, for he knew less of her than of any of them.

He could not bring himself to believe it was either of the Vale-

men or Steff. But why was Teel any better as a candidate? Hadn't

she suffered at least as much as Steff?

Besides, what did Hirehone have to do with any of this? Why

were the men of the lift watch killed?

He caught himself. They were killed so that someone could

either get in or get out of the outlaw camp undetected. It made

sense. But the lifts were drawn up. They had to have been killed

after bringing someone into the camp-killed perhaps to hide

that someone's identity.

He wrestled with the possibilities. It all kept coming back to

Hirehone. Hirehone was the key. What if it had been Hirehone

he had seen in Tyrsis? What if Hirehone had indeed betrayed

them to the Federation? But Hirehone had never returned to

the Jut after leaving. So how could he have killed the watch?

And why would he be killed after doing so in any case? And

by whom? Could there be more than one traitor involved-

Hirehone and someone else?

Something clicked into place.

Morgan Leah jerked forward in recognition. Who was the

enemy here-the real enemy? Not the Federation. The real en-

emy was the Shadowen. Wasn't that what Allanon's shade had

told them? Wasn't that what they had been warned against? And

the Shadowen could take the form and body and speech of any-

one. Some of them could, at least-the most dangerous. Cogline

had said so.

Morgan felt his pulse quicken and his face flush with excite-

ment. They weren't dealing with a human being in this matter.

They were dealing with a Shadowen! The pieces of the puzzle

suddenly began to fit together. A Shadowen could have hidden

among them and they would not have known. A Shadowen could

have summoned a Gnawl, sent word to Toner Ridge to another

of its kind, have gotten to Tyrsis ahead of Padishar's company,

have spied out its purpose, and slipped away again before its

return. A Shadowen could get close enough. And it could dis-

guise itself as Hirehone. No, not disguise t could be Hire-

hone! And it could have killed him when he had served his

purpose, and killed the lift watch because they would have re-

ported seeing it no matter whose face it had worn. It had re-

vealed the location of the Jut to the Federation army-even

mapped a path for them to follow!

Who? All that remained was to determine . . .

Morgan sagged back slowly against the trunk of the aspen

behind him, the puzzle suddenly complete. He knew who. Steff

or Teel. It had to be one or the other. They were the only ones,

besides himself, who had been with the company from the very

beginning, from Culhaven to the Jut, to Tyrsis and back. Teel

had been unconscious practically the entire time Padishar's band

was in Tyrsis. That would have given either of the Dwarves, or

more specifically the Shadowen within, the opportunity to slip

away and then back again. They were alone much of the time

in any case-just the two of them.

He stiffened against the weight of his suspicions as they bore

down on him. For an instant, he thought he was crazy, that he

should discard his reasoning entirely and start over again. But

he couldn't do that. He knew he was right.

The wind brushed at him, and he pulled his cloak closer in

spite of the evening's warmth. He sat without moving in the

protective shadow of his haven and examined carefully the con-

clusions he had reached, the reasonings he had devised, the

speculations that had slowly assumed the trappings of truth. It

was silent now in the outlaw camp, and he could imagine him-

self to be the only human being living in all the vast, dark ex-

panse of the Parma Key.

Shades.

Steff or Teel.

His instincts told him it was Teel.

XXVII

It was three days after they had made their decision to go

back down into me Pit to recover the Sword of Shannara

that Damson at last took the Valemen from their garden

shed hideaway into the streets of Tyrsis. By then Par was beside

himself with impatience. He had wanted to go immediately;

time was everything, he had argued. But Damson had flatly

refused. It was too dangerous, she insisted. Too many Federa-

tion patrols were still combing the city. They had to wait. Par

had been left with no choice but to do so.

Even now, when she finally judged the margin of risk small

enough to permit them to venture forth, it was on a night when

reasonable men would think twice about doing so, a night that

was bone-cold, the city wrapped in a blanket of mist and rain

that prevented even friends of long standing from recognizing

each other from a distance of more than a few feet and sent the

few citizens who had worked past their normal quitting time

scurrying down the glistening, empty streets for the warmth and

comfort of their homes.

Damson had provided the little company with foul-weather

cloaks, hooded and caped, and they wore them now pulled close

as they made their way through the damp and the silence. Their

boots thudded softly on the stone roadway as they walked, echo-

ing in the stillness, filling up the night with a strange, rushed

cacophony. Water dripped from eaves and trickled down mor-

tared grooves, and the mist settled on their skin with a chill,

possessive adherence that was faintly distasteful. They followed

the backstreets as always, avoiding the Tyrsian Way and the

other main thoroughfares where Federation patrols still kept

watch, steering into the narrow avenues that burrowed like tun-

nels through the colorless, semi-abandoned blocks of the city's

poor and homeless.

They were on their way to find the Mole.

"That is how he is known," Damson told them just before

they went out. "All of the street people call him that because

that is what he chooses to call himself. If he ever had a real

name, I doubt that he remembers it. His past is a closely kept

secret. He lives in the sewers and catacombs beneath Tyrsis, a

recluse. He almost never comes out into the light. His whole

worl is the underbelly of the city, and no one knows more about

it than he does."

"And if there are still passageways that run beneath the pal-

ace of the Kings of Tyrsis, the Mole will know about them?"

Par pressed.

"He will know."

"Can we trust him?''

"The problem is not whether we can trust him, but whether

he will decide to trust us. As I said, he is very reclusive. He

may not even choose to talk with us."

And Par said simply, "He must.''

Coil said nothing. He had said little the entire day, barely a

word since they had decided to go back into the Pit. He had

swallowed the news of what they were going to do as if he had

ingested a medicine that would either cure or kill him and he

was waiting to see which it would be. He seemed to have de-

cided that it was pointless to debate the matter further or to argue

what he perceived as the folly of their course of action, so he

had taken a fatalistic stance, bowing to the inevitability of Par's

determination and the fortune or misfortune that would befall

them because of it, and he had gone into a shell as hard and

impenetrable as iron.

He trailed now as they made their way through the murk of

the Tyrsian evening, tracking Par as closely as his own shadow,

intruding with his mute presence in a way that distressed rather

than comforted. Par didn't like feeling that way about his brother,

but there was no help for it. Coil had determined his own role.

He would neither accept what Par was doing nor cut himself free

of it. He would simply stick it out, for better or worse, until a

resolution was reached.

Damson steered them to the top of a narrow flight of stone

steps that cut through a low wall connecting two vacant, un-

lighted buildings and wound its way downward into the dark.

Par could hear water running, a low gurgle that splashed and

chugged through some obstruction. They made a cautious de-

scent of the slick stone, finding a loose, rusted railing that of-

fered an uncertain handhold. When they reached the end of the

stairs, they found themselves on a narrow walkway that ran par-

allel to a sewer trench. It was down the trench that the water

ran, spilling from a debris-choked passageway that opened from

underneath the streets above.

Damson took the Valemen into the tunnel.

It was black inside and filled with harsh, pungent smells. The

rain disappeared behind them. Damson paused, rumbled about

m the dark for a moment, then produced a torch coated with

pitch on one end, which she managed to light with the aid of a

piece of flint. The firelight brightened the gloom enough to per-

mit them to see their way a few steps at a time, and so they

proceeded. Unseen things scurried away in the darkness ahead,

soundless but for the scratching of tiny claws. Water dripped

from the ceiling, ran down the walls, and churned steadily

through the trench. The air was chill and empty of life.

They reached a second set of stairs descending further into

the earth and took them. They passed through several levels this

time, and the sound of the water faded. The scratchings re-

mained, however, and the chill clung to them with irritating

persistence. The Valemen pulled their cloaks tighter. The stairs

ended and a new passageway began, this one narrower than the

other. They were forced to crouch in order to proceed, and the

dampness gave way to dust. They moved ahead steadily, and

the minutes slipped past. They were deep beneath the city by

now, well within the core of rock and earth that formed the

plateau on which Tyrsis rested. The Valemen had lost all sense

of direction.

When they reached the bottom of a dry well with an iron

ladder that led up, Damson paused. "It is not far now," she

said quietly. "Just another several hundred yards when we reach

the top of this ladder. We should find him then-or he us. He

brought me here once long ago when I showed him a bit of

kindness." She hesitated. "He is very gentle, but peculiar as

well. Be careful how you treat him."

She took them up the ladder to a landing that opened into a

series of passageways. It was warmer there, less dusty, the air

stale but not malodorous. "These tunnels were bolt holes once

for the city's defenders; at some points they lead all the way

down to the plains." Her red hair shimmered as she brushed it

back from her face. "Stay close to me.''

They entered one of the corridors and started down. The pitch

coating on the torch head sizzled and steamed. The tunnel

twisted about, crisscrossed other tunnels, wound through rooms

shored up with timbers and fastening bolts, and left the Valemen

more confused than ever as to where they were. But Damson

never hesitated, certain of her way, either reading signs that were

hidden from them or calling to memory a map mat she kept

within her head.

At last they entered a room that was the first of several, all

interconnected, large chambers with wooden beams, stone block

floors, walls from which hangings and tapestries dangled, and

a storehouse of bizarre treasures. Piled floor to ceiling, wall to

wall, there were trunks of old clothing, piles of furniture

crammed and laden with clasps, fittings, writings gone almost

to dust, feathers, cheap jewelry, and toy animals of all sorts,

shapes, and sizes. The animals were all carefully arranged, some

seated in groups, some lined up on shelves and on divans, some

placed at watch atop bureaus and at doorways. There were a

few rusted weapons scattered about and an armful of baskets

woven from cane and rush.

There were lights as well-oil lamps fastened to the beams

overhead and the wall beneath, filling the rooms with a vague

brightness, the residual smoke venting through airholes that dis-

appeared at the comers of the room into the rock above.

The Valemen looked about expectantly. There was no one

there.

Damson did not seem surprised. She led them into a room,

dominated by a trestle table and eight highback chairs of carved

oak, and motioned for them to sit. There were animals occu-

pying all the chairs, and the Valemen looked inquiringly at the

giri.

"Choose your place, pick up the animal that's seated there,

and hold it," she advised and proceeded to show them what she

meant. She selected a chair with a worn, stuffed velvet rabbit

resting on it, lifted the tattered creature, and placed it comfort-

ably on her lap as she sat down.

Coil did the same, his face empty as he fixed his gaze on a

spot on the far wall, as if convinced that what was happening

was no stranger than what he had expected. Par hesitated, then

sat down as well, his companion something that might have been

either a cat or a dog-it was impossible to tell which. He felt

slightly ridiculous.

They sat there then and waited, not speaking, barely looking

at each other. Damson began stroking the worn fur backing on

her rabbit. Coil was a statue. Par's patience began to slip as the

minutes passed and nothing happened.

Then one after another, the lights went out. Par started to his

feet, but Damson said quickly, "Sit still."

All of the lights but one disappeared. The one that remained

was at the opening of the first room they had entered. Its glow

M was distant and barely reached to where they sat. Par waited for

his eyes to adjust to the near darkness; when they did, he found

himself staring at a roundish, bearded face that had popped up

across from him two seats down from Damson. Blank, dilated

ferret eyes peered at him, shifted to find Coil, blinked, and

stared some more.

"Good evening to you. Mole," Damson Rhee said.

The Mole lifted his head a shade; his neck and shoulders

came into view, and his hands and arms lifted onto the table.

He was covered with hair, a dark, furry coat. It grew on every

patch of skin showing, save for where his nose and cheeks and

a swatch of forehead glimmered like ivory in the faint light. His

rounded head swiveled slowly, and his child's fingers locked

together in a pose of contentment.

"Good evening to you, lovely Damson," he said.

He spoke in a child's voice, but it sounded queer somehow,

as if he were speaking from out of a barrel or through a screen

of water. His eyes moved from Par to Coil, from Coil to Par.

"I heard you coming and put on the lights for you," he said.

"But I don't much like the lights, so now that you are here, I

have put them out again. Is that all right?''

Damson nodded. "Perfectly."

"Whom have you brought with you on your visit?''

"Valemen."

"Valemen?"

"Brothers, from a village south of here, a long way away. Par

Ohmsford. Coil Ohmsford."

She pointed to each and the eyes shifted. "Welcome to my

home. Shall we have tea?"

He disappeared without waiting for an answer, moving so

quietly that, try as he might, even in the almost utter silence,

Par could not hear him. He could smell the tea as it was brought,

yet failed to. see it materialize until the cups were placed before

him. There were two of them, one regular size and one quite

tiny. They were old, and the paint that decorated them was faded

and worn.

Par watched doubtfully while Damson offered a sip from the

smaller cup to the toy rabbit she held. "Are all the children

fine?" she asked conversationally.

"Quite well," the Mole replied, seated agam now where he

had first appeared. He was holding a large bear, to whom he

offered his own cup. Coil and Par followed the ritual without

speaking. "Chalt, you know, has been bad again, sneaking his

tea and cookies when he wishes, disrupting things rather thor-

oughly. When I go up to hear the news through the street grates

and wall passages, he seems to believe he has license to reor-

ganize things to his own satisfaction. Very annoying." He gave

the bear a cross look. "Lida had a very bad fever, but is recov-

ered now. And Westra cut her paw.''

Par glanced at Coil, and this time his brother glanced back.

"Anyone new to the family?" Damson asked.

"Everlind," the Mole said. He stared at her for a moment,

then pointed to the rabbit she was holding. "She came to live

with us just two nights ago. She likes it much better here than

on the streets."

Par hardly knew what to think. The Mole apparently collected

junk discarded by the people of the city above and brought it

down into his lair like a pack rat. To him, the animals were

real-or at least that was the game he played. Par wondered

uneasily if he knew the difference

The Mole was looking at him. "The city whispers of some-

thing that has upset the Federation-disruptions, intruders, a

threat to its rule. The street patrols are increased and the gate

watches challenge everyone. There is a tightening of the chains.''

He paused, then turned to Damson. He said, almost eagedy, "It

is better to be here, lovely Damson-here, underground."

Damson put down her cup. "The disruption is part of the

reason we have come, Mole."

The Mole didn't seem to hear. "Yes, better to be under-

ground, safe within the earth, beneath the streets and the towers,

where the Federation never comes."

Damson shook her head firmly. "We are not here for sanc-

tuary. ''

The Mole blinked, disappointment registering in his eyes.

He set his own cup aside and the animal he held with it, and he

cocked his rounded head. "I found Everlind at the back of the

home of a man who provides counting services for the Federa-

tion tax collectors. He is quick with numbers and tallies far more

accurately than others of his skill. Once, he was an advisor to

the people of the city, but the people couldn't pay him as well

as the Federation, so he took his services there. All day long,

he works in the building where the taxes are held, then goes

home to his family, his wife and his daughter, to whom Everlind

once belonged. Last week, the man bought his daughter a new

toy kitten, silky white fur and green button eyes. He bought it

with money the Federation gave him from what they had col-

lected. So his daughter discarded Everlind. She found the new

kitten far prettier to look upon.''

He looked at them. "Neither the father nor the daughter un-

derstands what they have given up. Each sees only what is on

the surface and nothing of what lies beneath. That is the danger

of living above ground.''

"It is," Damson agreed softly. "But that is something

we must change, those of us who wish to continue to live

there."

The Mole rubbed his hands again, looking down at them as

he did so, lost in some contemplation of his own. The room was

a still life in which the Mole and his visitors sat among the

discards and rejects of other lives and listened to what might

have been the whisper of their own.

The Mole looked up agam, his eyes fixing on Damson.

"Beautiful Damson, what is it that you wish?"

Damson's willowy form straightened, and she brushed back

the stray locks of her fiery hair. "There were once tunnels be-

neath the palace of the Kings of Tyrsis. If they are still there,

we need to go into them.''

The Mole stiffened. "Beneath the palace?"

"Beneath the palace and into the Pit."

There was a long silence as the Mole stared at her unblink-

ing. Almost unconsciously, his hands went out to retrieve the

animal he had been holding. He patted it gently. "There are

things out of darkest night and mind in the Pit," he said

softly.

"Shadowen," Damson said.

"Shadowen? Yes, that name suits them. Shadowen."

"Have you seen them. Mole?"

"I have seen everything that lives in the city. I am the earth's

own eyes."

"Are there tunnels that lead into the Pit? Can you take us

through them?"

The Mole's face lost all expression, then pulled away from

the table's edge and dropped back into shadow. For an instant,

Par thought he was gone. But he was merely hiding, returned

to the comfort of the dark to consider what he was being asked.

The toy animal went with him, and the girl and the Valemen

were left alone as surely as if the little fellow had truly disap-

peared. They waited patiently, not speaking.

"Tell them how we met," the Mole spoke suddenly from his

concealment. "Tell them how it was,"

Damson turned obediently fo the Valemen. "I was walking

in one of the parks at night, just as the dusk was ending, the

stars brightening in the sky. It was summer, the air warm and

filled with the smell of flowers and new grass. I rested on a

bench for a moment, and Mole appeared beside me. He had

seen me perform my magic on the streets, hidden somewhere

beneath them as he watched, and he asked me if I would do a

trick especially for him. I did several. He asked me to come

back the next night, and I did. I came back each night for a

week, and then he took me underground and showed me his

home and his family. We became friends."

"Good friends, lovely Damson. The best of friends." The

Mole's face slipped back into view, easing from the shadows.

The eyes were solemn. "I cannot refuse anything you ask of

me. But I wish you would not ask this."

"It is important. Mole."

"You are more important," the Mole replied shyly. "I am

afraid for you."

She reached over slowly and touched the back of his hand.

"It will be all right."

The Mole waited until she took her hand away, then quickly

tucked his own under the table. He spoke reluctantly. "There

are tunnels all through the rock beneath the palace of the Kings

of Tyrsis. They connect with cellars and dungeons that lie for-

gotten. Some, one or two perhaps, open into the Pit."

Damson nodded. "We need you to take us there."

The Mole shivered. "Dark things-Shadowen--will be there.

What if they find us? What will we do?''

Damson's eyes locked on Par. "This Valeman has use of

magic as well, Mole. But it is not magic like mine that plays

tricks and entertains, it is real magic. He is not afraid of the

Shadowen. He will protect us."

Par felt his stomach tighten at the words-words that made

promises he knew deep down inside he might not be able to

keep.

The Mole was studying him once more. His dark eyes blinked.

"Very well. Tomorrow I will go into the tunnels and make

certain they can still be traversed. Come back when it is night

again, and if the way is open I will take you.''

"Thank you, Mole," Damson said.

"Finish your tea," the Mole said quietly, not looking at

her.

They sat in silence in the company of the toy animals and did

so.

It was still raining when they left the maze of underground

tunnels and sewer channels and slipped back through the

empty streets of the city. Damson led the way, surefooted in

the mist and damp, a cat that didn't mind the wet. She re-

turned the Valemen to the storage shed behind the gardening

shop and left them there to get some sleep. She said she

would return for them after midday. There were things that

she needed to do first.

But Par and Coil didn't sleep. They kept watch instead, sitting

at the windows and looking out into a curtain of fog that was

filled with the movement of things that weren't there and thick

with the reflected light of the coming day. It was almost morning

by then, and the sky was brightening in the east. It was cold in

the shed, and the brothers huddled in blankets and tried to put

aside their discomfort and the disquieting thought of what lay

ahead.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Finally Par, his im-

patience used up, said to his brother, "What are you thinking

about?"

Coil took a moment to consider, then simply shook his head.

"Are you thinking about the Mole?"

Coil sighed. "Some." He hunched himself within his blan-

ket. "I should be worried about placing my life in the hands of

a fellow who lives underground with the relics of other people's

lives for possessions and toy animals for companions, but I'm

not. I don't really know why that is. I guess it is because he

doesn't seem any stranger than anyone else connected with

what's happened since we left Varfleet. Certainly, he doesn't

seem any crazier.''

Par didn't respond to that. There wasn't anything he could

say that hadn't already been said. He knew his brother's feelings.

He pulled his own blanket tight and let his eyes close against the

movement of the fog. He wished the waiting was over and that

it was time to get started. He hated the waiting

"Why don't you go to sleep?" he heard Coil say.

"I can't," he replied. His eyes slipped open again. "Why

don't you?"

Coil shrugged. The movement seemed an effort. Coil was

lost within himself, struggling to maintain direction while mired

in a steadily tightening morass of circumstances and events from

which he knew he should extricate himself but could not.

"Coil, why don't you let me do this alone," Par said sud-

denly. impulsively. His brother looked over. "I know we've

already had this discussion; don't bother reminding me. But why

don't you? There isn't any reason for you to go. I know what

you think about what I'm doing. Maybe you're right. So stay

here and wait for me.''

"No."

"But why not? I can look out for myself.''

Coil stared. "As a matter of fact, you can't," he said quietly.

His rough features crinkled with disbelief. "I think that might

be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard you say."

Par flushed angrily. "Just because ..."

"There hasn't been a single moment during this entire expedi-

tion or trek or whatever you want to call it that you haven't needed

help from someone." The dark eyes narrowed. "Don't misun-

derstand me. I'm not saying you were the only one. We've all

needed help, needed each other-even Padishar Creel. That's

the way life works." One strong hand lifted and a finger jabbed

Par roughly. "The thing is, everyone but you realizes and ac-

cepts it. But you keep trying to do everything on your own,

trying to be the one who knows best, who has all the answers,

recognizes all the options, and has some special insight the rest

of us lack that allows you to decide what's best. You blind your-

self to the truth. Do you know what, Par? The Mole, with his

family of toy animals and his underground hideout-you're just

like him. You're exactly the same. You create your own reality-

it doesn't matter what the truth is or what anyone else thinks."

He slipped his hand back into his blanket and pulled the cov-

ering tight again. "That's why I'm going. Because you need me

to go. You need me to tell you the difference between the toy

animals and the real ones."

He turned away again, directing his gaze back out the rain-

streaked window to where the night's fading shadows continued

to play games in the mist.

Par's mouth tightened. His brother's face was infuriatingly

calm. "I know the difference. Coil!" he snapped.

Coil shook his head. "No you don't. It's all the same to you.

You decide whatever you want to decide and that's the end of

the matter. That's the way it was with Allanon's ghost. That's

the way it was with the charge he gave you to find the Sword of

Shannara. That's the way it is now. Toy animals or real ones,

the fact of what they are doesn't matter. What matters is how

you perceive it."

"That's not true!'' Par was incensed.

"Isn't it? Then tell me this. What happens tomorrow if you're

mistaken? About anything. What if the Sword of Shannara isn't

there? What if the Shadowen are waiting for us? What if the

wishsong doesn't work the way you think it will? Tell me. Par.

What if you're just plain wrong?"

Par gripped the edges of his blanket until his knuckles were

white.

"What happens if the toy animals turn out to be real ones?

What do you plan to do then?'' He waited a moment, then said,

"That's why I'm going, too."

"If it turns out that I'm wrong, what difference will it make

if you do go?" Par shouted furiously.

Coil didn't respond right away. Then slowly he looked over

once again. He gave Par a small, ironic smile. "Don't you

know?"

He turned away again. Par bit his lip in frustration. The rain

picked up momentarily, the drops beating on the shed's wooden

roof with fresh determination. Par felt suddenly small and

frightened, knowing that his brother was right, that he was being

foolish and impulsive, that his insistence in going back into the

Pit was risking all their lives, but knowing too that it didn't make

any difference; he must go. Coil was right about that as well;

the decision had been made and he would not change it. He

remained rigid and upright next to his brother, refusing to give

way to his fears, but within he curled tight and tried to hide from

the faces they showed him.

Then Coil said quietly, "I love you. Par. And I suppose

when you get right down to it, that's why I'm going most of

all."

Par let the words hang in the silence that followed, unwilling

to disturb them. He felt himself uncurl and straighten, and a

flush of warmth spread through him. When he tried to speak,

he could not. He let his breath out in a long, slow, inaudible

"I need you with me, Coil," he managed finally. "I really

do."

Coil nodded. Neither of them said anything after that.

XXVIII

Walker Boh returned to Hearthstone following his

confrontation with the Grimpond and for the bet-

ter part of a week did nothing more than consider

what he had been told. The weather was pleasant, the days warm

and sunny, the air filled with fragrant smells from the woodland

trees and flowers and streams. He felt sheltered by the valley;

he was content to remain in seclusion there. Rumor provided all

the company he required. The big moor cat trailed after him on

the long walks he took to while away his days, padding silently

down the solitary trails, along the moss-covered stream banks,

through the ancient massive trees, a soundless and reassuring

presence. At night, the two sat upon the cottage porch, the cat

dozing, the man staring skyward at the canopy of moon and

stars.

He was always thinking. He could not stop thinking. The

memory of the Grimpond's words haunted him even at Hearth-

stone, at his home, where nothing should have been able to

threaten him. The words played unpleasant games within his

mind, forcing him to confront them, to try to reason through

how much of what they whispered was truth and how much a

lie. He had known it would be like this before he had gone to

see the Grimpond-that the words would be vague and distress-

ing and that they would speak riddles and half-truths and leave

him with a tangled knot of threads leading to the answers he

sought, a knot that only a clairvoyant could manage to sort out.

He had known and still he was not prepared for how taxing it

would be.

He was able to determine the location of the Black Elfstone

almost immediately. There was only one place where eyes could

turn a man to stone and voices drive him mad, one place where

the dead lay in utter blackness-the Hall of Kings, deep in the

Dragon's Teeth. It was said that the Hall of Kings had been

fashioned even before the time of the Druids, a vast and impen-

etrable cavern labyrinth in which the dead monarchs of the Four

Lands were interred, a massive crypt in which the living were

not permitted, protected by darkness, by statues called Sphinxes

that were half-man, half-beast and could turn the living to stone,

and by formless beings called Banshees who occupied a section

of the caverns called the Corridor of Winds and whose wail

could drive men mad instantly.

And the Tomb itself, where the pocket carved with runes hid

the Black Elfstone, was watched over by the serpent Valg.

At least it was if the serpent was still alive. There had been a

terrible battle fought between the serpent and the company un-

der Allanon's leadership, who had gone in search of the Sword

of Shannara in the time of Shea Ohmsford. The company had

encountered the serpent unexpectedly and been forced to battle

its way clear. But no one had ever determined if the serpent had

survived that battle. As far as Walker knew, no one had ever

gone back to see.

Allanon might have returned once upon a time, of course.

But Allanon had never said.

The difficulty in any event was not in determining the mystery

of the Elfstone's whereabouts, but in deciding whether or not to

go after it. The Hall of Kings was a dangerous place, even for

someone like Walker who had less to fear than ordinary men.

Magic, even the magic of a Druid, might not be protection

enough-and Walker's magic was far less than Allanon's had

ever been. Walker was concerned as well with what the Grim-

pond hadn't told him. There was certain to be more to this than

what had been revealed; the Grimpond never gave out every-

thing it knew. It was holding something back, and that was

probably something that could kill Walker.

There was also the matter of the visions. There had been three

of them, each more disturbing than the one before. In the first,

Walker had stood on clouds above the others in the little com-

pany who had come to the Hadeshom and the shade ofAllanon,

one hand missing, mocked by his own claim that he would lose

that hand before he would allow the Druids to come again. In

the second, he had pushed to her death a woman with silver hair,

a magical creature of extraordinary beauty. In the third, Allanon

had held him fast while death reached to claim him.

There was some measure of truth in each of these visions,

Walker knew-enough truth so that he must pay heed to them

and not simply dismiss them as the Grimpond's tauntings. The

visions meant something; the Grimpond had left it to him to try

to figure out what.

So Walker Boh debated. But the days passed and still the

answers he needed would not come. All that was certain was

the location of the Black Elfstone-and its claim upon the Dark

Uncle grew stronger, a lure that drew him like a moth to flame,

though the moth understood the promise of death that waited

and flew to it nevertheless.

And fly to it Walker did as well in the end. Despite his resolve

to wait until he had puzzled out the Grimpond's riddles, his

hunger to reclaim the missing Elfstone finally overcame him.

He had thought the conversation through until he was sick of

repeating it in his mind. He became convinced that he had

learned all from it that he was going to learn. There was no

other course of action left to him but to go in search of the Black

Elfstone and to discover by doing what he could discover in no

other way. It would be dangerous; but he had survived danger-

ous situations before. He resolved not to be afraid, only to be

careful.

He left the valley at the close of the week, departing with the

sunrise, traveling afoot, wearing a long forest cloak for protec-

tion against the weather and carrying only a rucksack full of

provisions. Most of what he would need he would find on the

way. He walked west mto Darldin Reach and did not look back

until Hearthstone was lost from view. Rumor remained behind.

It was difficult to leave the big cat; Walker would have felt better

having him along. Few things living would challenge a full-

grown moor cat. But it would be dangerous for Rumor as well

outside the protective confines of the Easuand, where he could

not conceal himself as easily and where his natural protection

would be stripped from him. Besides, this was Walker's quest

and his alone.

The irony of his choosing to make the quest at all did not

escape him. He was the one who had vowed never to have any-

thing to do with the Druids and their machinations. He had gone

grudgingly with Par on his journey to the Hadeshom. He had

left the meeting with the shade of Allanon convinced that the

Druid was playing games with the Ohmsfords, using them to

serve his own hidden purposes. He had practically thrown Cog-

line from his own home, insisting that the other's efforts to teach

the secrets of the magic had retarded his growth rather than

enhanced it. He had threatened to take the Druid History that

the old man had brought him and throw it into the deepest bog.

But then he had read about the Black Elfstone, and somehow

everything had changed. He still wasn't sure why. His curiosity

was partly to blame, his insatiable need to know. Was there such

a thing as the Black Elfstone? Could it bring back disappeared

Paranor as the history promised? Questions to be answered-he

could never resist the lure of their secrets. Such secrets had

to be solved, their mysteries revealed. There was knowledge

waiting to be discovered. It was the purpose to which he had

dedicated his life.

He wanted to believe that his sense of fairness and compas-

sion made him go as well. Despite what he believed about the

Druids, there might be something in Paranor itself-if, indeed,

the Druid's Keep could be brought back-that would help the

Four Lands against the Shadowen. He was uneasy with the pos-

sibility that in not going he was condemning the Races to a

future like that which the Druid shade had described.

He promised himself as he departed that he would do no more

than he must and certainly no more than he believed reasonable.

He would remain, first and always, his own master rather than

the plaything that AUanon's shade would have him be.

The days were still and sultry, the summer's heat building as

he traversed the forest wilderness. Clouds were massed in the

west, somewhere below the Dragon's Teeth. There would be

storms waiting in the mountains.

He passed along the Chard Rush, then climbed into the

Wolfsktaag and out again. It took him three days of easy travel

to reach Storlock. There he reprovisioned with the help of the

Stors and on the morning of the fourth day set out to cross the

Rabb Plains. The storms had reached him by then, and rain

began to fall in a slow, steady drizzle that turned the landscape

gray. Patrols of Federation soldiers on horseback and caravans

of traders appeared and faded like wraiths without seeing him.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, muted and sluggish in the

oppressive heat, a growl of dissatisfaction echoing across the

emptiness.

Walker camped that night on the Rabb Plains, taking shelter

in a cottonwood grove. There was no dry wood for a fire and

Walker was already drenched through, so he slept wrapped in

his cloak, shivering with the damp and cold.

Morning brought a lessening of the rains, the clouds thinning

and letting the sun's brightness shine through in a screen of gray

light. Walker roused himself stoically, ate a cold meal of fruit

and cheese, and struck out once more. The Dragon's Teeth rose

up before him, sullen and dark. He reached the pass that led

upward into the Valley of Shale and the Hadeshom and, beyond,

the Hall of Kings.

That was as far as he went that day. He made camp beneath

an outcropping of rock where the earth was still dry. He found

wood, built a fire, dried his clothes, and warmed himself. He

would be ready now when tomorrow came and it was time to

enter the caverns. He ate a hot meal and watched the darkness

descend in a black pall of clouds, mist, and night across the

empty reaches about him. He thought for a time about his boy-

hood and wondered what he might have done to make it differ-

ent. It began to rain again, and the world beyond his small fire

disappeared.

He slept well. There were no dreams, no nervous awaken-

ings. When he woke, he felt rested and prepared to face what-

ever fate awaited him. He was confident, though not carelessly

so. The rain had stopped again. He listened for a time to the

sounds of the morning waking around him, searching for hidden

warnings. There were none.

He wrapped himself in his forest cloak, shouldered his ruck-

sack, and started up.

The morning slipped away as he climbed. He was more cau-

tious now, his eyes searching across the barren rock, defiles,

and crevices for movement that meant danger, his ears sorting

through the small noises and scrapes for those that truly men-

aced. He moved quietly, deliberately, studying the landscape

ahead before proceeding into it, choosing his path with care.

The mountains about him were vast, empty, and still-sleeping

giants rooted so utterly by time to the earth beneath that even if

they somehow managed to wake they would find they could no

longer move.

He passed into the Valley of Shale. Black rock glistened

damply within its bowl, and the waters of the Hadeshom stirred

like a thick, greenish soup. He circled it warily and left it be-

hind.

Beyond, the slope steepened and the climb grew more diffi-

cult. The wind began to pick up, blowing the mist away until

the air was sharp and clear and there was only the gray ceiling

of the clouds between Walker and the earth. The temperature

dropped, slowly at first, then rapidly until it was below freezing.

Ice began to appear on the rock, and snow flurries swirled past

his face in small gusts. He wrapped his cloak about him more

tightly and pressed on.

His progress slowed then, and for a very long time it seemed

to Walker as if he were not moving at all. The pathway was

uneven and littered with loose stone, twisting and winding its

way through the larger rocks. The wind blew into him remorse-

lessly, biting at his face and hands,'buffeting him so that it threat-

ened to knock him backward. The mountainside remained

unchanging, and it was impossible to tell at any given point how

far he had come. He quit trying to hear or see anything beyond

what lay immediately in front of him and limited his concentra-

tion to putting one foot in front of the other, drawing into him-

self as far as he could to block away the cold.

He found himself thinking of the Black Elfstone, of how it

would look and feel, of what form its magic might take. He

played with the vision in the silence of his mind, shutting out

the world he traveled through and the discomfort he was feeling.

He held the image before him like a beacon and used it to

brighten the way.

It was noon when he entered a canyon, a broad split between

the massive peaks with their canopy of clouds that opened into

a valley and beyond the valley into a narrow, twisting passage-

way that disappeared into the rock. Walker traversed the canyon

floor to the defile and started in. The wind died away to a whis-

per, an echo that breathed softly in the suddenly enfolding still-

ness. Moisture trapped by the peaks collected in pools. Walker

felt the chill lose its bite. He came out of himself again, newly

alert, tense as he searched the dark rifts and comers of the cor-

ridor he followed.

Then the walls fell away and his journey was finished.

The entrance to the Hall of Kings stood before him, carved

into the wall of the mountain, a towering black maw, bracketed

by huge stone sentries fashioned in the shape of armor-clad war-

riors, the blades of their swords jammed downward into the

earth. The sentries faced out from the cavern mouth, faces

scarred by wind and time, eyes fastened on Walker as if they

might somehow really see.

Walker slowed, then stopped. The way forward was wrapped

in darkness and silence. The wind, its echo still ringing in his

ears, had faded away completely. The mist was gone. Even the

cold had mutated into a sort of numbing, empty chill.

What Walker felt at that moment was unmistakable. The feel-

ing wrapped about him like a second skin, permeated his body,

and reached down into his bones. It was the feeling of death.

He listened to the silence. He searched the blackness. He

waited. He let his mind reach out into the world. He could

discover nothing.

The minutes faded away.

Finally Walker Boh straightened purposefully, hitched up the

rucksack, and started forward once again.

It was midafternoon in the Westland where the Tirfing

stretched from the sun-baked banks of the Mermidon south along

the broad, empty stretches of the Shroudslip. The summer had

been a dry one, and the grasses were withered from the heat,

even where there had been a measure of shade to protect them.

Where there had been no shade at all, the land was burned

bare.

Wren Ohmsford sat with her back against the trunk of a

spreading oak, close to where the horses nosed into a muddy

pool of water, and watched the sun's fire turn red against the

west sky, edging toward the horizon and the day's close. The

glare blinded her to anything approaching from that direction,

and she shaded her eyes watchfully. It was one thing to be caught

napping by Garth; it was something else again to let her guard

down against whoever it was that was tracking them.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. It had been more than two

days now since they had first discovered they were being fol-

lowed-sensed it, really, since their shadow had remained care-

fully hidden from them. He or she or it-they still didn't know.

Garth had backtracked that morning to find out, stripping off his

brightly colored clothing and donning mud-streaked plains garb,

shading his face, hands, and hair, disappearing into the heat like

a wraith.

Whoever was tracking them was in for an unpleasant surprise.

Still, it was nearing day's end and the giant Rover hadn't

returned. Their shadow might be more clever than they imag-

ined.

"What does it want?'' she mused.

She had asked Garth the same question that morning, and he

had drawn his finger slowly across his throat. She tried to argue

against it, but she lacked the necessary conviction. It could be

an assassin following them as easily as anyone else.

Her gaze wandered to the expanse of the plains east. It was

disturbing enough to be tracked like this. It was even more

disturbing to realize that it probably had something to do with

her inquiries about the Elves.

She sighed fitfully, vaguely irritated with the way things were

working out. She had come back from her meeting with the

shade of Allanon in an unsettled state, dissatisfied with what she

had heard, uncertain as to what she should do. Common sense

told her mat what the shade had asked of her was impossible.

But something inside, that sixth sense she relied upon so heavily,

whispered that maybe it wasn't, that Druids had always known

more than humans, that their warnings and chargings to the

people of the Races had always had merit. Par believed. He was

probably already in search of the missing Sword of Shannara.

And while Walker had departed from them in a rage, vowing

never to have anything to do with the Druids, his anger had been

momentary. He was too rational, too controlled to dismiss the

matter so easily. Like her, he would be having second thoughts.

She shook her head ruefully. She had believed her own de-

cision irrevocable for a tune. She had persuaded herself that

common sense must necessarily govern her course of action,

and she had returned with Garth to her people, putting the busi-

ness of Allanon and the missing Elves behind her. But the doubts

had persisted, a nagging sense of something being not quite

right about her determination to drop the matter. So, almost

reluctantly, she had begun to ask questions about the Elves. It

was easy enough to do; the Rovers were a migrating people and

traveled the Westland from end to end during the course of a

year's time, trading for what they needed, bartering with what

they had. Villages and communities came and went, and there

were always new people to talk to. What harm could it do them

to inquire about the Elves?

Sometimes she had asked her questions directly, sometimes

almost jokingly. But the answers she had received were all the

same. The Elves were gone, had been since before anyone could

remember, since before the time of their grandfathers and

grandmothers. No one had ever seen an Elf. Most weren't sure

there had ever really been any to see.

Wren had begun to feel foolish even asking, had begun to

consider giving up asking at all. She broke away from her people

to hunt with Garth, anxious to be alone to think, hoping to gain

some insight into the dilemma through solitary consideration of

it.

And then their shadow had appeared, stalking them. Now she

was wondering if there wasn't something to be found out after

all.

She saw movement out of the comer of her eye, a vague blur

in the swelter of the plains, and she came cautiously to her feet.

She stood without moving in the shadow of the oak as the shape

took form and became Garth. The giant Rover trotted up to her,

sweat coating his heavily muscled frame. He seemed barely

winded, a tireless machine that even the intense midsummer

heat could not affect. He signed briefly, shaking his head. Who-

ever was out there had eluded him.

Wren held his gaze a moment, then reached down to hand

him the waterskin. As he drank, she draped her lanky frame

against the roughened bark of the oak and stared out into the

empty plains. One hand came up in an unconscious movement

to touch the small leather bag about her neck. She rolled the

contents thoughtfully between her fingers. Make-believe Elf-

stones. Her good luck charm. What sort of luck were they pro-

viding her now?

She brushed aside her uneasiness, her sun-browned face a

mask of determination. It didn't matter. Enough was enough.

She didn't like being followed, and she was going to put an end

to it. They would change the direction of their travel, disguise

their trail, backtrack once or twice, ride all night if need be, and

lose their shadow once and for all.

She took her hand away from the bag and her eyes were fierce.

Sometimes you had to make your own luck.

Walker Boh entered the Hall of Kings on cat's feet, passing

noiselessly between the massive stone sentinels, stepping

through the cavern mouth into the blackness beyond. He paused

there, letting his eyes adjust. There was light, a faint greenish

phosphorescence given off by the rock. He would not need to

light a torch to find the way.

A picture of the caverns flashed momentarily in his mind, a

reconstruction of what he expected to find. Cogline had drawn

it for him on paper once, long ago. The old man had never been

into the caverns himself, but others of the Druids had, Allanon

among them, and Cogline had studied the maps that they had

devised and revealed their secrets to his pupil. Walker felt con-

fident that he could find the way.

He started ahead.

The passageway was broad and level, its walls and floors free

from sharp projections and crevices. The near-dark was wrapped

in silence, deep and hushed, and there was only the faint echo

of his boots as he walked. The air was bone-chilling, a cold that

had settled into the mountain rock over the centuries and could

not be dislodged. It seeped into Walker despite his clothing and

made him shiver. A prickling of unpleasant feelings crept

through him-loneliness, insignificance, futility. The caverns

dwarfed him; they reduced him to nothing, a tiny creature whose

very presence in such an ancient, forbidden place was an affront.

He fought back against the feelings, recognizing what they would

do to him, and after a brief struggle they faded back into the

cold and the silence.

He reached the cave of the Sphinxes shortly after. He paused

again, this time to steady his mind, to take himself deep down

inside where the stone spirits couldn't reach him. When he was

there, wrapped in whispers of caution and warning, blanketed

in words of power, he went forward. He kept his eyes fixed on

the dusty floor, watching the stone pass away, looking only at

the next few feet he must cover.

In his mind, he saw the Sphinxes looming over him, massive

stone monoliths fashioned by the same hands that had made the

sentinels. The Sphinxes were said to have human faces carved

on the bodies of beasts-creatures of another age that no living

man had ever seen. They were old, so incredibly ancient that

their lives could be measured by hundreds of generations of

mortal men. So many monarchs had passed beneath their gaze,

carried from life to endless rest within their mountain tombs.

So many, never to return.

Look at us, they whispered! See haw wondrous we are!

He could sense their eyes on him, hear the whisper of their

voices in his mind, feel them tearing and ripping at the layers of

protection he had fashioned for himself, begging him to look

up. He moved more quickly now, fighting to banish the whis-

pers, resisting the urge to obey them. The stone monsters seemed

to howl at him, harsh and insistent.

Walker Boh! Look at us! You must!

He struggled forward, his mind swarming with their voices,

his resolve crumbling. Sweat beaded on his face despite the

cold, and his muscles knotted until they hurt. He gritted his

teeth against his weakness, chiding himself, thinking suddenly

of Allanon in a bitter, desperate reminder that the Druid had

come this way before him with seven men under his protection

and had not given in.

In the end, neither did he. Just as he thought he would, that

he must, he reached the far end of the cavern and stepped into

tfae passageway beyond. The whispers faded and were gone. The

Sphinxes were left behind. He looked up again, carefully re-

sisted the urge to glance back, then moved ahead once more.

The passageway narrowed and began to wind downward.

Walker slowed, uncertain as to what might lurk around the dark-

ened comers. The greenish light could be found only in small

patches here, and the corridor was thick with shadows. He

dropped into a crouch, certain that something waited to attack

him, feeling its presence grow nearer with every step he took.

He considered momentarily using his magic to light the pas-

sageway so that he might better see what hid from him, but he

quickly discarded the idea. If he invoked the magic, he would

alert whatever might be there that he possessed special powers.

Better to keep the magic secret, he thought. It was a weapon

that would serve him best if its use was unexpected.

Yet nothing appeared. He shrugged his uneasiness aside and

pressed on until the passageway straightened and began to widen

out again.

Then the sound began.

He knew it was coming, that it would strike all at once, and

still he was not prepared when it came. It lashed out at him,

wrapping about with the strength of iron chains, dragging him

ahead. It was the scream of winds through a canyon, the howl

and rip of storms across a plain, the pounding of seas against

shoreline cliffs. And beneath, just under the skin of it, was the

horrifying shriek of souls in unimaginable pain, scraping their

bones against the rock of the cavern walls.

Frantically, Walker Boh brought his defenses to bear. He was

in the Corridor of Winds, and the Banshees were upon him. He

blocked everything away in an instant, closing off the terrifying

sound with a strength of will that rocked him, focusing his

thoughts on a single picture within his mind-an image of him-

self. He constructed the image with lines and shadings, coloring

in the gaps, giving himself life and strength and determination.

He began to walk forward. He muffled the sound of the Ban-

shees until they were no more than a strange buzzing that

whipped and tore about him, trying to break through. He

watched the Corridor of Winds pass away about him, a bleak

and empty cavern in which everything was invisible but the wail-

ing, a whiri of color that flashed like maddened lightning through

the black.

Nothing Walker did would lessen it. The shrieks and howls

hammered into him, buffeting his body as if they were living

things. He could feel his strength ebbing as it had before the

onslaught of the Sphinxes, his defenses giving way. The fury of

the attack was frightening. He fought back against it, a hint of

desperation creeping through him as he watched the image he

had drawn of himself begin to shimmer and disappear. He was

losing control. In another minute, maybe two, his protection

would crumble completely.

And then, once again, he broke clear just when it seemed he

must give way. He stumbled from the Corridor of Winds into a

small cave that lay beyond. The screams of the Banshees van-

ished. Walker collapsed against the closest wall, sliding down

the smooth rock into a sitting position, his entire body shaking.

He breathed in and out slowly, steadily, coming back to himself

in bits and pieces. Time slowed, and for a moment he allowed

his eyes to close.

When he opened them again, he was looking at a pair of

massive stone doors fastened to the rock by iron hinges. Runes

were carved into the doors, the ancient markings as red as fire.

He had reached the Assembly, the Tomb where the Kings of

the Four Lands were interred.

He climbed to his feet, hitched up the rucksack, and walked

to the doors. He studied the markings a moment, then placed

one hand carefully upon them and shoved. The door swung open

and Walker Boh stepped through.

He stood in a giant, circular cavern streaked by greenish light

and shadow. Sealed vaults lined the walls, the dead within closed

away by mortar and stone. Statues stood guarding their en-

tombed rulers, solemn and ageless. Before each was piled the

wealth of the master in casks and trunks-jewels, furs, weap-

ons, treasures of all sorts. They were so covered with dust that

they were barely recognizable. The walls of the chamber loomed

upward until they disappeared, the ceiling an impenetrable can-

opy of black.

The chamber appeared empty of life.

At its far end, a second pair of doors stood closed. It was

beyond that the serpent Valg had lived. The Pyre of the Dead

was there, an altar on which the deceased rulers of the Pour

Lands lay in state for a requisite number of days before their

interment. A set of stone stairs led down from the altar to a pool

of water in which Valg hid. Supposedly, the serpent kept watch

over the dead. Walker wouldn't have been surprised to learn that

he just fed on them.

He listened for long moments for the sound of anything mov-

ing, anything breathing. He heard nothing. He studied the Tomb.

The Black Elf stone was hidden here-not in the cavern beyond.

If he were quick and if he were careful, he might avoid having

to discover whether or not the serpent Valg was still alive.

He began moving slowly, noiselessly past the crypts of the

dead, their statues and their wealth. He ignored the treasures;

he knew from Cogline that they were coated with a poison in-

stantly fatal to anyone who touched them. He picked his way

forward, skirting each bastion of death, studying the rock walls

and the rune markings that decorated them. He circled the

chamber and found himself back where he had started.

Nothing.

His brow furrowed in thought. Where was the pocket that

contained the Black Elfstone?

He studied the cavern a second time, letting his eyes drift

through the haze of greenish light, skipping from one pocket of

shadows to the next. He must have missed something. What was

it?

He closed his eyes momentarily and let his thoughts reach

out, searching the blackness. He could feel something, a very

small presence that seemed to whisper his name. His eyes

snapped open again. His lean, ghostlike face went taut. The

presence was not in the wall; it was in the floor!

He began moving again, this time directly across the cham-

ber, letting himself be guided by what he sensed was waiting

there. It was the Black Elfstone, he concluded. An Elfstone

would have life of its own, a presence that it could summon if

called upon. He strode away from the statues and their treasures,

away from the vaults, no longer even seeing them, his eyes fas-

tening on a point almost at the center of the cavern.

When he reached that point, he found a rectangular slab of

rock resting evenly on the floor. Runes were carved in its sur-

face, markings so faded that he could not make them out. He

hesitated, uneasy that the writing was so obscured. But if the

runes were Elven script, they might be thousands of years old;

he could not expect to be able to read them now.

He knelt down, a solitary figure in the center of the cavern,

isolated even from the dead. He brushed at the stone markings

and tried a moment longer to decipher them. Then, his patience

exhausted, he gave up. Using both hands, he pushed at the stone.

It gave easily, moving aside without a sound.

He felt a momentary rush of excitement.

The hole beneath was dark, so cloaked in shadow that he

could make nothing out. Yet there was something . . .

Casting aside momentarily the caution that had served him

so well. Walker Boh reached down into the opening.

Instantly, something wrapped about his hand, seizing him.

There was a moment of excruciating pain and then numbness.

He tried to jerk free, but he could not move. Panic flooded

through him. He still could not see what was down there.

Desperate now, he used the magic, his free hand summoning

light and sending it swiftly down into the hole.

What he saw caused him to go cold. There was no Elfstone.

Instead, a snake was fastened to his hand, coiled tightly about

it. But this was no ordinary snake. This was something far more

deadly, and he recognized it instantly. It was an Asphinx, a

creature out of the old legends, conceived at the same time as

its massive counterparts in the caves without, the Sphinxes. But

the Asphinx was a creature of flesh and blood until it struck.

Only then did it turn to stone.

And whatever it struck turned to stone as well.

Walker's teeth clenched against what he saw happening His

hand was already turning gray, the Asphinx still wrapped firmly

about it, dead now and hardened, cemented against the floor of

the compartment in a tight spiral from which it could not be

broken loose.

Walker Boh pulled violently against the creature's grasp. But

there was no escape. He was embedded in stone, fastened to

the Asphinx and the cavern floor as surely as if by chains.

Fear ripped through him, tearing at him as a knife edge might

his flesh He was poisoned. Just as his hand was turning to

stone, so would the rest of him. Slowly. Inexorably.

Until he was a statue.

XXIX

Dawn at the Jut brought a change in the weather as the

leading edge of the storm that was passing through

Tyrsis drifted north into the Parma Key. It was still

dark when the first cloud banks began to blanket the skies, blot-

ting out the moon and stars and turning the whole of the night

an impenetrable black. Then the wind died, its whisper fading

away almost before anyone still awake in the outlaw camp no-

ticed it was gone, and the air became still and sullen. A few

drops fell, splashing on the upturned faces of the watch, spat-

tering onto the dry, dusty rock of the bluff in widening stains.

Everything grew hushed as the drops came quicker. Steam rose

off the floor of the forestland below, lifting above the treetops

to mix with the clouds until mere was nothing left to see, even

with the sharpest eyes. When dawn finally broke, it came as a

line of brightness along the eastern horizon so faint that it went

almost unnoticed. By then, the rain was falling steadily, a heavy

drizzle that sent everyone scurrying for shelter, including the

watch.

Which was why no one saw the Creeper.

It must have come out of the forest under cover of darkness

and begun working its way up the cliffside when the clouds took

away the only light that would have revealed its presence. There

were sounds of scraping as it climbed, the rasp of its claws and

armor-plating as it dragged itself upward, but the sounds were

lost in the rumble of distant thunder, the splatter of the rain, and

the movement of men and animals in the camps. Besides, the

outlaws on watch were tired and irritable and convinced that

nothing was going to happen before dawn.

The Creeper was almost on top of them before they realized

their mistake and began to scream.

The cries brought Morgan Leah awake with a start. He had

fallen asleep in the grove of aspen at the far end of the bluff,

still mulling over what to do about his suspicions as to the iden-

tity of the traitor. He was curled in a ball under the canopy of

the largest tree, his hunting cloak wrapped about him for

wamith. His muscles were so sore and cramped that at first he

could not bring himself to stand. But the cries grew quickly

more frantic, filled with terror. Ignoring his own discomfort, he

forced himself to his feet, pulled free the broadsword he had

strapped to his back. and stumbled out into the rain.

The bluff was in pandemonium. Men were charging back and

forth everywhere, weapons drawn, dark shadows in a world of

grayness and damp. A few torches appeared, bright beacons

against the black, but their flames were extinguished almost

immediately by the downpour. Morgan hurried ahead, follow-

ing the tide, searching the gloom for the source of the madness.

And then the saw it. The Creeper was atop the bluff, rearing

out of the chasm, looming over the outlaw fortifications and the

men who threatened it, its claws digging into the rock to hold it

fast. A dead man dangled from one of its massive pinchers, cut

nearly in half-one of the watch who had realized what was

happening.

The outlaws surged forward recklessly, seizing poles and

spears, jamming them into the Creeper's massive body, trying

desperately to force the monster back over the edge. But the

Creeper was huge; it towered above them like a wall. Morgan

slowed in dismay. They might as well have been trying to turn

a river from its course. Nothing that large could be dislodged

by human strength alone.

The Creeper lunged forward, throwing itself into its attack-

ers. Poles and spears snapped and splintered as it hurtled down.

The men caught beneath died instantly, and several more were

quickly snatched up by the pinchers. An entire section of the

Jut's fortifications collapsed under the creature's weight. The

outlaws fell back as it hunched its way into them, smashing

weapons, stores, and campsites, catching up anything that

moved. Blows from swords and knives rained down on its body,

but the Creeper seemed unaffected. It advanced relentlessly.

stalking the men who retreated from it, destroying everything

in its path.

"Free-born!" the cry rang out suddenly. "To me!"

Padishar Creel materialized from out of nowhere, a bright

scarlet figure in the rain and mist, rallying his men. They cried

out in answer and rushed to stand beside him. He formed them

quickly into squads; halfcounterattacked the Creeper with mas-

sive posts to fend off the pinchers while the balance hacked at

the monster's sides and back. The Creeper writhed and twisted,

but came on.

"Free-born, free-born!" The cries sounded from every-

where, lifting into the dawn, filling the grayness with their fury.

Then Axhind and his Rock Trolls appeared, their massive

bodies armored head to foot, wielding their huge battleaxes.

They attacked the Creeper head-on, striking for the pinchers.

Three died almost instantly, torn apart so fast that they disap-

peared in a blur of limbs and blood. But the others cut and

hacked with such determination that they shattered the left

pincher, leaving it broken and useless. Moments later, they cut

it off entirely.

The Creeper slowed. A trail of bodies littered the ground

behind it. Morgan still stood between the monster and the caves,

undecided as to what he should do and unable to understand

why. It was as if he had become mired in quicksand. He saw

the beast lift itself clear of the earth. Its head and pincher came

up, and it hung suspended like a snake about to strike, braced

on the back half of its body, prepared to throw itself on its

attackers and smash them. The Trolls and the outlaws fell back

in a rush, shouting to one another in warning.

Morgan looked for Padishar, but the outlaw chief had disap-

peared. The Highlander could not find him anywhere. For an

instant, he thought Padishar must have fallen. Rain trickled down

his face into his eyes, and he blinked it away impatiently. His

hand tightened on the handle of his broadsword, but still he hung

back.

The Creeper was inching forward, casting right and left to

protect against flanking attacks. A twitch of its tail sent several

men flying. Spears and arrows flew into it and bounced away.

Steadily it came on, forcing the defenders ever closer to the

caves. Soon, there would be nowhere left for them to go.

Morgan Leah was shaking. Do something! his mind screamed.

In that same instant Padishar reappeared at the mouth of the

largest of the Jut's caves, calling out to his men to fall back.

Something huge lumbered into view behind him, creaking and

rumbling as it came. Morgan squinted through the gloom and

mist. Lines of men appeared, hauling on ropes, and the thing

began to take shape. Morgan could see it now as it cleared the

cavern entrance and crawled into the light.

It was a great, wooden crossbow.

Padishar had its handlers wheel it into position facing the

Creeper. Atop its base, Chandos used a heavy winch to crank

back the bowstring. A massive, sharpened bolt was fitted in

place.

The Creeper hesitated, as if to measure the potential danger

of this new weapon. Then, lowering itself slightly, it advanced,

its remainmg pincher clicking in anticipation.

Padishar ordered the first bolt fired when the creature was

still fifty feet away. The shot flew wide. The Creeper picked up

speed as Chandos hurriedly rewound the bowstring. The cross-

bow fired again, but the bolt glanced off a section of armor-

plating and caromed away. The Creeper was knocked sideways,

slowed momentarily by the force of the blow, and then it

straightened itself and came on.

Morgan saw at once that there would be no time for a third

shot. The Creeper was too close. Yet Chandos stayed atop the

crossbow, desperately cranking back the bowstring a third time.

The Creeper was only yards away. Outlaws and Trolls harassed

it from all sides, axes and swords hammering against it, but it

refused to be deterred. It recognized the crossbow as the only

thing it really had to fear and moved swiftly to destroy it.

Chandos shoved the third bolt into place and reached for the

trigger.

He was too late. The Creeper lunged and came down atop

the crossbow, smashing into its works. Wood splintered, and

the wheels supporting the weapon gave way. Chandos was

thrown into the night. Men scattered everywhere, crying out.

The Creeper shifted atop the wreckage, then lifted free. It drew

itself up deliberately, sensing its victory, knowing it needed only

one further lunge to finish the job.

But Padishar Creel was quicker. While the other outlaws fled,

Chandos lay unconscious in the darkness, and Morgan struggled

with his indecision, Padishar attacked. Little more than a scarlet

blur in the mist and half-light of the rain-soaked dawn, the out-

law chief seized one of the crossbow bolts that had been spilled

from its rack, darted beneath the Creeper, and braced the bolt

upright against the earth. The Creeper never saw him, so intent

was it on destroying the crossbow. The monster hammered

down, smashing through the already crippled weapon onto the

iron-tipped bolt. The force of its lunge sent the bolt through iron

and flesh, in one side of its body and out the other.

Padishar barely managed to roll clear as the Creeper struck

the earth.

Back the monster reared, shuddering with pain and surprise,

transfixed on the bolt. It lost its balance and toppled over, writh-

ing madly in an effort to dislodge the killing shaft. It crashed to

the ground, belly up, coiling into a ball. "Free-bom!'' Padishar

Creel cried out, and the outlaws and Trolls were upon it. Bits

and pieces of the creature flew apart as swords and axes hacked.

The second pincher was sheared off. Padishar shouted encour-

agement to his men, attacking with them, swinging his broad-

sword with every ounce of strength he possessed.

The battle was ferocious. Though badly injured, the Creeper

was still dangerous. Men were pinned beneath it and crushed,

sent flying as it thrashed, and ripped by its claws. All efforts to

put an end to it were stymied until finally another of the scattered

crossbow bolts was brought forward and rammed through the

monster's eye and into its brain. The Creeper convulsed one last

time and went still.

Morgan Leah watched it all as if from a great distance, too

far removed from what was happening to be of any use. He was

still shaking when it ended. He was bathed in sweat. He had not

lifted a finger to help.

There was a change in the outlaw camp after that, a shift in

attitude that reflected the growing belief that the Jut was no

longer invulnerable. It was apparent almost immediately. Padi-

shar slipped into the blackest of moods, railing at everyone,

furious at the Federation for using a Creeper, at the dead mon-

ster for the damage it had inflicted, at the watch for not being

more alert, and at himself especially for not being better pre-

pared. His men went about their tasks grudgingly, a dispirited

bunch that slogged through the rain and murk and mumbled

darkly to themselves. If the Federation had sent one Creeper,

they said, what was to prevent it from sending another? If an-

other was sent, what would they do to stop this one? And what

would they do if the Federation sent something worse?

Eighteen men died in the attack and twice that number were

injured, some of whom would be dead before the day was out.

Padishar had the casualties buried at the far end of the bluff and

the injured moved into the largest cave, which was converted

into a temporary hospital. There were medicines and some few

men with experience in treating battle wounds to administer

them, but the outlaws did not have the services of a genuine

Healer. The cries of the injured and dying lingered in the early

morning stillness.

The Creeper was dragged to the edge of the bluff and thrown

over. It was a difficult, exhausting task, but Padishar would not

tolerate the creature's presence on the bluff a second longer than

was necessary. Ropes and pulleys were used, one end of the

lines fastened to the monster's dead bulk, the other end passed

through the hands of dozens of men who pulled and strained as

the Creeper was hauled inch by inch through the wreckage of the

camp. It took the outlaws all morning. Morgan worked with

them, not speaking to anyone, trying hard to remain inconspic-

uous, still struggling to understand what had happened to him.

He figured it out finally. He was still immersed in the effort

to drag the Creeper to the bluff edge, his body aching and weary,

but his mind grown unexpectedly sharp. It was the Sword of

Leah that was responsible, he realized-or more accurately, the

magic it contained, or had once contained. It was the loss of the

magic that had crippled him and had caused him to be so inde-

cisive, so frightened. When he had discovered the magic of the

Sword, he had thought himself inivincible. The feeling of power

was like nothing he had ever experienced or would have believed

possible. With that sort of power at his command, he could do

anything. He could still remember what it had felt like to stand

virtually alone against the Shadowen in the Pit. Wondrous. Ex-

hilarating.

But draining, as well. Each time he invoked the power, it

seemed to take something away from him.

When he had broken the Sword of Leah and lost all use of

the magic, he had begun to understand just how much it was

that had been taken from him. He sensed the change in himself

almost immediately. Padishar had insisted he was mistaken, had

told him he would forget his loss, that he would heal, and that

time would see him back to the way he had been. He knew now

that it wasn't so. He would never heal-not completely. Having

once used the magic, he was changed irrevocably. He couldn't

give it up; he wasn't the same man without it. Though he had

possessed it only briefly, the effect of having had it for even that

long was permanent. He hungered to have it back again. He

needed to have it back. He was lost without it; he was confused

and afraid. That was the reason he had failed to act during the

battle with the Creeper. It was not that he lacked a sense of what

he should do or how he should do it. It was that he no longer

could invoke the magic to aid him.

Admitting this cost him something he couldn't begin to de-

fine. He continued to work, a machine without feelings, numbed

by the idea that loss of the magic could paralyze him so. He hid

himself m his thoughts, in the rain and the gray, hoping that no

one-especially Padishar Creel-had noticed his failure, ago-

nizing over what he would do if it happened again.

After a time, he found himself thinking about Par. He had

never considered before what it must be like for the Valeman to

have to continually struggle with his own magic. Forced to con-

front what the magic of the Sword of Leah meant to him, Mor-

gan thought he understood how difficult it must be for Par. How

had his friend learned to live with the uncertainty of the wish-

song's power? What did he feel when it failed him, as it had so

many times on their journey to find Allanon? How had he man-

aged to accept his weakness? It gave Morgan a measure of re-

newed strength to know that the Valeman had somehow found

away.

By midday, the Creeper was gone and the damage it had

caused to the camp was mostly repaired. The rain ceased finally

as the storms drifted east, scraping along the rim of the Dragon's

Teeth. The clouds broke apart, and sunlight appeared through

the breaks in long, narrow streamers that played across the dark

green spread of the Parma Key. The mist burned off, and all that

remained was a sheen of dampness that blanketed everything

with a lustrous silver coating.

The Federation immediately hauled forward its catapults and

siege towers and renewed its assault on the Jut. The catapults

flung their stones and the siege towers were lined with archers

who kept a steady fire on the outlaw camp. No effort was made

to scale the heights; the attack was limited to a constant barrage

against the bluff and its occupants, a barrage that lasted through

the afternoon and went on into the night, a steady, constant,

ceaseless harassment. There was nothing that the outlaws could

do to stop it; their attackers were too far away and too well-

protected. There was nowhere outside of the caves where it was

safe to walk. It seemed clear that the loss of the Creeper hadn't

discouraged the Federation. The siege would not be lifted. It

would go on until the defenders were sufficiently weakened to

be overcome by a frontal assault. If it were to take days or weeks

or months, the end would be the same. The Federation army

was content to wait.

On the heights, the defenders dodged and darted through the

rain of missiles, yelled defiantly down at their attackers, and

went about their work as best they could. But in the privacy of

their shelters they grumbled and muttered their suspicions with

renewed conviction. No matter what they had once believed, the

Jut could not be held.

Morgan Leah was faced with worries of his own. The High-

lander had deliberately gone off by himself and was secluded

once more within the shelter of the aspen grove at the far end of

the bluff, away from the major defensive positions of the camp

where most of the Federation attack was being concentrated.

Having managed to put aside for the moment the matter of his

inability to accept losing the magic of the Sword of Leah, he

was now forced to confront the equally troubling dilemma of

his suspicions as to the identity of the traitor.

It was difficult to know what to do. Surely he should tell

someone. He had to tell someone. But who?

Padishar Creel? If he told Padishar, the outlaw chief might or

might not believe him, but in either case he was unlikely to leave

the matter to chance. Padishar didn't care a fig for either Steff

or Teel at this point; he would simply do away with them-both

of them. After all, there was no way of knowing which one it

was-or even if it was either. And Padishar was in no mood to

wait around for the answer.

Morgan shook his head. He couldn't tell Padishar.

Steff? If he chose to do that, he was deciding, in effect, that

Teel was the traitor. That was what he wanted to believe, but

was that the truth of the matter? Even if it was, he knew what

Steffs reaction would be. His friend was in love with Teel. Teel

had saved his life. He would hardly be willing to accept what

Morgan was telling him without some sort of proof to back it

up. And Morgan didn't have any proof-at least, nothing you

could hold in your hand and point to. Speculation was all he

had, well-reasoned or not.

He eliminated Steff.

Someone else? There wasn't anyone else. He would have told

Par or Coil if they were there, or Wren, or even Walker Boh.

But the members of the Ohmsford family were scattered to the

four winds, and he was alone. There was no one he could trust.

He sat within the trees and listened to the distant shouts and

cries of the defenders, to the sound of catapults and bows, the

creaking of iron and wood, the hum of missiles sent flying, and

the ping and crash and thud of their impact. He was isolated, an

island within the heart of a battle that had somehow caught him

up, lost in a sea of indecision and doubt. He had to do some-

thing-but the direction he should take refused to reveal itself.

He had wanted so badly to be a part of the fight against the

Federation, to come north to join the outlaws, to undertake the

search for the Sword of Shannara, to see the Shadowen de-

stroyed. Such aspirations he had harbored when he had set

out-such bold plans! He was to be shed of his claustrophobic

existence in the Highlands, his meaningless tweaking of the

noses of the bureaucrats the Federation had sent to govern, fin-

ished at last with conducting meaningless experiments in aggra-

vation against men who could change nothing, even if they

wished to do so. He was to do something grand, something

wonderful. . .

Something that would make a difference.

Well, now he had his chance. He could make the difference

no one else could. And there he sat, paralyzed.

Afternoon drifted into evening, the siege continued unabated,

and Morgan's dilemma remained unresolved. He left the grove

once to check on Steff and Teel-or more accurately, perhaps,

to spy on them, to see if they might give anything away. But the

Dwarves seemed no different from before. Steff was still weak

and able to converse for only a few minutes before dropping off

to sleep; Teel was taciturn, guarded. He studied them both as

surreptitiously as he could, working at seeing something that

would give mm a clue as to whether his suspicions had any basis

in fact-any possibility of truth at all-and he left as empty-

handed as he had come.

It was almost dark when Padishar Creel found him. He was

lost in thought, still trying to puzzle through what course of

action he should take, and he didn't hear the big man approach.

It wasn't until Padishar spoke that he realized anyone was there.

"Keeping to yourself quite a bv aren't you?''

Morgan jumped. "What? Oh, Padishar. Sorry."

The big man sat down across from him. His face was tired

and streaked with dust and sweat. If he noticed Morgan's un-

easiness, he didn't let on. He stretched his legs and leaned back,

supporting himself on his elbows, wincing from the pain of his

wounds. "This has been a foul day, Highlander," he said. It

came out in a long sigh of aggravation. "Twenty-two men dead

now, another two likely to be gone by morning, and here we

cower like foxes brought to bay.''

Morgan nodded without responding. He was trying desper-

ately to decide what he should say.

"Truth is. I don't much care for the way this is turning out."

The hard face was impossible to read. "The Federation will lay

siege to this place until we've all forgotten why it was that we

came here in the first place, and that doesn't do much to advance

my plans or the hopes of the free-born. Bottled up like we are,

we're not much use to anyone. There's other havens, and there'll

be other times to square matters with those cowards who would

send things conceived of dark magic to do their work rather than

face us themselves." He paused. "So I've decided that it's time

to think about getting out."

Morgan sat forward now. "Escape?"

"Out that back door we talked about. I thought you should

know. I'll be needing your help."

Morgan stared. "My help?"

Padishar straightened slowly to a sitting position. "I want

someone to carry a message to Tyrsis-to Damson and the Vale-

men. They need to know what's happened. I'd go myself, but I

have to stay to see the men safely out. So I thought you might

be interested."

Morgan agreed at once. "I am. I'll do it."

The other's hand lifted in warning. "Not so fast. We won't

be leaving the Jut right away, probably not for another three

days or so. The injured shouldn't be moved just yet. But I'll

want you to leave sooner. Tomorrow, in fact. Damson's a smart

girl with a good head on her shoulders, but she's wilful. I've

been thinking matters over a bit since you asked me whether she

might attempt to bring the Valemen here. I could be wrong; she

might try to do just that. You have to make certain she doesn't.''

"I will."

"Out the back door, then-as I've said. And you go alone."

Morgan's brow furrowed.

"Alone, lad. Your friends stay with me. First, you can't be

wandering about Callahom with a pair of Dwarves in tow-even

if they were up to it, which at least the one isn't. The Federation

would have you in irons in two minutes. And second, we can't

be taking any chances after all the treachery that's been done.

No one is to know your plans."

The Highlander considered a moment. Padishar was right.

There was no point in taking needless risks. He would be better

off going by himself and telling no one what he was about-

especially Steffand Teel. He almost gave voice to what he was

thinking, then thought better of it. Instead, he simply nodded.

"Good. The matter is settled. Except for one thing." Padi-

shar climbed back to his feet. "Come with me."

He took Morgan through the camp and into the largest of the

caves that opened on the cliffs backing the bluff, led him past

the bay in which the wounded were being cared for and into the

chambers beyond. The tunnels began there, a dozen or more,

opening off each other, disappearing back into the darkness.

Padishar had picked up a torch on their way in; now he touched

it to one that burned from an iron bracket hammered into the

cave wall, glanced about for a moment to reassure himself that

no one was paying any special attention, then beckoned Morgan

ahead. Ignoring the tunnels, he guided the Highlander through

the piles of stores to the very deepest part of the caves, several

hundred feet back into the cliff rock to a wall where crates were

stacked twenty feet high. It was quiet there, the noise left be-

hind. Again he glanced back, scanning the darkness.

Then, handing his torch to Morgan, he reached up with both

hands, fitted his fingers into the seams of the crates and pulled.

An entire section swung free, a false front on hidden hinges that

opened into a tunnel beyond.

"Did you see how I did that, lad?" he asked softly. Morgan

nodded.

Padishar took back his torch and poked it inside. Morgan

leaned forward. The walls of the secret tunnel twisted and wound

downward into the rock until they were lost from view.

"It goes all the way through the mountain," Padishar said.

"Follow it to its end and you come out above the Parma Key

just south of the Dragon's Teeth, east of the Kennon Pass." He

looked at Morgan pointedly. "If you were to attempt to find

your way through the other passageways-the ones I keep a guard

on for show-we might never see you again. Understand?"

He shoved the secret door closed again and stepped back.

"I'm showing you all this now because, when you're ready to

go, I won't be with you. I'll be out there, keeping a close watch

on your backside." He gave Morgan a small, hard smile. "Be

certain you get clear quickly.''

They went back through the storage chambers and out through

the main cavern to the bluff. It was dark now, the last of the

daylight faded into dusk. The outlaw chief stopped, stretched,

and took a deep breath of evening air.

"Listen to me, lad,'' he said quietly.' "There's one thing more.

You have to stop brooding about what happened to that sword

you carry. You can't haul that burden around with you and ex-

pect to stay clearheaded; it's much too heavy a load, even for a

determined fellow like you. Lay it down. Leave it behind you.

You've got enough heart in you to manage without it.''

He knows about this morning, Morgan realized at once. He

knows and he's telling me that it's all right.

Padishar sighed. "Every bone in my body aches, but none of

them aches nearly so bad as my heart. I hate what's happened

here. I hate what's been done to us." He looked squarely at

Morgan.' 'That's what I mean about useless baggage. You think

about it."

He turned and strode off into the dark. Morgan almost called

him back. He even took a step after him, thinking that now he

would tell him his suspicions about the traitor. It would have

been easy to do so. It would have freed him of the frustration

he felt at having to keep the matter to himself. It would have

absolved him of the responsibility of being the only one who

knew.

He wrestled with his indecision as he had wrestled with it all

that day.

But once again he lost.

He slept after that, wrapping himself in his cloak and curling

up on the ground within the shadow of the aspen. The earth had

dried after the morning rain; the night was warm, and the air

was filled with the smells of the forest. His sleep was dreamless

and complete. Worries and indecisions slipped away like water

shed from his skin. Banished were the wraiths of his lost magic

and of the traitor, driven from his mind by the weariness that

wrapped protectively about him and gave him peace. He drifted,

suspended in the passing of time.

And then he came awake.

A hand clutched his shoulder, tightening. It happened so

abruptly, so shockingly, that for a moment he thought he was

being attacked. He thrashed himself clear of his cloak and

bounded to his feet, wheeling about frantically in the dark.

He found himself face-to-face with Steff.

The Dwarf was crouched before him, wrapped in his blan-

kets, his hair stiff and spikey, his scarred face pale and drawn

and sweating despite the night's comfortable feel. His dark eyes

burned with fever, and there was something frightened and des-

perate in their look.

"Teel's gone," he whispered harshly.

Morgan took a deep, steadying breath. "Gone where?" he

managed, one hand still fastened tightly about the handle of the

dagger at his waist.

Steff shook his head, his breathing ragged in the night's si-

lence. "I don't know. She left about an hour ago. I saw her. She

thought I was sleeping, but. . "He trailed off. "Something's

wrong, Morgan. Something." He could barely speak. "Where

is she? Where's Teel?"

And instantly, Morgan Leah knew.

XXX

It was on that same night that Par Ohmsford went down into

the Pit after the Sword of Shannara for the final time.

Darkness had descended on the city of Tyrsis, a cloak

of impenetrable black. The rain and mist had turned into fog so

thick that the roofs and walls of buildings, the carts and stalls

of the markets, even the stones of the streets disappeared into it

as if they had melted away. Neither moon nor stars could be

seen, and the lights of the city flickered like candles that might

be snuffed out at any instant.

Damson Rhee led the Valemen from the garden shed into the

haze, cloaked and hooded once more. The fog was sufocating;

it was damp and heavy and it clung to clothing and skin alike in

a fine sheen. The day had ended early, shoved into nightfall by

the appearance of the fog as it rose out of the grasslands below

the bluff and built upon itself like a tidal wave until it simply

rolled over Tyrsis' walls and buried her. The chill of the previous

night had been replaced by an equally unpleasant warmth that

smelled of must and rot. All day the people of the city muttered

in ill-disguised concern over the strangeness of the weather;

when the last of the day's thin, gray light began to fade, they

barricaded themselves in their homes as if they were under siege.

Damson and the Valemen found themselves virtually alone

in the silent, shrouded streets. When travelers passed by, once

or twice only, their presence was but momentary, as if ghosts

that had ventured forth from the netherworld only to be swal-

lowed back up again. There were sounds, but they lacked both

a source and a direction. Footsteps, the soft thudding of boots,

rose into the silence from out of nowhere and disappeared the

same way. Things moved about them, shapes and forms without

definition that floated rather than walked and that came and went

with the blink of an eye.

It was a night for imagining things that weren't there.

Par did his best to avoid that, but he was only partially suc-

cessful. He harbored within him ghosts of his own making, and

they seemed to find their identity in the shadows that played in

the mist. There, left of the pinprick of light that was a street-

lamp, rose the promise Par had made to keep Coil and Damson

safe this night when they went down into the Pit-a small, fright-

ened wisp of nothing. There, just behind it, was his belief that

he possessed in the magic of the wishsong sufficient power to

keep that promise, that he could somehow use the wishsong as

the Elfstones had once been used-not as a maker of images

and deceptions, but as a weapon of strength and power. His

belief chased after his promise, smaller and frailer yet. Across

the way, crawling along the barely visible wall of a shop front,

hunching itself across the stone blocks as if mired in quicksand,

was the guilt he felt at heeding no one but himself as he sought

to vindicate both promise and belief-a guilt that threatened to

rise up and choke him.

And hanging over all of them like a giant bird of prey-over

promise, belief, and guilt, at home within the faceless night,

blind and reckless and cast in stone-was his determination to

heed the charge of the shade of Allanon and retrieve from the

Pit and its Shadowen the missing Sword of Shannara.

It was down there in its vault, he reassured himself in the

privacy of his thoughts. The Sword of Shannara. It was waiting

for him.

But the ghosts would not be banished, and the whisper of

their doubts swarmed about his paper-thin self-assurances like

scavengers, insistent in their purpose, taunting him for his pride

and his foolish certainty, teasing him with vivid images of the

fate that awaited them all if he was wrong. He walled himself

away from the ghosts, just as he had walled himself away all

along. But he could not ignore their presence. He could not

pretend they weren't there. He fled down inside himself as the

three companions worked their way slowly, blindly through the

empty city streets, the fog, and the damp and found refuge in

the hard core of his resolve. He was risking everything on being

right. But what if he wasn't? Who, besides Coil and Damson,

would suffer for his mistake?

He thought for a time about those from whom he had become

separated on his odyssey-those who had faded away into the

events that had brought him to this night. His parents were Fed-

eration prisoners, under house arrest at their home in the village

of Shady Vale-kind, gentle folk who had never hurt anyone and

knew nothing of what this business was about. What, he won-

dered, would happen to them if he failed? What of Morgan

Leah, the sturdy Dwarf Steff, and the enigmatic Teel? He sup-

posed that even now they were hatching plans against the Fed-

eration, hidden away at the Jut,-deep within the protective

confines of the Parma Key. Would his failure exact a price from

them as well? And what of the others who had come to the

Hadeshom? Walker Boh had returned to Hearthstone. Wren had

gone back into the Wesdand. Cogline had disappeared.

And Allanon. What of the Druid shade? What of Allanon,

who might never even have existed?

But this wasn't a mistake and he wasn't wrong. He knew it.

He was certain of it.

Damson slowed. They had reached the narrow stone steps

that wound downward to the sewers. She glanced back at Par

and Coil momentarily, her green eyes hard. Then, beckoning

them after, she began her descent. The Valemen followed. Par's

ghosts went with him, closing tightly about, their breath as real

as his own as it brushed against his face. Damson led the way;

Coil brought up the rear. No one spoke. Par was not certain he

could speak if he tried. His mouth and throat felt as if they were

lined with cotton.

He was afraid.

Once again. Damson produced a torch to light the way, a

flare of brightness in the dark, and they moved noiselessly ahead.

Par glanced at Damson and Coil in turn. Their faces were pale

and taut. Each met his gaze briefly and looked away.

It took them less than an hour to reach the Mole. He was

waiting for them when they climbed out of the dry well, hunched

down in the shadows, a bristling cluster of hair from which two

glittering eyes peeked out.

"Mole?" Damson called softly to him.

For a moment, there was no response. The Mole was

crouched within a cleft in the rock wall of the chamber, almost

invisible in the dark. If it hadn't been for the torch Damson bore,

they would have missed him completely. He stared out at them

without speaking, as if measuring the truth of who they appeared

to be. Finally, he shuffled forward a foot or two and stopped.

"Good evening, lovely Damson," he whispered. He glanced

briefly at the Valemen but said nothing to them.

"Good evening, Mole," Damson replied. She cocked her

head. "Why were you hiding?"

The Mole blinked like an owl. "I was thinking."

Damson hesitated, her brow furrowing. She stuck the torch

into a crack in the rock wall behind her where the light would

not disturb her strange friend. Then she crouched down in front

of him. The Valemen remained standing.

"What have you discovered. Mole?" Damson asked quietly.

The Mole shifted. He was wearing some sort of leather pants

and tunic, but they were almost completely enveloped in the fur

of his body. His feet were covered with hair as well. He wore

no shoes.

"There is a way into the palace of the Kings of Tyrsis and

from there into the Pit," the Mole said. He hunched lower.

"There are also Shadowen."

Damson nodded. "Can we get past them?''

The Mole rubbed his nose with his hand. Then he studied her

expectantly for a very long time, as if discovering something in

her face that before this had somehow escaped his notice. ' 'Per-

haps," he said finally. "Shall we try?"

Damson smiled briefly and nodded again. The Mole stood

up. He was tiny, a ball of hair with arms and legs that looked as

if they might have been stuck on as an afterthought. What was

he, Par wondered? A Dwarf? A Gnome? What?

"This way," the Mole said, and beckoned them after him

into a darkened passageway. "Bring the torch if you wish. We

may use it for a while." He glanced pointedly at the Valemen.

"But there must be no talking.''

So it began. He took them down into the bowels of the city,

its deepest sewers, the catacombs that tunneled its basements

and sublevels, passageways that no one had used for hundreds

of years. Dust lay upon the rock and earthen floors in thick

layers that showed no signs of having ever been disturbed. It

was warmer here; the damp and fog did not penetrate. The

corridors burrowed into the cliffs, rising and falling through

rooms and chambers that had once been used as bolt holes for

the defenders of the city, to store foodstuffs and weapons, and

on occasion to hide the entire population-men, women, and

children-of Tyrsis. There were doors now and then, all rusted

and falling off their hinges, bolts broken and shattered, wooden

timbers rotting. Rats stirred from time to time in the darkness,

but fled at the approach of the humans and the light.

Time slipped away. Par lost all track of how long they navi-

gated the underground channels, working their way steadily for-

ward behind the squat form of the Mole. He let them rest now

and again, though he himself did not appear to need to. The

Valemen and the girl carded water and some small food to keep

their strength up, but the Mole carried nothing. He didn't even

appear to have a weapon. When they stopped, those few brief

times, they sat about in a circle in the near-dark, four solitary

beings buried under hundreds of feet of rock, three sipping wa-

ter and nibbling food, the fourth watching like a cat, all of them

silent participants in some strange ritual.

They walked until Par's legs began to ache. Dozens of cor-

ridors lay behind them, and the Valeman had no idea where they

were or what direction they were going. The torch they had

started out with had burned away and been replaced twice. Their

clothing and boots were coated with dust, their faces streaked

with it. Par's throat was so parched he could barely swallow.

Then the Mole stopped. They were in a dry well through

which a scattering of tunnels ran. Against the far wall, a heavy

iron ladder had been bolted into the rock. It rose into the dark

and disappeared.

The Mole turned, pointed up and held one scruffy finger to

his mouth. No one needed to be told what that meant.

They climbed the ladder in silence, one foot after the other,

listening to the rungs creak and groan beneath their weight. The

torchlight cast their shadows on the walls of the well in strange,

barely recognizable shapes. The corridors beneath faded into

the black.

At the top of the ladder there was a hatchway. The Mole

braced himself on the ladder and lifted. The hatchway rose an

inch or two, and the Mole peeked out. Satisfied, he pushed the

hatchway open, and it fell over with a hollow thud. The Mole

scrambled out, Damson and the Valemen on his heels.

They stood in a huge empty cellar, a stone-block dungeon

with enormous casks banded by strips of iron, shackles and

chains scattered about, cell doors fashioned of iron bars, and

countless corridors that disappeared at every turn into black

holes. A single broad stairway at the far end of the cellar lifted

into shadow. The silence was immense, as if become so much

a part of the stone that it echoed with a voice of its own. Dark-

ness hung over everything, chased only marginally by the

smoking light of the single torch the company bore.

The Mole edged close against Damson and whispered some-

thing. Damson nodded. She turned to the Valemen, pointed to

where the stairs rose into the black and mouthed the word

"Shadowen."

The Mole took them quickly through the cellar to a tiny door

set into the wall on their right, unlatching it soundlessly, ush-

ering them through, then closing it tightly behind them. They

were in a short corridor that ended at another door. The Mole

took them through this door as well and into the room beyond.

The room was empty, with nothing in it but some pieces of

wood that might have come from packing crates, some loose

pieces of metal shielding, and a rat that scurried hastily into a

crack in the wall's stone blocks.

The Mole tugged at Damson's sleeve and she bent down to

listen. When he had finished, she faced the Valemen.

"We have come under the city, through the cliffs at the west

end of the People's Park and into the palace. We arc in its lower

levels, down where the prisons used to be. It was here that the

armies of the Warlock Lord attempted a breakthrough in the

time of Balinor Buckhannah, the last King of Tyrsis."

The Mole said something else. Damson frowned. "The Mole

says that there may be Shadowen in the chambers above us-

not Shadowen from the Pit, but others. He says he can sense

them, even if he cannot see them.''

"What does that mean?" Par asked at once.

"It means that sensing them is as close as he cares to get."

Damson's face tilted away from the torchlight as she scanned

the ceiling of the room. "It means that if he gets close enough

to see them, they can undoubtedly see him as well."

Par followed her gaze uneasily. They had been talking in

whispers, but was it safe to do even that? "Can they hear us?"

he asked, lowering his voice further, pressing his mouth close

to her ear.

She shook her head. "Not here, apparently. But we won't be

able to talk much after this." She looked over at Coll. He was

motionless in the dark. "Are you all right?" Coil nodded, white-

faced nevertheless, and she looked back at Par. "We are some

distance from the Pit still. We have to use the catacombs under

the palace to reach the cliff hatch that will let us in. Mole knows

the way. But we have to be very careful. There were no Shad-

owen in the tunnels yesterday when he explored, but that may

have changed."

Par glanced at the Mole. He was squatting down against one

wall, barely visible at the edge of the torchlight, eyes gleaming

as he watched them. One hand stroked the fur of his arm stead-

ily.

The Valeman felt a twinge of uneasiness. He shifted his feet

until he had placed Damson between the Mole and himself.

Then he said, so that he believed only she could hear, "Are you

sure we can trust him?"

Damson's pale face did not change expression, but her eyes

seemed to look somewhere far, far away. "As sure as I can be."

She paused. "Do you think we have a choice?"

Par shook his head slowly.

Damson's smile was faint and ironic. "Then I guess there is

no point worrying about it, is there?"

She was right, of course. There was no help for his suspicions

unless he agreed to turn back, and Par Ohmsford had already

decided that he would never do that. He wished that he could

test the magic of the wishsong, that he had thought to do so

earlier-just to see if it could do what he thought it could. That

would provide some reassurance. Yet he knew, even as he com-

pleted the thought, that there was no way to test the magic, at

least not in the way that he needed to-that it would not reveal

itself. He could make images, yes. But he could not summon

the wishsong's real power, not until there was something to use

it against. And maybe not even then.

But the power was there, he insisted once again, a desperate

reassurance against the whisperings of his ghosts. It had to be.

"We won't be needing this anymore," Damson said, gestur-

ing with the torch. She handed it to Par, then fished through her

pockets and produced a pair of strange white stones streaked

with silver. She kept one and handed him the other. "Put out

the torch," she instructed him. "Then place your hands tightly

about the stone to warm it. When you feel its heat, open them.''

Par doused the torch in the dust, smothering the flame. The

room went completely black. He put the strange stone between

his hands and held it there. After a few seconds, he could feel

it grow warm. When he took one hand away, the stone gave off

a meager silver light. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the light

was strong enough to reveal the faces of his companions and an

area beyond of several feet.

"If the light begins to dim, warm the stone again with your

hands."

She closed her hand over his, tight about the stone, held it

there, then lifted it away. The silver light radiated even more

brightly. Par smiled in spite of himself, the amazement in his

eyes undisguised. "That's a nice trick. Damson," he breathed.

"A bit of my own magic, Valeman," she said softly, and her

eyes fixed on him. "Street magic from a street girl. Not so

wonderful as the real thing, but reliable. No smoke, no smell,

easily tucked away. Better than torchlight, if we want to stay

hidden."

"Better," he agreed.

The Mole took them from the room then, guiding them into

the black without the benefit of any light at all, apparently need-

ing none. Damson followed, carrying one stone, Par came after

carrying the other, and Coil once again brought up the rear.

They went out through a second door into a passageway that

twisted about and ran past other doors and rooms. They moved

soundlessly, their boots scraping softly on the stone, their

breathing a shallow hiss, their voices stilled.

Par found himself wondering again about the Mole. Could

the Mole be trusted? Was the little fellow what he claimed to be

or something else? The Shadowen could appear as anyone. What

if the Mole was a Shadowen? So many questions again, and no

answers to be found. There was no one he could trust, he thought

bleakly-no one but Coll. And Damson. He trusted Damson.

Didn't he?

He beat back the sudden cloud of doubt that threatened to

envelop him. He could not afford to be asking such questions

now. It was too late to make any difference, if the answers were

the wrong ones. He was risking everything on his judgment of

Damson, and he must believe that his judgment was correct.

Thinking again of the Shadowen enigma, the mystery of who

and what they were and how they could be so many things, he

was led to wonder suddenly if there were Shadowen in the out-

law camp, if the enemy they were so desperately seeking to

remain hidden from was in fact already among them. The traitor

that Padishar Creel sought could be a Shadowen, one that only

looked human, that only seemed to be one of them. How were

they to know? Was magic the only test that would reveal them?

Was that to be the purpose of the Sword of Shannara, to reveal

the true identity of the enemy they sought? It was what he had

wondered from the moment Allanon had sent him in search of

the Sword. But how impossible it seemed that the talisman could

be meant for such endless, exhausting work. It would take for-

ever to test it against everyone who might be a Shadowen.

He heard in his mind the whisper of Allanon's voice.

Only through the Sword can truth be revealed and only

through truth shall the Shadawen be overcome.

Truth. The Sword of Shannara was a talisman that revealed

truth, destroyed lies, and laid bare what was real against the

pretense of what only seemed so. That was the use to which

Shea Ohmsford had put it when the little Valeman had defeated

the Warlock Lord. It must be the use for which the talisman was

meant this time as well.

They climbed a long, spiral staircase to a landing. A door in

the wall before them stood closed and bolted. The wall behind

and the ceiling above were lost in shadow. The drop below

seemed endless. They crowded together on the landing while

the Mole worked the bolts, first one, then another, then a third.

One by one, the metal grating softly, they slid free. The Mole

twisted the handle slowly. Par could hear the sound of his own

breathing, of his pulse, and of his heartbeat, all working in

response to the fear that coursed through him. He could feel

Shadowen watching, hidden in the dark. He could sense their

presence. It was irrational, imagined-but there nevertheless.

Then the Mole had the door open, and they slipped quickly

through.

They found themselves in a tiny, windowless room with a

stairwell in the exact center that spiraled down into utter black-

ness and a door to the left that opened into an empty corridor.

Light filtered through slits in the walls of the corridor, faint and

wispy. At the corridor's far end, maybe a hundred feet away, a

second door stood closed.

The Mole motioned them into the corridor and shut the first

door behind them. Par edged over to one of the slits in the wall

and peered out. They were somewhere in the palace, above-

ground again. Cliffs rose up before him, their slopes a tangle of

pine trees. Above the trees, clouds hung thick across the sky-

line, their underbellies flat and hard and sullen.

Par drew back. Darkness was beginning to give way to day-

light. It was almost morning. They had been walking all night.

"Lovely Damson," the Mole was saying softly as Par joined

them. "There is a catwalk ahead that crosses the palace court.

Using it will save us considerable tune. If you and your friends

will keep watch, I will make certain the shadow things are no-

where about."

Damson nodded. "Where do you want us?"

Where he wanted them was at each end of the corridor, lis-

tening for the sound of anything that might approach. It was

agreed that Coil would remain where he was. Par and Damson

went on with the Mole to the corridor's far end. There, after a

reassuring nod, the Mole slipped past them through the door

and was gone.

The Valeman and the girl sat across from each other, close

against the door. Par glanced back down the dimly lighted cor-

ridor to make certain that Coil was in sight. His brother's rough

face lifted briefly, and Par gave a cursory wave. Coil waved

back.

They sat in silence then, waiting. The minutes passed and the

Mole did not return.

Par grew uneasy. He edged closer to Damson. "Do you think

he is all right?" he asked in a whisper.

She nodded without speaking.

Par sat back again, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"I hate waiting like this."

She made no response. Her head tilted back against the wall

and her eyes closed. She remained like that for a long time. Par

thought she might be sleeping. He looked down the corridor

again at Coil, found him exactly as he had left him, and turned

back to Damson. Her eyes were open, and she was looking at

him.

"Would you like me to tell you something about myself that

no one else knows?" she asked quietly.

He studied her face wordlessly-her fine, even features, so

intense now, her emerald eyes and pale skin shadowed under

the sweep of her red hair. He found her beautiful and enigmatic,

and he wanted to know everything about her.

"Yes," he replied.

She moved over until their shoulders were touching. She

glanced at him briefly, then looked away. He waited.

"When you tell someone a secret about yourself, it is like

giving a part of yourself away," she said. "It is a gift, but it is

worth much more than something you buy. I don't tell many

people things about myself. I think it is because I have never

had much besides myself, and I don't want to give what little I

have away.''

She looked down and her hair spilled forward, veiling her

face so that he couldn't see it clearly. "But I want to give some-

thing to you. I feel close to you. I have from the very beginning,

from that first day in the park. Maybe it is because we have the

magic in common-we share that. Maybe that is what makes

me feel we're alike. Your magic is different from mine, but that

doesn't matter. What matters is that using the magic is how we

live. It is what we are. Magic gives us our identity."

She paused, and he thought she might be waiting for a re-

sponse, so he nodded. He could not tell if she saw the nod or

not.

She sighed. "Well, I like you. Elf-boy. You are stubborn and

determined, and sometimes you don't take notice of anything or

anyone around you-only of yourself. But I am like that, too.

Maybe that is how we keep ourselves from becoming exactly

like everyone else. Maybe it is how we survive.''

She paused, then faced him. "I was thinking that if I were to

die, I would want to leave something of myself with you, some-

thing that only you would have. Something special."

Par started to protest, but she put her fingers quickly against

his mouth. "Just let me finish. I am not saying that I think I will

die, but it is surely possible. So perhaps telling you this secret

will protect me against it, like a talisman, and keep me safe

from harm. Do you see?"

His mouth tightened and she took her fingers away  "Do you

remember when I first told you about myself, that night you

escaped from the Federation watch after the others were cap-

tured? I was trying to convince you that I was not your betrayer

We told ourselves some things about each other. You told me

about the magic, about how it worked. Do you remember?"

He nodded. "You told me that you were orphaned when you

were eight, that the Federation was responsible."

She drew her knees up like a child. "I told you that my family

died in a fire set by Federation Seekers after it was discovered

that my father was supplying weapons to the Movement. I told

you a street magician took me in shortly after and that is how I

learned my trade.''

She took a deep breath and shook her head slowly. "What I

told you was not entirely true. My father didn't die in the fire.

He escaped. With me. It was my father who raised me, not an

aunt, not a street magician. I grew up with street magicians and

that is how I learned my trade, but it was my father who looked

after me. It is my father who looks after me still.''

Her voice shook. "My father is Padishar Creel."

Par stared in wonderment. "Padishar Creel is your father?"

Her eyes never left him. "No one knows but you. It is safer

that way. If the Federation found out who I was, they would use

me to get to him. Par, what you needed to know that night when

I told you about my childhood was that I could never betray

anyone after the way my family was betrayed to the Federation.

That much was true. That is why my father, Padishar Creel, is

so furious that there might be a traitor among his own men. He

can never forget what happened to my mother, brother, and

sister. The possibility of losing anyone close to him again be-

cause of someone's treachery terrifies him.''

She paused, studying him intently. "I promised never to tell

anyone who I really was, but I am breaking that promise for

you. I want you to know. It is something I can give you that will

belong only to you."

She smiled then, and some of the tension drained out of him.

"Damson," he said, and he found himself smiling back at her.

"Nothing had better happen to you. If it does, it will be my

fault for talking you into bringing me down here. How will I

face Padishar, then?" His voice was a soft whisper of laughter.

"I wouldn't be able to go within a hundred miles of him!"

She started laughing as well, shaking soundlessly at the

thought, and she shoved him as if they were children at play.

Then she reached over and hugged herself against him. He let

her hold him without responding for a moment, his eyes straying

to where Coil sat, a vague shadow at the other end of the hall.

But his brother wasn't looking. There had been friends and trai-

tors mixed up in this enterprise from the beginning, and it had

been all but impossible to tell which was which. Except for Coll.

And now Damson.

He put his arms around her and hugged her back.

Moments later, the Mole returned. He came upon them so

quietly that they didn't even know he was there until the door

began to open against them. Par released Damson and jumped

to his feet, the blade of his long knife flashing free. The Mole

peeked through the door and then ducked hurriedly out of sight

again. Damson grabbed Par's arm. "Mole!" she whispered.

"It's all right!"

The Mole's roundish face eased back into view. Upon seeing

that the weapon had been put away, he came all the way through.

Coil was already hastening down the corridor. When he joined

them, the Mole said, calm again,' 'The catwalk is clear and will

stay that way if we hurry. But be very quiet, now."

They slipped from the corridor and found themselves on a

balcony that encircled a vast, empty rotunda. They moved

quickly along it, passing scores of closed, latched doors and

shadowed alcoves. Halfway around, the Mole led them into a

hall and down its length to a set of iron-barred doors that opened

out over the main courtyard of the palace. A catwalk ran across

the drop to a massive wall. The courtyard had once been a maze

of gardens and winding pathways; now there were only crum-

bling flagstones and bare earth. Beyond the wall lay me dark

smudge of the Pit.

The Mole beckoned anxiously. They stepped onto the cat-

walk, feeling it sway slightly beneath their combined weight,

hearing it creak in protest. The wind 6lew in quick gusts, and

the sound it made as it rushed over the bare stone walls and

across the empty courtyard was a low, sad moan. Weeds whipped

and shuddered below them and debris scattered about the court,

careening from wall to wall. There was no sign of life, no move-

ment in the shadows and murk, no Shadowen in sight.

They crossed the catwalk quickly, once they were upon it,

ignoring the creak and groan of its iron stays. They kept their

feet moving, their hands on the railing, and their eyes focused

carefully ahead, watching the palace wall draw closer. When the

crossing was completed they stepped hurriedly onto the battle-

ment, each reaching back to help the next person, grateful to be

done.

The Mole took them into a stairwell where they found a fresh

set of steps winding downward into blackness. Using the light

of the stones Damson had supplied, they descended silently.

They were close now; the stone of the wall was all that separated

them from the Pit. Par's excitement sent the blood pumping

through him, a pounding in his ears, and his nerve endings

tightened.

Just a few more minutes . . .

At the bottom of the stairwell, there was a passageway that

ended at a weathered, ironbound wooden door. The Mole

walked to the door and stopped. When he turned back to face

them. Par knew at once what lay beyond.

"Thank you, Mole," he said softly.

"Yes, thank you," echoed Damson.

The Mole blinked shyly. Then he said, "You can look through

here."

He reached up and carefully pulled back a tiny shutter that

revealed a slit in the wood. Par stepped forward and peered out.

The floor of the Pit stretched away before him, a vast, fog-

bound wilderness of trees and rock, a bottomland that was

strewn with decaying logs and tangled brush, a darkness in which

shadows moved and shapes formed and faded again like wraiths.

The wreckage of the Bridge of Sendic lay just to the right and

disappeared into the gray haze.

Par squinted into the murk a moment longer. There was no

sign of the vault that held the Sword of Shannara.

But he had seen it, right there, just beyond the wall of the

palace. The magic of the wishsong revealed it. It was out there.

He could feel its presence like a living thing.

He let Damson take a look, then Coll. When Coil stepped

back, the three of them stood facing one another.

Par slipped out of his cloak. ' 'Wait for me here. Keep watch

for the Shadowen."

"Keep watch for them yourself," Coil said bluntly, shrug-

ging off his own cloak. "I'm going with you."

"I'm going, too," said Damson.

But Coil blocked her way instantly. "No, you're not. Only

one of us can go besides Par. Look about you. Damson. Look

at where we are. We're in a box, a trap. There is no way out of

the Pit except through this door and no way out of the palace

except back up the stairs and across the catwalk. The Mole can

watch the catwalk, but he can't watch this door at the same time.

You have to do that.''

Damson started to object, but Coil cut her short. "Don't

argue. Damson. You know I'm right. I've listened to you when

I should; this time you listen to me."

"It doesn't matter who listens to whom. I don't want either

of you going," insisted Par sharply.

Coil ignored him, shifting his short sword in his belt until it

was in front of him. "You don't have any choice.''

"Why shouldn't I be the one to go?" Damson demanded

angrily.

"Because he's my brother!'' Coil's voice cracked like a whip,

and his rough features were hard. But when he spoke next, his

voice was strangely soft. "It has to be me; it's why I came in

the first place. It's why I'm here at all."

Damson went still, frozen and voiceless. Her gaze shifted.

"All right," she agreed, but her mouth was tight and angry as

she said it. She turned away. "Mole, watch the catwalk."

The little fellow was glancing at each of them in turn, a mix

of uncertainty and bewilderment in his bright eyes. ' 'Yes, lovely

Damson," he murmured and disappeared up the stairs.

Par started to say something more, but Coil took him by the

shoulders and pushed him back up against the weathered door.

Their eyes met and locked.

"Let's not waste any more time arguing about this, huh?"

Coil said. "Let's just get it over with. You and me."

Par tried to twist free, but Coil's big hands were like iron

clamps. He sagged back, frustrated. Coil released him. "Par,"

he said, and the words were almost a plea. "I spoke the truth.

I have to go."

They faced each other in silence. Par found himself thinking

of what they had come through to reach this point, of the hard-

ships they had endured. He wanted to tell Coil that it all meant

something, that he loved him, that he was frightened for him

now. He wanted to remind his brother about his duck feet, to

warn him that duck feet were too big to sneak around in. He

thought he might scream.

But, instead, he said simply, "I know."

Then he moved to the heavy, weathered door, released its

fastenings, and pulled on its worn handle. The door swung open,

and the half-light and fog, the rancid smells and cloying chill,

the hiss of swamp sounds, and the high, distant call of a solitary

bird rushed in.

Par looked back at Damson Rhee. She nodded. That she

would wait? That she understood? He didn't know.

With Coil beside him, he stepped out into the Pit.

XXXI

W here was Teel?

Morgan Leah knelt hurriedly beside Steff,

touched his face, and felt the chill of his friend's

skin through his fingers. Impulsively, he put his hands on Steff's

shoulders and gripped him, but Steff did not seem to feel it.

Morgan took his hands away and rocked back on his heels. His

eyes scanned the darkness about him, and shivered with some-

thing more than the cold. The question repeated itself in his

mind, racing from comer to comer as if trying to hide, a dark

whisper.

Where was Teel?

The possibilities paraded before him in his mind. Gone to get

Steff a drink of water, something hot to eat, another blanket

perhaps? Gone to look around, spooked from her sleep by one

of those instincts or sixth-senses that kept you alive when you

were constantly being hunted? Close by, about to return?

The possibilities shattered into broken pieces and disap-

peared. No. He knew the answer. She had gone into the secret

tunnel. She had gone there to lead the soldiers of the Federation

into the Jut from the rear. She was about to betray them one

final time.

No one but Damson, Chandos, and I know the other way-

now that Hirehone is dead.

That was what Padishar Creel had told him, speaking of the

hidden way out, the tunnel- something Morgan had all but for-

gotten until now. He shivered at the clarity of the memory. If

his reasoning was correct and the traitor was a Shadowen who

had taken Hirehone's identity to follow them to Tyrsis, then that

meant the Shadowen had possession of Hirehone's memories

and knew of the tunnel as well.

And if the Shadowen was now Teel. . .

Morgan felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It would

take the Federation months to take the Jut by siege. But what if

the siege was nothing more than a decoy? What if the Creeper

itself had been, even in failing, just a decoy? What if the Fed-

eration's intent from the beginning, was to take the Jut from

within, by betrayal once again, through the tunnel that was to

have been the outlaws' escape?

I have to do something!

Morgan Lean felt leaden. He must leave Steff and get to Pad-

ishar Creel at once. If his suspicions about Teel were correct,

she had to be found and stopped.

If.

The horror of what he was thinking knotted m his throat-

mat Teel could be the very worst of the enemies that had hunted

them all since Culhaven, that she could have deceived them so

completely, especially Steff, who believed that he owed her his

life and who was in love with her. The knot tightened. He knew

that the horror he felt didn't come from the possibility of be-

trayal-it came from the certainty of it.

Steff saw something of that horror mirrored in his eyes and

grappled angrily with him. "Where is she, Morgan? You know!

I can see it!"

Morgan did not try to break away. Instead, he faced his friend

and said, "I think I know. But you have to wait here, Steff. You

have to let me go after her.''

"No." Steff shook his head adamantly, his scarred face knot-

ting. "I'm going with you."

"You can't. You're too sick ..."

"I'm going, Morgan! Now where is she?"

The Dwarf was shaking with fever, but Morgan knew that he

was not going to be able to free himself unless he did so by

force.' 'All right,'' he agreed, taking a slow breath.' 'This way.''

He put his arm under his friend to support him and started

into the dark. He could not leave Steff behind, even knowing

how difficult it would make things having his friend along. He

would simply do what he must in spite of him. He stumbled

suddenly and fought his way back to his feet, hauling Steff up

with him, not having seen the coil of rope that lay on the ground

in his path. He forced himself to slow, realizing as he did so

that he hadn't even taken time yet to think through what he had

surmised. Teel was the traitor. He must accept that. Steff could

not, but he must. Teel was the one . . .

He stopped himself.

No. Not Teel. Don't call that thing Teel. Teel is dead. Or close

enough to being dead that there is no distinction to be made.

So, not Teel. The Shadowen that hid in Teel.

His breathing grew rapid as he hastened through the night,

Steff clinging to him. The Shadowen must have left her body

and taken Hirehone's in order to follow Padishar's little company

to Tyrsis and betray it to the Federation. Then it had abandoned

Hirehone's body, returned to the camp, killed the watch because

it could not ascend the Jut unseen, and reinhabited Teel. Steff

had never realized what was happening. He had believed Teel

poisoned. The Shadowen had let him think as much. It had even

managed to cast suspicion on Hirehone with that tale of follow-

ing him to the bluff before falling into unconsciousness. He

wondered how long Teel had been a Shadowen. A long time,

he decided. He pictured her in his mind, nothing more than a

shell, a hollow skin, and his teeth ground at the image. He

remembered Par's description of what it had been like when the

Shadowen on Toffer Ridge, the one who had taken the body of

the little girl, had tried to come into him. He remembered the

horror and revulsion the Valeman had expressed. That was what

it must have been like for Teel.

There was no further time to consider the matter. They were

approaching the main cave. The entrance was ablaze with torch-

light. Padishar Creel stood there. The outlaw chief was awake,

just as Morgan had hoped he would be, brilliant in his scarlet

clothing, talking with the men who cared for the sick and in-

jured, his broadsword and long knives strapped in place.

"What are you doing?" Steff cried angrily. "This is between

you and me, Morgan! Not him!"

But Morgan ignored his protestations, dragging him into the

light. Padishar Creel turned as the two men staggered up to him

and caught hold of them by the shoulders.

"Whoa, now, lads-slow down! What's the reason for charg-

ing about in the dark like this?" The other man's grip tightened

as Steff tried to break free, and the rough voice lowered. "Care-

ful, now. Your eyes say something's frightened you. Let's keep

it to ourselves. What's happened?"

Steff was rigid with anger, and his eyes were hard. Morgan

hesitated. The others in Padishar's company were looking at

them curiously, and they were close enough to hear what he

might say. He smiled disarmingly. "I think I've found the per-

son you've been looking for," he said to the big man.

Padishar's face went taut momentarily, then quickly relaxed.

"Ah, that's all, is it?" He spoke as much to his men as to them,

his voice almost joking. "Well, well, come on outside a minute

and tell me about it." He put his arm about their shoulders as

if all was well, waved to those listening, and steered the High-

lander and the Dwarf outside.

There he backed them into the shadows. "What is it you've

found?" he demanded.

Morgan glanced at Steff, then shook his head. He was sweat-

ing now beneath his clothes, and his face was flushed. "Padi-

shar," he said. "Teel's missing. Steff doesn't know what's

happened to her. I think she might have gone down into the

tunnel."

He waited, his gaze locked on the big man's, silently pleading

with him not to demand more, not to make him explain. He still

wasn't certain, not absolutely, and Steff would never believe him

in any case.

Padishar understood. "Let's have a look. You and I, High-

lander."

Steff seized him by the arm. "I'm coming too." His face was

bathed in sweat, and his eyes were glazed, but there was no

mistaking his determination in the matter.

"You haven't the strength for it, lad."

"That's my concern!"

Padishar's face turned sharply into the light. It was criss-

crossed with welts and cuts from last night's battle, tiny lines

that seemed to reflect the deeper scars the Dwarf bore. "And

none of mine," he said quietly. "So long as you understand."

They went into the sick bay, where Padishar took one of the

other outlaws aside and spoke softly to him. Morgan could just

make out what was being said.

"Rouse Chandos," Padishar ordered. "Tell him I want the

camp mobilized. Check the watch, be certain it's awake and

alive. Make ready to move everyone out. Then he's to come

after me into the hidden tunnel, the bolt hole. With help. Tell

him I said that we're all done with secrecy, so it doesn't matter

now who knows what he's about. Now get to it!"

The man scurried off, and Padishar beckoned wordlessly to

Morgan and Steff. He led them through the main cavern into the

deep recesses where the stores were kept. He lit three torches,

kept one for himself and gave one each to the Highlander and

the Dwarf. Then he took them into the very back of the farthest

chamber where the cases were stacked against the rock wall,

handed his torch to Morgan, grabbed the cases in both hands

and pulled. The false front opened into the tunnel beyond. They

slipped through the opening, and Padishar pulled the packing

crates back into place.

"Stay close," he warned.

They hurried into the dark, the torches smoking above them,

casting their weak yellow light against the shadows. The tunnel

was wide, but it twisted and turned. Rock outoroppings made

the passage hazardous; there were stalactites and stalagmites

both, wicked stone icicles. Water dripped from the ceiling and

pooled in the rock, the only sound in the silence other than their

footsteps. It was cold in the caves, and the chill quickly worked

its way through Morgan's clothes. He shivered as he trailed after

Padishar. Steff trailed them both, walking haltingly on his own,

his breathing ragged and quick.

Morgan wondered suddenly what they were going to do when

they found Teel.

He made a mental check of his weapons. He had the newly

acquired broadsword strapped across his back, a dagger in his

belt, and another in his boot. At his waist, he wore the shortened

scabbard and the remains of the Sword of Leah.

Not much help against a Shadowen, he thought worriedly.

And how much use would Steff be, even after he discovered the

truth? What would he do?

If only I still had the magic. . .

He forced that thought away from him, knowing what it would

lead to, determined that he would not allow his indecision to

bind him again.

The seconds ticked by, and the echo of their passing rever-

berated in the sound of the men's hurried footsteps. The walls

of the tunnel narrowed down sharply, then broadened out again,

a constant change of size and shape. They passed through a

series of underground caverns where the torchlight could not

even begin to penetrate the shadows that cloaked the hollow,

vaulted roofs. A little farther on, a series of crevices opened

before them, several almost twenty feet across. Bridges had been

built to span them, wooden slats connected by heavy ropes, the

ropes anchored in the rock by iron pins. The bridges swayed

and shook as they crossed, but held firm.

All the while they walked, they kept watch for Teel. But there

was no sign of her.

Steff was beginning to have trouble keeping up. He was enor-

mously strong and fit when well, but whatever sickness had

attacked him-if indeed it was a sickness and he had not been

poisoned as Morgan was beginning to surmise-had left him

badly worn. He fell repeatedly and had to drag himself up again

each time. Padishar never slowed. The big man had meant what

he said-Steff was on his own. The Dwarf had gotten this far on

sheer determination, and Morgan did not see how he could

maintain the pace the outlaw chief was setting much longer. The

Highlander glanced back at his friend, but Steff didn't seem to

see him, his haunted eyes searching the shadows, sweeping the

curtain of black beyond the light.

They were more than a mile into the mountain when a glim-

mer of light appeared ahead, a pinprick that quickly became a

glow. Padishar did not slow or bother to disguise his coming.

The tunnel broadened, and the opening ahead brightened with

the nicker of torches. Morgan felt his heartbeat quicken.

They entered a massive underground cavern ablaze with light.

Torches were jammed into cracks in the walls and floors, filling

the air with smoke and the smell of charred wood and burning

pitch. At the center of the cavern a huge crevice split the cham-

ber floor end to end, a twisted maw that widened and narrowed

as it worked its way from wall to wall. Another bridge had been

built to span the crevice at its narrowest juncture, this one a

massive iron structure. Machinery had been installed on the

near side of the crevice to raise and lower it. The bridge was

down at the moment, linking the halves of the cavern floor.

Beyond, the flat rock stretched away to where the tunnel disap-

peared once more into darkness.

Teel stood next to the bridge machinery, hammering.

Padishar Creel stopped, and Morgan and Steff quickly came

up beside him. Teel hadn't heard or seen them yet, then- torch-

light enveloped by the cavern's own brightness.

Padishar laid down his torch. "She's jammed the machinery.

The bridge can't be raised again." His eyes found Sleff's. "If

we let her, she will bring the Federation right to us."

Steff stared wildly. "No." he gasped in disbelief.

Padishar ignored him. He unsheathed his broadsword and

started forward.

Steff lunged after him, tripping, falling, then crying out fran-

tically, "Teel!"

Teel whirled about. She held an iron bar in her hands, the

smooth surface bright with nicks from where she had been

smashing the bridge works. Morgan could see the damage clearly

now, winches split apart, pulleys forced loose, gears stripped.

Teel's hair glittered in the light, flashing with traces of gold. She

faced them, her mask revealing nothing of what she was think-

ing, an expressionless piece of leather strapped about her head,

the eyeholes dark and shadowed.

Padishar closed both big hands about the broadsword, lifting

its blade into the light. "End of the line for you, girl," he

snapped.

The echo filled the cavern, and Steff came to his feet, lurching

ahead. "Padishar, wait!" he howled.

Morgan jumped to intercept him, caught hold of his arm, and

jerked him about. "No, Steff, that isn't Teel! Not anymore!"

Steffs eyes were bright with anger and fear. Morgan lowered his

voice, speaking quickly, calmly. "Listen to me. That's a Shad-

owen, Steff. How long since you've seen the face beneath that

mask? Have you looked at it? It isn't Teel under there anymore.

Teel's been gone a long time."

The anger and fear turned to horror. "Morgan, no! I would

know! I could tell if it wasn't her!''

"Steff, listen ..."

"Morgan, he's going to kill her! Let me go!"

Steff jerked free and Morgan grabbed him again. "Steff, look

at what she's done! She's betrayed us!"

"No!" the Dwarf screamed and struck him.

Morgan went down in a heap, the force of the blow leaving

him stunned. His first reaction was surprise; he hadn't thought

it possible that Steff could still possess such strength. He pushed

himself to his knees, watching as the Dwarf raced after Padi-

shar, screaming something the Highlander couldn't understand.

Steff caught up with the big man when they were just a few

steps from Teel. The Dwarf threw himself on Padishar from

behind, seizing his sword arm, forcing it down. Padishar shouted

in fury, tried to break free and failed. Steff was all over him,

wrapped about him like a second skin.

In the confusion, Teel struck. She was on them like a cat, the

iron bar lifted. The blows hammered down, quick and unchal-

lenged, and in a matter of seconds both Padishar and Steff lay

bleeding on the cavern floor.

Morgan staggered to his feet alone to face her.

She came for him unhurriedly, and as she did so there was a

moment in which all of his memories of her came together at

once. He saw her as the small, waiflike girl that he had met at

Culhaven in the darkened kitchen of Granny Elise and Auntie

Jilt, her honey-colored hair just visible beneath the folds of her

hooded cloak, her face concealed by the strange leather mask.

He saw her listening at the edges of the campfire's light to the

conversation shared by the members of the little company who

had journeyed through the Wolfsktaag. He saw her crowded

close to Steffat the base of the Dragon's Teeth before they went

to meet with the shade of Allanon, suspicious, withdrawn,

fiercely protective.

He forced the images away seeing her only as she was now,

striking down Padishar and Steff, too swift and strong to be what

she pretended. Even so, it was hard to believe that she was a

Shadowen, harder still to accept that they had all been fooled so

completely.

He pulled free the broadsword and waited. He would have to

be quick. Maybe he would have to be more than quick. He

remembered the creatures in the Pit. Iron alone hadn't been

enough to kill them.

Teel went into a crouch as she reached him, her eyes dark

pools within the mask, the look that was reflected there hard

and certain. Morgan gave a quick feint, then cut viciously at the

girl's legs. She sidestepped the blow easily. He cut again-once,

twice. She parried, and the shock of the sword blade- striking

the iron bar washed through him. Back and forth they lunged,

each waiting for the other to provide an opening.

Then a series of blows brought the flat of the broadsword

against the iron bar and the blade shattered. Morgan npped at

the bar with what was left, the handle catching it and twisting it

free. Both sword and bar skittered away into the dark.

Instantly Teel threw herself on Morgan, her hands closing

about his throat. She was incredibly strong. He had only a mo-

ment to act as he fell backward. His hand closed on the dagger

at his waist, and he shoved it into her stomach. She drew back,

surprised. He kicked at her, thrusting her back, drew the dagger

in his boot and jammed it into her side, ripping upward.

She backhanded him so hard that he was knocked off his feet.

He landed with a grunt, jarred so that the breath was knocked

from his body. Spots danced before his eyes, but he gasped air

into his lungs and scrambled up.

Teel was standing where he had left her, the daggers still

embedded in her body. She reached down and calmly pulled

them free, tossing them away.

She knows I can't hurt her, he thought in despair. She knows

I haven't anything that can stop her.

She seemed unhurt as she advanced on him. There was blood

on her clothing, but not much. There was no expression to be

seen behind the mask, nothing in her eyes or on her mouth, just

an emptiness that was as chilling as ice. Morgan edged away

from her, searching the cavern floor for any kind of weapon at

all. He caught sight of the iron bar and desperately snatched it

up.

Teel seemed unworried. There was a shimmer of movement

all about her body, a darkness that seemed to lift slightly

and settle back again-as if the thing that lived within her was

readying itself.

Morgan backed away, maneuvering toward the crevice. Could

he somehow manage to lure this thing close enough to the drop

to shove it over? Would that kill it? He didn't know. He knew

only that he was the only one left to stop it, to prevent it from

betraying the entire Jut, all those men, to the Federation. If he

failed, they would die.

But I'm not strong enough-not without the magic!

He was only a few feet from the crevice edge. Teel closed the

gap that separated them, moving swiftly. He swung at her with

the iron bar, but she caught the bar in her hand, broke his grip

on it, and flung it away.

Then she was on him, her hands at his throat, choking off his

air, strangling him. He couldn't breathe. He fought to break

free, but she was far too strong. His eyes squeezed shut against

the pain, and there was a coppery taste in his mouth.

A huge weight dropped across him.

"Teel, don't!" he heard someone cry-a disembodied voice

choked with pain and fatigue.

Steff!

The hands loosened marginally, and his eyes cleared enough

so that he could see Steff atop Teel, arms locked about her,

hauling back. There was blood streaking his face. A gaping

wound had been opened at the top of his head.

Morgan's right hand groped at his belt and found the handle

of the Sword of Leah.

Teel ripped free of Steff, turned and pulled him about. There

was a fury in her eyes, in the way the cords of her throat went

taut, that even the mask could not conceal. Yanking Steff's dag-

ger from its sheath, she buried it deep in his chest. Steff toppled

backward, gasping.

Teel turned back then to finish Morgan, half-raised over him,

and he thrust the broken blade of his sword into her stomach.

Back she reared, screaming so that Morgan arched away from

her in spite of himself. But he kept his hands fastened on the

handle of the sword. Then something strange began to happen.

The Sword of Leah grew warm and flared with light. He could

feel it stir and come to life.

The magic! Oh, Shades-it was the magic!

Power surged through the blade, linking them together, flow-

ing into Teel. Crimson fire exploded through her. Her hands

tore at the blade, at her body, at her face, and the mask came

free. Morgan Leah would never forget what lay beneath, a coun-

tenance bom of the blackest pits of the netherworld, ravaged

and twisted and alive with demons that he had only imagined

might exist. Tsel seemed to disappear entirely, and there was

only the Shadowen behind the face, a thing of blackness and no

substance, an emptiness that blocked and swallowed the light.

Invisible hands fought to thrust Morgan away, to strip him of

his weapon and of his soul.

"Leah! Leah!" He sounded the battle cry of his ancestors,

of the Kings and Princes of his land for a thousand years, and

that single word became the talisman to which he clung.

The Shadowen's scream became a shriek. Then it collapsed,

the darkness that sustained it crumbling and fading away. Teel

returned, a frail, limp bundle, empty of life and being. She fell

forward atop him, dead.

It took several minutes for Morgan to find the strength to push

Teel away. He lay there in the wetness of his own sweat and

blood, listening to the sudden silence, exhausted, pinned to the

cavern floor by the dead girl's weight. His only thought was that

he had survived.

Then slowly his pulse quickened. It was the magic that had

saved him. It was the magic of the Sword of Leah. Shades, it

wasn't gone after all! At least some part of it still lived, and if

part of it lived then there was a chance that it could be com-

pletely restored, that the blade could be made whole again, the

magic preserved, the power . . .

His ruminations scattered uncontrollably in their frantic pass-

ing and disappeared. He gulped air into his lungs, mustered his

strength, and pushed Teel's body aside. She was surprisingly

light. He looked down at her as he rolled onto his hands and

knees. She was all shrunken in, as if something had dissolved

her bones. Her face was still twisted and scarred, but the demons

he had seen there were gone.

Then he heard Steff gasp. Unable to rise he crawled to his

friend. Stefflay on his back, the dagger still protruding from his

chest. Morgan started to remove it, then slowly drew back. He

knew at a glance that it was too late to make any difference.

Gently, he touched his friend's shoulder.

Steffs eyes blinked open and shifted to find him. ' 'Teel?'' he

asked softly.

"She's dead," Morgan whispered back.

The Dwarf's scarred face tightened with pain, then relaxed.

He coughed blood. "I'm sorry, Morgan. Sorry . . . I was blind,

so this had to happen.''

"It wasn't only you."

"I should have seen ... the truth. Should have recognized

it. I just. . . didn't want to, I guess."

"Steff, you saved our lives. If you hadn't awakened me . . ."

"Listen to me. Listen, Highlander. You are my closest friend.

I want you . . . to do something.'' He coughed again, then tried

to steady his voice. "I want you to go back to Culhaven and

make certain. . . that Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt are all right.''

His eyes squeezed shut and opened again. "You understand me,

Morgan? They will be in danger because Teel..."

"I understand," Morgan cut him short.

"They are all I have left," Steff whispered, reaching out to

fasten his hand on Morgan's arm. "Promise me."

Morgan nodded wordlessly, then said, "I promise."

Steff sighed, and the words he spoke were little more than a

whisper. "I loved her, Morgan."

Then his hand slid away, and he died.

Everything that happened after that was something of a blur

to Morgan Leah. He stayed at Steff's side for a time, so dazed

that he could think of doing nothing else. Then he remembered

Padishar Creel. He forced himself to his feet and went over to

check on the big man. Padishar was still alive, but unconscious,

his left arm broken from warding off the blows struck by the

iron bar, his head bleeding from a deep gash. Morgan wrapped

the head injury to stop the blood loss, but left the arm alone.

There was no time to set it now.

The machinery that operated the bridge was smashed and

there was no way that he could repair it. If the Federation was

sending an attack force into the tunnels tonight-and Morgan

had to assume they were-then the bridge could not be raised

to prevent their advance. It was only a few hours until dawn.

That meant that Federation soldiers were probably already on

their way. Even without Teel to guide them, they would have

little trouble following the tunnel to the Jut.

He found himself wondering what had become of Chandos

and the men he was supposed to bring with him. They should

have arrived by now.

He decided he couldn't risk waiting for them. He had to get

out of there. He would have to carry Padishar since his efforts

to waken him had failed. Steff would have to be left behind.

It took several minutes to decide what was needed. First he

salvaged the Sword of Leah, slipping it carefully back into its

makeshift sheath. Then he carried Teel and afterward Steff to

the edge of the crevice and dropped them over. He wasn't sure

it was something he could do until after it was done. It left him

feeling sick and empty inside.

He was incredibly tired by then, so weak that he did not think

he could make it back through the tunnels by himself, let alone

carrying Padishar. But somehow he managed to get the other

across his shoulders and, with one of the torches to guide him,

he started out.

He walked for what seemed like hours, seeing nothing, hear-

ing only the sound of his own boots as they scraped across the

stone. Where was Chandos, he asked himself over and over

again. Why hadn't he come? He stumbled and fell so many

times that he lost count, tripped up by the tunnel's rock and by

his own weariness. His knees and hands were torn and bloodied,

and his body began to grow numb. He found himself thinking

of curious things, of his boyhood and his family, of the adven-

tures he had shared growing up with Par and Coil, of the steady,

reliable Steff and the Dwarves of Culhaven. He cried some of

the time, thinking of what had become of them all, of how much

of the past had been lost. He talked to Padishar when he felt

himself on the verge of collapse, but Padishar slept on.

He walked, it seemed, forever.

Yet when Chandos finally did appear, accompanied by a

swarm of outlaws and Axhind and his Trolls, Morgan was no

longer walking at all. He had collapsed in the tunnel, exhausted.

He was carried with Padishar the rest of the way, and he tried

to explain what had happened. He was never certain exactly

what he said. He knew that he rambled, sometimes incoher-

ently. He remembered Chandos saying something about a new

Federation assault, that the assault had prevented him coming

as quickly as he had wanted. He remembered the strength of

the other's gnaried hand as it held his own.

It was still dark when they regained the bluff, and the Jut was

indeed under attack. Another diversion, perhaps, to draw atten-

tion away from the soldiers sneaking through the tunnels, but

one that required dealing with nevertheless. Arrows and spears

flew from below, and the siege towers had been hauled forward.

Numerous attempts at scaling the heights had already been re-

pelled. Preparations for making an escape, however, were com-

plete. The wounded were set to move out, those that could walk

nsen to their feet, those that couldn't placed on litters. Morgan

went with the latter group as they were carried back into the

caves to where the tunnels began. Chandos appeared, his fierce,

black-bearded face hovering close to Morgan as he spoke.

"All is well, Highlander,'' Morgan would remember the other

man saying, his voice a faint buzz.' 'There's Federation soldiers

in the hidden tunnel already, but the rope bridges have been cut.

That will slow them a bit-long enough for us to be safely away.

We'll be going into these other tunnels. There's a way out

through them as well, you see, one that only Padishar knows.

It's rougher gomg, a good number of twists and turns and a few

tricky choices to be made. But Padishar knows what to do. Never

leaves anything to chance. He's awake again, bringing the rest

of them down, making sure everyone's out. He's a tough one,

old Padishar. But no tougher than you. You saved his life, you

did. You got him out of there just in time. Rest now, while you

can. You won't have long ''

Morgan closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. He slept

poorly, brought awake time and again by the jostling of the litter

on which he lay and by the sounds of the men who were crowded

about him, whispering and crying out in pain. Darkness cloaked

the tunnels, a hazy black that even torchlight could not cut

through entirely. Paces and bodies passed in and out of view,

but his lasting impression was of impenetrable night.

Once or twice, he thought he heard fighting, the clash of

weapons, the grunts of men. But there was no sense of urgency

in those about him, no indication that anything threatened, and

he decided after a time that he must be dreaming.

He forced himself awake finally, not wishing to sleep any

longer, afraid to sleep when he was not certain what was hap-

pening. Nothing around him appeared to have changed. It

seemed that he could not have been asleep for more than a few

moments.

He tried lifting his head, and pain stabbed down the back of

his neck. He lay back again, thinking suddenly of Steff and Teel

and of the thinness of the line that separated life and death.

Padishar Creel came up beside him. He was heavily bandaged

about the head, and his arm was splinted and strapped to his

side. "So, lad," he greeted quietly.

Morgan nodded, closed his eyes and opened them again.

"We're getting out now," the other said. "All of us, thanks

to you. And to Steff. Chanctos told me the story. He had great

courage, that one." The rough face looked away. "Well, the

Jut's lost but that's a small price to pay for our lives.''

Morgan found that he didn't want to talk about the price of

lives. "Help me up, Padishar,'' he said quietly.' 'I want to walk

out of here."

The outlaw chief smiled. "Don't we all, lad,'' he whispered.

He reached out his good hand and pulled Morgan to his feet.

XXXII

It was a nightmarish world where Par and Coil Ohmsford

walked. The silence was intense and endless, a cloak of

emptiness that stretched further than time itself. There were

no sounds, no cries of birds or buzzings of insects, no small

sidtterings or scrapes, not even the rustle of the wind through

the trees to give evidence of life. The trees rose skyward like

statues of stone carved by some ancient civilization and left in

mute testament to the futility of man's works. They had a gray

and wintry look to them, and even the leaves that should have

softened and colored their bones bore the look of a scarecrow's

rags. Scrub brush and saw grass rubbed up against their trunks

like stray children, and bramble bushes twisted together in a

desperate effort to protect against life's sorrows.

The mist was there as well, of course. The mist was there

first, last, and always, a deep and pervasive sea of gray that shut

everything vibrant away. It hung limp in the air, unmoving as it

smothered trees and brush, rocks and earth, and life of any kind

or sort, a screen that blocked away the sun's light and warmth.

There was an inconsistency to it, for in some places it was thin

and watery and merely gave a fuzzy appearance to what it sought

to cloak, while in others it was as impenetrable as ink. It brushed

at the skin with a cold, damp insistence that whispered of dead

things.

Par and Coil moved slowly, cautiously through their waking

dream, fighting back against the feeling that they had become

disembodied. Their eyes darted from shadow to shadow, search-

ing for movement, finding only stillness. The world they had

entered seemed lifeless, as if the Shadowen they knew to be

hidden there were not in fact there at all but were simply a lie

of the dream that their senses could not reveal.

They moved quickly to the rubble of the Bridge of Sendic so

that they could follow its broken trail to the vault. Their footsteps

were soundless in the tall grasses and the damp, yielding earth.

At times their boots disappeared entirely in the carpet of mist.

Par glanced back to the door they had come through. It was

nowhere to be seen.

In seconds, the cliff face itself, the whole of what remained

of the palace of the Kings of Tyrsis, had vanished as well.

As if it had never been. Par thought darkly.

He felt cold and empty inside, but hot where sweat made the

skin beneath his clothing feel prickly and damp. The emotions

that churned inside would not be sorted out or dispersed; they

screamed with voices that were garbled and confused, each des-

perate to be heard, each mindless. He could feel his heart

pounding within his chest, his pulse racing in response, and he

sensed the imminency of his own death with every step he took.

He wished again that he could summon for just a moment the

magic, even in its most rudimentary form, so that he could be

reassured that he possessed some measure of power to defend

himself. But use of the magic would alert whatever lived within

the Pit, and he wanted to believe that as yet that had not hap-

pened.

Coil brushed his arm, pointing to where the earth had opened

before them in a wicked-looking crack that disappeared into

blackness. They would have to go around. Par nodded, leading

the way. Coil's presence was reassuring to him, as if the simple

fact of his being there might somehow deter the evil that threat-

ened. Coil-his large, blocky form like a rock at Par's back, his

rough face so determined that it seemed his strength of wiil

alone would see them through. Par was glad beyond anything

words could express that his brother had come. It was a selfish

reaction, he knew, but an honest one. Coil's courage in thi-

business was to a large extent the source of his own.

They skirted the pitfall and worked their way back to the

tumbled remains of the bridge. Everything about them was ur-

changed, silent and unmoving, empty of life.

But then something shimmered darkly in the mists ahead,

squarish shape that lifted out of the rubble.

Par took a deep steadying breath. It was the vault.

They moved toward it hurriedly. Par in the lead. Coil just a

step behind. Stone-block walls came sharply into focus, losing

the surreal haziness in which the mists had cloaked them. Brust

grew up against its sides, vines looped over its sloped roof, and

moss colored its foundation in shadings of rust and dark green.

The vault was larger than Par had imagined, a good fifty feet

across and as much as twenty feet high at its peak. It had the

look and feel of a crypt.

The Valemen reached its nearest wall and edged their way

cautiously around the comer to the front. They found writing

carved there in the pitted stone, an ancient scroll ravaged by

time and weather, many of its words nearly erased. They

stopped, breathless, and read:

Herein lies the heart and soul of the nations.

Their right to be free men,

Their desire to live in peace,

Their courage to seek out truth.

Herein lies the Sword of Shannara.

Just beyond, a massive stone door stood ajar. The brothers

glanced at each other wordlessly, men started forward. When

they reached the door, they peered inside. There was a wall that

formed a corridor leading left; the corridor disappeared into

darkness.

Par frowned. He hadn't expected the vault to be a complex

structure; he had thought it would be nothing more than a single

chamber with the Sword of Shannara at its center. This sug-

gested something else.

He looked at Coil. His brother was clearly upset, peering

about anxiously, studying first the entry, then the dark tangle of

the forest surrounding them. Coil reached out and pulled on the

door. It moved easily at his touch.

He bent close. "This looks like a trap," he whispered so

softly that Par could barely hear him.

Par was thinking the same thing. A door to a vault that was

three hundred years old and had been subjected to the climate

of the Pit should not give way so readily. It would be a simple

matter for someone to shut it again once he was inside.

And yet he knew he would go in anyway. He had already

made up his mind to do so. He had come through too much to

turn back now. He raised his eyebrows and gave Coil a ques-

tioning look. What was Coil suggesting, the look asked?

Coil's mouth tightened, knowing that Par was determined to

continue, that the risks no longer made any difference. It took

a supreme effort for him to speak the words. ' 'All right. You go

after the Sword; I 'll stand guard out here.'' One big hand grasped

Par's shoulder. "But hurry!"

Par nodded, smiled triumphantly, and clutched his brother

back.

Then he was through the door, moving swiftly down the pas-

sageway into the dark. He went as far as he could with the faint

light of the outside world to guide him, but it soon faded. He

felt along the walls for the corridor's end, but couldn't find it.

He remembered then that he still carried the stone Damson had

given him. He reached into his pocket, took it out, clasped it

momentarily between his hands to warm it, and held it out be-

fore him. Silver light flooded the darkness. His smile grew fierce.

Again, he started forward, listening to the silence, watching the

shadows.

He wound along the passageway, descended a set of stairs,

and entered a second corridor. He traveled much further than

he would have thought possible, and for the first time he began

to grow uneasy. He was no longer in the vault, but somewhere

deep underground. How could that be?

Then the passageway ended. He stepped into a room with a

vaulted ceiling and walls carved with images and runes, and he

caught his breath with a suddenness that hurt.

There, at the very center of the room, blade downward in a

block of red marble, was the Sword of Shannara.

He blinked to make certain that he was not mistaking what

he saw, then moved forward until he stood before it. The blade

was smooth and unmarked, a flawless piece of workmanship

The handle was carved with the image of a hand thrusting

torch skyward. The talisman glistened like new metal in the sen

light, faintly blue in color.

Par felt his throat tighten. It was indeed the Sword.

A sharp rush of elation surged through him. He could hardly

keep himself from calling out to Coil, from shouting aloud to

him what he was feeling. A wave of relief swept over him. He

had gambled everything on what had amounted to little more

than a hunch-and his hunch had been right. Shades, it had been

right all along! The Sword of Shannara had indeed been down

in the Pit, concealed by its tangle of trees and brush, by the mi~,

and night, by the Shadowen . . . !

He shoved aside his elation abruptly. Thinking of the Shad-

owen reminded him in no uncertain terms how precarious his

position was. There would be time to congratulate himself later,

when Coil and he were safely out of this rat hole.

There were stairs cut in a stone base on which rested the block

of marble and the Sword embedded in it, and he started for

them. But he had taken only a single step when something de-

tached itself from the darkness of the wall beyond. Instantly, he

froze, terror welling up in his throat.

A single word screamed out in his mind.

Shadowen!

But he saw at once that he was mistaken. It wasn't a Shad-

owen. It was a man dressed all in black, cloaked and hooded,

the insigne of a wolf's head sewn on his chest.

Par's fear did not lessen when he realized who the other was.

The man approaching him was Rimmer Dall.

At the entrance to the vault. Coil waited impatiently. He stood

with his back against the stone, just to one side of the opening,

his eyes searching the mist. Nothing moved. No sound reached

him. He was alone, it seemed; yet he did not feel that way. The

dawn's light filtered down through the canopy of the trees, wash-

ing him in its cold, gray haze.

Par had been gone too long already, he thought. It shouldn't

be taking him this much time.

He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the vault's black open-

ing. He would wait another five minutes; then he was going in

himself.

Rimmer Dall came to a stop a dozen feet away from Par,

reached up casually and pulled back the hood of his cloak. His

craggy face was unmasked, yet in the half-light of the vault it

was so streaked with shadows as to be practically unrecogniz-

able. It made no difference. Par would have known him any-

where. Their one and only meeting that night so many weeks

ago at the Blue Whisker was not something he would ever forget.

He had hoped it would never be repeated; yet here they were,

face to face once more. Rimmer Dall, First Seeker of the Fed-

eration, the man who had tracked him across the length and

breadth of Callahom and nearly had him so many times, had

caught up with him at last.

The door through which Par had entered remained open be-

hind him, a haven that beckoned. The Valeman poised to flee.

"Wait, Par Ohmsford," the other said, almost as if reading

his thoughts. "Are you so quick to run? Do you frighten so

easily?"

Par hesitated. Rimmer Dall was a huge, rangy man; his red-

bearded face might have been chiseled out of stone, so hard and

menacing did it appear. Yet his voice-and Par had not forgotten

it either-was soft and compelling.

"Shouldn't you hear what I have to say to you first?" the big

man continued.' 'What harm can it do? I have been waiting here

to talk to you for a very long time."

Par stared. "Waiting?"

"Certainly. This is where you had to come sooner or later

once you made up your mind about the Sword of Shannara. You

have come for the Sword, haven't you? Of course you have.

Well, then, I was right to wait, wasn't I? We have much to

discuss."

"I wouldn't think so." Par's mind raced. "You tried to arrest

Coil and me in Varfleet. You imprisoned my parents in Shady

Vale and occupied the village. You have been chasing after me

and those with me for weeks."

Rimmer Dall folded his arms. Par noticed again how the left

was gloved to the elbow. "Suppose I stand here and you stand

there," the big man offered. "That way you can leave any time

you choose. I won't do anything to prevent it."

Par took a deep breath and stepped back.' 'I don't trust you."

The big man shrugged. "Why should you? However, do you

want the Sword of Shannara or don't you? If you want it, you

must first listen to me. After you've done so, you can take it

with you if you wish. Fair enough?''

Par felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle in warning.

"Why should you make a bargain like that after all you've done

to keep me from getting the Sword?"

"Keep you from getting the Sword?" The other laughed, a

low, pleasant chuckle. "Par Ohmsford. Did you once think to

ask for the Sword? Did you ever consider the possibility that I

might simply give it to you? Wouldn't that have been easier than

sneaking about the city and trying to steal it like a common

thief?'' Rimmer Dall shook his head slowly.' 'There is so much

that you don't know. Why not let me tell it to you?"

Par glanced about uncertainly, not willing to believe that this

wasn't some sort of trick to put him off his guard. The vault was

a maze of shadows that whispered of other things lurking there,

hidden and waiting. Par rubbed briskly the stone that Damson

had given him to brighten its light.

"Ah, you think I have others concealed in the darkness with

me, is that it?'' Rimmer Dall whispered, the words coming from

somewhere deep down inside his chest to rumble through the

silence. "Well, here then!"

He raised his gloved hand, made a quick motion with it, and

the room was flooded with light. Par gasped in surprise and

took another step back.

"Do you think, Par Ohmsford, that you are the only one who

has use of magic?" Rimmer Dall asked quietly. "Well, you

aren't. As a matter of fact, I have magic at my command that is

much greater than yours, greater perhaps than that of the Druids

of old. There are others like me, too. There are many in the

Four Lands who possess the magic of the old world, of the world

before the Four Lands and the Great Wars and man himself."

Par stared at him wordlessly.

"Would you listen to me now, Valeman? While you still can?''

Par shook his head, not in response to the question he had

been asked, but in disbelief. "You are a Seeker,'' he said finally.

"You hunt those who use magic. Any use-even by you-is

forbidden!"

Rimmer Dall smiled. "So the Federation has decreed. But

has hasn't stopped you from using your magic. Par? Or your uncle

Walker Boh? Or anyone who possesses it? It is, in fact, a foolish

decree, one that could never be enforced except against those

who don't care about it in the first place. The Federation dreams

of conquest and empire-building, of uniting the lands and the

Races under its rule. The Coalition Council schemes and plans,

a remnant of a world that has already destroyed itself once in

the wars of power. It thinks itself chosen to govern because the

Councils of the Races are no more and the Druids gone. It sees

the disappearance of the Elves as a blessing. It seizes the prov-

inces of the Southland, threatens Callahom until it submits, and

destroys the wilful Dwarves simply because it can. It sees all

this as evidence of its mandate to rule. It believes itself omnis-

cient! In a final gesture of arrogance it outlaws magic! It doesn't

once bother asking what purpose magic serves in the scheme of

things-it simply denies it!"

The dark figure hunched forward, the arms unfolding. "The

fact of the matter is that the Federation is a collection of fools

that understands nothing of what the magic means, Valeman. It

was magic that brought our world to pass, the world in which

we live, in which me Federation believes itself supreme. Magic

creates everything, makes everything possible. And the Feder-

ation would dismiss such power as if it were meaningless?"

Rimmer Dall straightened, looming up against the strange

light he had created, a dark form that seemed only vaguely hu-

man.

"Look at me. Par Ohmsford," he whispered.

His body began to shimmer, then to separate. Par watched in

horror as a dark shape rose up against the shadows and half-

light, its eyes flaring with crimson fire.

"Do you see, Valeman?" Rimmer Ball's disembodied voice

whispered with a hiss of satisfaction. "I am the very thing the

Federation would destroy, and they haven't the faintest idea of

it!"

The irony of the idea was wasted on Par, who saw nothing

beyond the fact that he had placed himself in the worst possible

danger. He shrank from the man who called himself Rimmer

Dall, the creature who wasn't in fact a man at all, but was a

Shadowen. He edged backward, determined to flee. Then he

remembered the Sword of Shannara, and abruptly, recklessly,

changed his mind. If he could get to the Sword, he thought

fiercely, he would have a weapon with which to destroy Rimmer

Dall.

But the Shadowen seemed unconcerned. Slowly the dark

shape settled back into Rimmer Dall's body and the big man's

voice returned. "You have been lied to, Valeman. Repeatedly.

You have been told that the Shadowen are evil things, that they

are parasites who invade the bodies of men to subvert them to

their cause. No, don't bother to deny it or to ask how I know,''

he said quickly, cutting short Par's exclamation of surprise. "I

know everything about you, about your journey to Culhaven,

the Wilderun, the Hadeshom, and beyond. I know of your meet-

ing with the shade of Allanon. I know of the lies he told you.

Lies, Par Ohmsford-and they begin with the Druids! They tell

you what you must do if the Shadowen are to be destroyed, if

the world is to be made safe again! You are to seek the Sword,

Wren the Elves, and Walker Boh vanished Paranor-I know!"

The craggy face twisted in anger. "But listen now to what

you were not told! The Shadowen are not an aberration that has

come to pass in the absence of the Druids! We are their succes-

sors! We are what evolved out of the magic with their passing!

And we are not monsters invading men, Valeman-we are men

ourselves!"

Par shook his head to deny what he was hearing, but Rimmer

Dall brought up his gloved hand quickly, pointing to the Vale-

man. "There is magic in men now as there was once magic in

the creatures of faerie. In the Elves, before they took themselves

away. In the Druids later.'' His voice had gone soft and insistent.

"I am a man like any other except that I possess the magic. Like

you. Par. Somehow I inherited it over the generations of my

family that lived before me in a world in which use of magic

was commonplace. The magic scattered and seeded itself-not

within the ground, but within the bodies of the men and women

of the Races. It took hold and grew in some of us, and now we

have the power that was once the province of the Druids alone.''

He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Par. "You have such

power. You cannot deny it. Now you must understand the truth

of what having that power means.''

He paused, waiting for Par to respond. But Par had gone cold

to the bone as he sensed what was coming, and he could only

howl silently in denial.

"I can see in your eyes that you understand," Rimmer Dall

said, his voice softer still. "It means, Par Ohmsford, that you

are a Shadowen, too."

Coil counted the seconds in his mind, stretching the process

out for as long as he could, thinking as he numbered each that

Par must surely appear. But there was no sign of his brother.

The Valeman shook his head in despair. He paced away from

the craggy wall of the vault and back again. Five minutes was

up. He couldn't wait any longer. He had to go in. It frightened

him that in doing so he would be leaving their backs unpro-

tected, but he had no choice. He had to discover what had hap-

pened to Par.

He took a deep breath to steady himself as he prepared to

enter.

That was when the hands seized him from behind and dragged

him down.

"You're lying!" Par shouted at Rimmer Dall, forgetting his

fear, taking a step forward threateningly.

"There is nothing wrong with being a Shadowen," the other

answered sharply. "It is only a word that others have used to

label something they don't fully understand. If you can forget

the lies you have been told and think of the possibilities, you

will be better able to understand what I am telling you. Suppose

for a moment that I am right. If the Shadowen are simply men

who are meant to be successors to the Druids, then wielding the

magic is not only their right, it is their responsibility. The magic

is a trust-wasn't that what Allanon told Brin Ohmsford when

he died and marked her with his blood? The magic is a tool that

must be used for the betterment of the Races and the Four Lands.

What is so difficult to accept about that? The problem is not with

myself or with you or with the others like us. The problem is

with fools like those who govern the Federation and think that

anything they cannot control must be suppressed! They see any-

one different than themselves as an enemy!"

The strong face tightened. "But who is it that seeks domi-

nation over the Four Lands and its people? Who drives the Elves

from the Wesdand, enslaves the Dwarves in the East, besieges

the Trolls in the North, and claims all of the Four Lands as its

own? Why is it, do you think, that the Four Lands begin to

wither and die? Who causes that? You have seen the poor crea-

tures who live in the Pit. Shadowen, you think them, don't you?

Well, they are-but their condition is brought about by then-

keepers. They are men like you and me. The Federation locks

them away because they show evidence of possessing magic and

are thought dangerous. They become what they are thought to

be. They are starved of the life the magic could feed them and

they grow mad! That child on Toffer Ridge-what happened to

her that caused her to become what she is? She was starved of

the magic she needed, of the use of it, and of everything that

would have kept her sane. She was driven into exile. Valeman,

it is the Federation that causes disruption in the Four Lands with

its foolish, blind decrees and its crushing rule! It is the Shad-

owen who have a chance to set things right!

"As for Allanon, he is first and always a Druid with a Druid's

mind and ways. What he seeks is known only to him and likely

to remain that way. But you are well advised to be cautious of

accepting too readily what he tells you."

He spoke with such conviction that for the first time Par

Ohmsford began to doubt. What if indeed the shade of Allanon

had lied? Wasn't it true that the Druids had always played games

with those from whom they wanted something? Walker had

warned him that this was so, that it was a mistake to accept what

Allanon was telling them. Something in what Rimmer Dall was

saying seemed to whisper that it was true in this instance as

well. It was possible, he thought in despair, that he had been

misled completely.

The tall, cloaked form before him straightened. "You belong

with us. Par Ohmsford," he said quietly.

Par shook his head quickly. "No."

"You are one of us, Valeman. You can deny it as long and as

loudly as you like, but the fact remains. We are the same, you

and I-possessors of the magic, successors to the Druids, keep-

ers of the trust." He paused, considering. "You still fear me,

don't you? A Shadowen. Even the name frightens you. It is the

unavoidable result of having accepted as truth the lies you have

been told. You think of me as an enemy rather than as kindred.''

Par said nothing.

"Let us see who lies and who tells the truth. There." He

pointed suddenly to the Sword.' 'Remove it from its stone, Vale-

man. It belongs to you; it is your bloodright as heir to the Elven

house of Shannara. Pick it up. Touch me with it. If I am the

black creature you have been warned against, then the Sword

will destroy me. If I am an evil that hides within a lie, the Sword

will reveal it. Take it in your hands, then. Use it."

Par remained motionless for a long moment, then bounded

up the steps to the block of red marble, seized the Sword of

Shannara in both hands, and pulled it forth. It slid free unhin-

dered, gleaming and smooth. He turned quickly and faced Rim-

mer Dall.

"Come close. Par," the other whispered. "Touch me."

Memories whirled madly in Par's mind, bits and pieces of the

songs he had sung, of the stories he had told. What he held now

was the Sword of Shannara, the Elven talisman of truth against

which no lie could stand.

He came down off the steps, the carved hilt with its burning

torch pressed into his palm, the blade held cautiously before

him. Rimmer Dall stood waiting. When Par was within striking

distance, he stretched out the blade of the talisman and laid it

firmly against the other's body.

Nothing happened.

Keeping his eyes riveted on the other, he held the blade steady

and wUled that the truth be revealed. StiU nothing happened.

Par waited for as long as he could stand it, then lowered the

blade in despair and stepped away.

"Now you know. There is no lie about me," Rimmer Dall

said. "The lie is in what you have been told."

Par found that he was shaking. "But why would Allanon lie?

What purpose could that possibly serve?"

"Think for a moment on what you have been asked to do."

The big man was relaxed, his voice calm and reassuring. "You

have been asked to bring back the Druids, to restore to them

their talismans, to seek our destruction. The Druids want to

regain what was lost to them, the power of life and magic. Is

that any different. Par, than what the Warlock Lord sought to

do ten centuries ago?"

"But you hunted us!"

"To talk to you, to explain."

"You imprisoned my parents!"

"I kept them safe from harm. The Federation knew of you

and would have used them to find you, if I hadn't gone to them

first."

Par caught his breath, his arguments momentarily exhausted.

Was what he was being told true? Shades, was everything the

lie that Rimmer Dall claimed it to be? He could not believe it,

yet he could not bring himself to disbelieve i?«ither. His con-

fusion wrapped him like a blanket and left him feeling small

and vulnerable.

"I have to think," he said wearily.

"Then come with me and do so," Rimmer Dall responded

at once. "Come with me and we shall talk more of this. You

have many questions that require answers, and I can give them

to you. There is much you need to know about how the magic

can be used. Come, Valeman. Put aside your fears and misgiv-

ings. No harm shall come to you-never to one whose magic is

so promising."

He spoke reassuringly, compellingly, and for an instant Par

was almost persuaded. It would have been so easy to agree. He

was tired, and he wanted this odyssey to end. It would be com-

forting to have someone to talk to about the frustrations of pos-

sessing the magic. Rimmer Dall would surely know, having

experienced them himself. As much as he hated to admit it, he

no longer felt threatened by the man. There seemed to be no

reason to deny what he was asking.

But he did nevertheless. He did without really understanding

why. "No," he said quietly.

"Think of what we can share if you come with me," the

other persisted. "We have so much in common! Surely you have

longed to talk of your magic, the magic you have been forced

to conceal. There has never been anyone for you to do that with

before me. I can feel the need in you; I can sense it! Come with

me! Valeman, you have ..."

"No."

Par stepped away. Something ugly whispered suddenly in his

mind, some memory that did not yet have a face, but whose

voice he clearly recognized.

Rimmer Dall watched him, his craggy features gone suddenly

hard. "This is foolish, Valeman."

"I am leaving," Par said quietly, tense now, back on his

guard. What was it that bothered him so? "And I am taking the

Sword."

The black-cloaked form became another shadow in the half-

light. "Stay, Valeman. There are dark secrets kept from you,

things that would be better learned from me. Stay and hear

them."

Par edged toward the passageway that had brought him in.

"The door is directly behind you," Rimmer Dall said sud-

denly, his voice sharp. "There are no passageways, no stairs.

That was all illusion, my magic invoked to closet you long

enough so that we might talk. But if you leave now, something

precious will be destroyed. Truth waits for you, Valeman-and

there is horror in its face. You cannot withstand it. Stay, and

listen to me! You need me!"

Par shook his head. "You sounded for a moment, Rimmer

Dall, like those others, those Shadowen who look nothing like

you outwardly, yet speak with your need. Like them, you would

possess me."

Rimmer Dall stood silently before him, not moving, simply

watching as he backed away. The light the First Seeker had

produced faded, and the chamber slid rapidly into darkness.

Par Ohmsford grasped the Sword of Shannara in both hands

and bolted for freedom.

Rimmer Dall had been right about the passageways and stairs.

There were none. It was all illusion, a magic Par should have

recognized at once. He burst from the blackness of the vault

directly into the gray half-light of the Pit. The damp and mist

closed about him instantly. He blinked and whirled about,

searching.

Coil.

Where was Coil?

He stripped the cloak from his back and wrapped it hurriedly

about the Sword of Shannara. Allanon had said he would need

it-if Allanon was still to be believed. At the moment, he didn't

know. But the Sword should be cared for; it must have purpose.

Unless it had lost its magic. Could it have lost its magic?

"Par."

The Valeman jumped, startled by the voice. It was right be-

hind him, so close that it might have been a whisper in his ear

if not for the harshness of its sound. He turned.

And there was Coil.

Or what had once been Coil.

His brother's face was barely recognizable, ravaged by some

inner torment that he could only begin to imagine, a twisting

that had distorted the familiar features and left them slack and

lifeless. His body was misshapen as well, all pulled out of joint

and hunched over, as if the bones had been rearranged. There

were marks on his skin, tears and lesions, and the eyes burned

with a fever he recognized immediately.

"They took me," Coil whispered despairingly. "They made

me. Please, Par, I need you. Hug me? Please?"

Par cried out, howling as if he would never stop, willing the

thing before him to go away, to disappear from his sight and

mind. Chills shook him, and the emptiness that opened inside

threatened to collapse him completely.

"Coil!" he sobbed.

His brother stumbled and jerked toward him, arms out-

stretched. Rimmer Dall's warning whispered in Par's ear-the

truth, the truth, the horror of it! Coil was a Shadowen, had

somehow become one, a creature like the others in the Pit that

Rimmer Dall claimed the Federation had destroyed! How? Par

had been gone only minutes, it seemed. What had been done to

his brother?

He stood there, stunned and shaking, as the thing before him

caught hold of him with its fingers, then with its arms, enfolding

him, whispering all the time, "hug me, hug me," as if it were

a litany that would set it free. Par wished he were dead, that he

had never been born, that he could somehow disappear from the

earth and leave all that was happening behind. He wished a

million impossible things-anything that could save him. The

Sword of Shannara dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he

felt as if everything he had known and believed in had in a single

instant been betrayed.

Coil's hands began to rip at him.

"Coil, no!" he screamed.

Then something happened deep inside, something that he

struggled against for only an instant's time before it overpow-

ered him. A burning surged within his chest and spread outward

through his body like a fire out of control. It was the magic-

not the magic of the wishsong, the magic of harmless images

and pretended things, but the other. It was the magic that had

belonged once to the Elfstones, the magic that Allanon had

given to Shea Ohmsford all those years ago, that had seeded

itself in Wil Ohmsford and passed through generations of his

family to him, changing, evolving, a constant mystery. It was

alive in him, a magic greater than the wishsong, hard and un-

yielding.

It rushed through him and exploded forth. He screamed to

Coil to let go of him, to get away, but his brother did not seem

to hear. Coil, a ruined creature, a caricature of the blood and

flesh human Par had loved, was consumed with his own inner

madness, the Shadowen that he had become needing only to

feed. The magic took him, enveloped him, and in an instant

turned him to ash.

Par watched in horror as his brother disintegrated before his

eyes. Stunned, speechless, he collapsed to his knees, feeling his

own life disappear with Coil's.

Then other hands were reaching for him, grappling with him,

pulling him down. A whirl of twisted, ravaged faces and bodies

pressed into him. The Shadowen of the Pit had come for him as

well. There were scores of them, their hands grasping for him,

their fingers ripping and tearing as if to shred him. He felt him-

self coming apart, breaking beneath the weight of their bodies.

And then the magic returned, exploding forth once more, and

they were flung away like deadwood.

The magic took form this time, an unbidden thought brought

to life. It coalesced in his hands, a jagged shard of blue fire, the

flames as cool and hard as iron. He did not understand it yet,

did not comprehend its source or being-yet he understood in-

stinctively its purpose. Power radiated through him. Crying out

in fury he swung his newfound weapon in a deadly arc, cutting

through the creatures about him as if they were made of paper.

They collapsed instantly, their voices unintelligible and remote

as they died. He lost himself in the haze of his killing, striking

out like a madman, giving sweet release to the fury and despair

that had been born with the death of his brother.

The death he had caused!

The Shadowen fell back from him, those he did not destroy,

staggering and shambling like stringed puppets. Bellowing at

them still, gripping the shard of magic fire in one hand, Par

reached down and snatched up the fallen Sword of Shannara.

He felt it bum him, searing his hand, the pain harsh and

shocking.

Instantly his own magic flared and died. He jerked back in

surprise, tried to invoke it anew and found he could not. The

Shadowen started for him at once. He hesitated, then ran. Down

the line of bridge rubble he raced, tripping and sliding on the

dampened earth, gasping in rage and frustration. He could not

tell how close the creatures of the Pit were to him. He ran with-

out looking back, desperate to escape, fleeing as much from the

horror of what had befallen him as the Shadowen in pursuit.

He was almost to the wall of the cliff when he heard Damson

call. He ran for her, his mind shriveled so that he could think of

nothing but the need to get free. The Sword of Shannara was

clutched tightly to his chest, the burning gone now, just a simple

blade wrapped within his muddied cloak. He went down,

sprawling on his face, sobbing. He heard Damson again, calling

out, and he shouted back in answer.

Then she had him in her arms, hauling him back to his feet,

pulling him away, asking, "Par, Par, what's wrong with you?

Par, what's happened?"

And he, replying in gasps and sobs, "He's dead. Damson!

Coil's dead! I've killed him!"

The door into the cliff wall stood open ahead, a black aperture

with a small, furry, wide-eyed creature framed in the opening.

With Damson supporting him, he stumbled through and heard

the door slam shut behind him.

Then everything and everyone disappeared in the white sound

of his scream.

XXXIII

It was raining in the Dragon's Teeth, a cold, gray, insistent

drizzle that masked me skyline from horizon to horizon.

Morgan Leah stood at the edge of a trailside precipice and

stared out from beneath the hood of his cloak. South, the foot-

hills appeared as low, rolling shadows against the haze. The

Mermidon could not be seen at all. The worid beyond where he

stood was a vague and distant place, and he had an unpleasant

sense of not being able to fit back into it again.

He blinked away the flurry of drops that blew into his eyes,

shielding himself with his hands. His reddish hair was plastered

against his forehead, and his face was cold. Beneath his sodden

clothing, his body was scraped and sore. He shivered, listening

to the sounds around him. The wind whipped across the cliffs

and down through the trees, its howl rising momentarily above

the thunder that rumbled far to the north. Flood streams cas-

caded through the rocks behind him, rushing and splashing, the

water building on itself as it tumbled downward into mist.

It was a day for rethinking one's life, Morgan decided grimly.

It was a day for beginning anew.

Padishar Creel came up behind him, a cloaked, bulky form.

Rain streaked his hard face, and his clothing, like Morgan's,

was soaked through.

"Time to be going?" he asked quietly.

Morgan nodded.

"Are you ready, lad?"

"Yes."

Padishar looked away into me rain and sighed. "It's not turned

out as we expected, has it?'' he said quietly. "Not a bit of it.''

Morgan thought a minute, then replied, "I don't know, Pad-

ishar. Maybe it has."

Under Padishar's guidance, the outlaws had emerged from

the tunnels below the Jut early that morning and made their way

east and north into the mountains. The trails they followed were

narrow and steep and made dangerously slick by the rain, but

Padishar felt it was safer to travel them than to try to slip through

the Kennon Pass, which would surely be watched. The weather,

bad as it was, was more help than hindrance. The rain washed

away their footprints, erasing any trace of where they had been

or where they were going. They had seen nothing of the Fed-

eration army since their flight began. Any pursuit was either

bogged down or confused. The Jut might be lost, but the outlaws

had escaped to fight another day.

It was now midaftemoon, and the ragtag band had worked

its way to a point somewhere above the juncture of the Menni-

don where it branched south to the Rainbow Lake and east to

the Rabb Plains. On a bluff where the mountain trails diverged

in all directions, they had paused to rest before parting company.

The Trolls would turn north for the Chamals and home. The

outlaws would regroup at Firerim Reach, another of their re-

doubts. Padishar would return to Tyrsis in search of Damson

and the missing Valemen. Morgan would go east to Culhaven

and keep his promise to Steff. In four weeks' time, they would

all meet again at Jannisson Pass. Hopefully by then the Troll

army would be fully mobilized and the Movement would have

consolidated its splintered groups. It would be time to begin

mapping out a specific strategy for use in the continuing struggle

against the Federation.

If any of them were still alive to do the mapping, Morgan

thought dismally. He wasn't convinced any longer that they

would be. What had happened with Teel had left him angry and

doubting. He knew now how easy it was for the Shadowen-

and therefore their Federation allies-to infiltrate those who

stood against them. Anyone could be the enemy; there was no

way to tell. Betrayal could come from any quarter and likely

would. What were they to do to protect themselves when they

could never be certain whom to trust?

It was bothering Padishar as well, Morgan knew-though the

outlaw chief would be the last to admit it. Morgan had been

watching him closely since their escape, and the big man was

seeing ghosts at every turn.

But, then, so was he.

He felt a dark resignation chill him as if seeking to turn him

to ice. It might be best for both of them to be alone for a while.

"Will it be safe for you to try going back to Tyrsis so soon?''

he asked abruptly, wanting to make some sort of conversation,

to hear the other's voice, but unable to think of anything better

to say.

Padishar shrugged. "As safe as it ever is for me. I'll be dis-

guised in any case." He looked over, dipping his head briefly

against a gust of wind and rain. "Don't be worrying, High-

lander. The Valemen will be all right. I'll make certain of it."

"It bothers me that I'm not going with you." Morgan could

not keep the bitterness from his voice. "I was the one who

talked Par and Coil into coming here in the first place-or at

least I had a lot to do with it. I abandoned them once already in

Tyrsis, and here I am abandoning them again.'' He shook his

head wearily. "But I don't know what else I can do. I have to

do what Steff asked of me. I can't just ignore ..."

What he was going to say caught sharply in his throat as the

memory of his dying friend flashed through his mind and the

pain of his loss returned, sharp and poignant. He thought mo-

mentarily that there might be tears, but there weren't. Perhaps

he had cried them all out.

Padishar reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "High-

lander, you must keep your promise. You owe him that. When

it's finished, come back. The Valemen and I will be waiting,

and we'll all begin again."

Morgan nodded, still unable to speak. He tasted the rain on

his lips and licked it away.

Padishar's strong face bent close, blocking out everything else

for just an instant. "We do what we must in this struggle, Mor-

gan Leah. All of us. We are free-bom as the rally cry says-

Men, Dwarves, Trolls, all of us. There is no separate war to

fight; it's a war that we all share. So you go to Culhaven and

help those who need it there, and I'll go to Tyrsis and do the

same. But we won't forget about each other, will we?"

Morgan shook his head. "No, we won't, Padishar."

The big man stepped back. "Well, then. Take this." He

handed Morgan his ring with the hawk emblem. "When you

need to find me again, show this to Matty Roh at the Whistle-

down in Varfleet. I'll see to it that she knows the way to where

I'll be. Don't worry. It served the purpose once; it will serve it

twice. Now, be on your way. And good luck to you."

He extended his hand and Morgan took it with a firm grasp.

"Luck to you as well, Padishar."

Padishar Creel laughed. "Always, lad. Always."

He walked back across the bluff to a grove of towering fir

where the outlaws and Trolls waited. Everyone who could came

to their feet. Words of parting were spoken, distant and faint

through the rain. Chandos was hugging Padishar, others were

clapping him on the back, a few from their stretchers lifted their

hands for him to take.

Even after all that's happened, he's still the only leader they

want, Morgan thought in admiration. -

He watched the Trolls begin to move north into the rocks, the

huge, lumbering figures quickly becoming indistinguishable

from the landscape through which they passed.

Padishar was looking at him now. He lifted his arm and waved

in farewell.

He turned east into the foothills. The rain lashed at him, and

he kept his head bent low to protect his face. His eyes focused

on the path before him. When he thought to look back again, to

see those he had fought beside and traveled with one final time,

they had disappeared.

It occurred to him then that he said nothing to Padishar about

the magic that still lingered in the broken Sword of Leah, the

magic that had saved both their lives. He had never told the ornei

how he had defeated Teel, how it was that he had managed to

overcome the Shadowen. There had been no time to talk of it

He supposed that there had been no real reason. It was some-

thing he didn't yet fully understand. Why there was still magic

in the blade, he didn't know. Why he had been able to summon

it, he wasn't certain. He had thought it all used up before. Was

it all used up now? Or was there enough left to save him one

more time if the need should arise?

He found himself wondering how long it would be before he

had to find out.

Moving cautiously down the mountainside, he faded away

into the rain.

Par Ohmsford drifted.

He did not sleep, for in sleeping he would dream and the

dreams haunted him. Nor did he wake, for in waking he would

find the reality that he was so desperate to escape.

He simply drifted, half in and half out of any recognizable

existence, tucked somewhere back in the gray in-between

what is and what isn't, where his mind could not focus and hi

memories remained scattered, where he was warm and secure

from the past and future both, curled up deep inside. There was

a madness upon him, he knew. But the madness was welcome,

and he let it claim him without a struggle. It made him disori-

ented and distorted his perceptions and his thoughts. It gave him

shelter. It cloaked him in a shroud of nonbeing that kept every-

thing walled away-and that was what he needed.

Yet even walls have chinks and cracks that let through the

light, and so it was with his madness. He sensed things-

whispers of life from the world he was trying so hard to hide

from. He felt the blankets that wrapped him and the bed on

which he lay. He saw candles burning softly through a liquid

haze, pinpricks of yellow brightness like islands on a dark sea.

Strange beasts looked down at him from cabinets, shelves,

boxes, and dressers, and their faces were formed of cloth and

fur with button eyes and sewn noses, with ears that drooped and

tipped, and with studied, watchful poses that never changed. He

listened as words were spoken, floating through the air as motes

of dust on streamers from the sun.

"He's very sick, lovely Damson," he heard one voice say.

And the other replied, "He's protecting himself, Mole."

Damson and Mole. He knew who they were, although he

couldn't quite place them. He knew as well that they were talk-

ing about him. He didn't mind. What they were saying didn't

make any difference.

Sometimes he saw their faces through the chinks and cracks.

The Mole was a creature with round, furry features and

large, questioning eyes who stood above him, looking thought-

ful. Sometimes he brought the strange beasts to sit close by. He

looked very much the same as the beasts. Par thought. He called

them by name. He spoke with them. But the beasts never an-

swered back.

The girl fed him sometimes. Damson. She spooned soup into

his mouth and made him drink, and he did so without argument.

There was something perplexing about her, something that fas-

cinated him, and he tried talking to her once or twice before

giving up. Whatever it was he wished to say refused to show

itself. The words ran away and hid. His thoughts faded. He

watched her face fade with them.

She kept coming back, though. She sat beside him and held

his hand. He could feel it from where he hid inside himself. She

spoke softly, touched his face with her fingers, let him feel her

presence even when she was doing nothing. It was her presence

more than anything that kept him from drifting away altogether.

He would have liked it better if she had let him go. He thought

that it would happen that way eventually, that he would drift far

enough that everything would disappear. But she prevented that,

and, while it frustrated and even angered him at times, it also

interested him. Why was she doing this? Was she anxious to

keep him with her, or did she simply want to be taken along?

He began to listen more intently when she spoke. Her words

seemed to grow clearer.           /

"It wasn't your fault," was what she told him most often.

She told him that over and over. and for the longest time he

didn't know why.

"That creature was no longer Coil." She told him that, too.

"You had to destroy it."

She said these things, and once in a while he thought he

almost understood. But fierce, dark shadows cloaked his

understanding, and he was quick to hide from them.

But one day she spoke the words and he understood imme-

diately. The drifting stopped, the walls broke apart, and every-

thing rushed in with the cold fury of a winter ice storm. He

began screaming, and he could not seem to stop. The memories

returned, sweeping aside everything he had so carefully con-

structed to keep them out, and his rage and anguish were bound-

less. He screamed, and the Mole shrank from him, the strange

beasts tumbled from his bedside, he could see the candles flick-

ering through the tears he cried, and the shadows danced with

glee.

It was the girl who saved him. She fought past the rage and

anguish, ignored the screams, and held him to her. She held

him as if the drifting might begin anew, as if he were in danger

of being swept away completely, and she refused to let go. When

his screams finally stopped, he found that he was holding her

back.

He slept then, a deep and dreamless sleep that submerged

him completely and let him rest. The madness was gone when

he awoke, the drifting ended, and the gray half-sleep washed

away. He knew himself again; he knew his surroundings and

the faces of Damson Rhee and the Mole as they passed beside

him. They bathed him and gave him fresh clothes, fed him and

let him sleep some more. They did not speak to him. Perhaps

they understood that he could not yet respond.

When he woke this time, the memories from which he had

hidden surfaced in the forefront of his mind like creatures seek-

ing air. They were no longer so loathsome to look upon, though

they made him sad and confused and left him feeling empty. He

faced them one by one, and allowed them to speak. When they

had done so, he took their words and framed them in windows

of light that revealed them clearly.

What they meant, he decided, was that the worid had been

turned upside down.

The Sword of Shannara lay on the bed beside him. He wasn't

sure if it had been there all along or if Damson had placed it

there after he had come back to himself. What he did know was

that it was useless. It was supposed to provide a means to destroy

the Shadowen, and it had been totally ineffective against Rim-

mer Dall. He had risked everything to gain the Sword, and it

appeared that the risk had been pointless. He still did not pos-

sess the talisman he had been promised.

Of lies and truth there were more than enough and no way to

separate one from the other. Rimmer Dall was lying surely-he

could sense that much. But he had also spoken the truth. Al-

lanon had spoken the troth-but he had been lying as well.

Neither of them was entirely what he pretended to be. Nothing

was completely as either portrayed it. Even he might be some-

thing other than what he believed, his magic the two-edged sword

about which his uncle Walker had always warned him.

But the harshest and most bitter of the memories he faced

was of poor, dead Coll. His brother had been changed into a

Shadowen while trying to protect him, made a creature of the

Pit, and Par had killed him for it. He hadn't meant to, certainly

hadn't wanted to, but the magic had come forth unbidden and

destroyed him. Probably there hadn't been anything he could

have done to stop it, but such rationalization offered little in the

way of solace or forgiveness. Coil's death was his fault. His

brother had come on this journey because of him. He had gone

down into the Pit because of him. Everything he had done had

been because of Par.

Because Coil loved him.

He thought suddenly of their meeting with the shade of Al-

lanon where so much had been entrusted to all of the Ohmsfords

but Coll. Had Allanon known then that Coil was going to die?

Was that why no mention had been made of him, why no charge

had been given to him?

The possibility enraged Par.

His brother's face hovered in the air before him, changing,

running through the gamut of moods he remembered so well.

He could hear Coil's voice, the nuances of its rough inten-

sity, the mix of its tones. He replayed in his mind all the adven-

tares they had shared while growing up, the times they had gone

against their parents' wishes, the places they had traveled to and

seen, the people they had met and of whom they had talked. He

retraced the events of the past few weeks, beginning with their

flight from Varfleet. Much of it was tinged with his own sense

of guilt, his need to assign himself blame. But most of it was

free of everything but the wish to remember what his brother

Coil had been like.

Coil, who was dead.

He lay for hours thinking of it, holding up the fact of it to the

light of his understanding, in the silence of his thoughts, trying

to find a way to make it real. It wasn't real, though-not yet. It

was too awful to be real, and the pain and despair were too

intense to be given release. Some part of him refused to admit

that Coil was gone. He knew it was so, and yet he could not

banish entirely that small, hopelessly absurd denial. In the end,

he gave up trying.

His world compressed. He ate and he rested. He spoke spar-

ingly with Damson. He lay in the Mole's dark underground lair

amid the refuse of the upper world, himself a discard, only a

little more alive than the toy animals that kept watch over him.

Yet all the while his mind was at work. Eventually he would

grow strong again, he promised himself. When he did, someone

would answer for what had been done to Coll.

XXXIV

The prisoner came awake, easing out of the drug-in-

duced sleep that had kept him paralyzed almost from

the moment he was taken. He lay on a sleeping mat

in a darkened room. The ropes that had bound his hands and

feet had been removed, and the cloths with which he had been

gagged and blindfolded were gone. He was free to move about.

He sat up slowly, fighting to overcome a sudden rush of diz-

ziness. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he was able to make

out the shape and dimensions of his jail. The room was large,

more than twenty feet square. There was the mat, a wooden

bench, a small table, and two chairs pushed into it. There was

a window with metal shutters and a metal door. Both were

closed.

He reached out experimentally and touched the wall. It was

constructed of stone blocks and mortar. It would take a lot of

digging to get through.

The dizziness passed finally, and he rose to his feet. There

was a tray with bread and water on the table, and he sat down

and ate the bread and drank the water. There was no reason not

to; if they had wanted him dead, he would be so by now. He

retained faint impressions of the journey that had brought him

there-the sounds of the wagon in which he rode and the horses

that pulled it, the low voices of the men, the rough grasp of the

hands that held him when he was being fed and bedded, and the

ache that he felt whenever he was awake long enough to feel

anything.

He could still taste the bitterness of the drugs they had forced

down his throat, the mix of crushed herbs and medicines that

had burned through him and left him unconscious, drifting in a

world of dreams that lacked any semblance to reality.

He finished his meal and came back to his feet. Where had

they brought him, he wondered?

Taking his time, for he was still very weak, he made his way

over to the shuttered window. The shutters did not fit tightly,

and there were cracks in me fittings. Cautiously, he peered out.

He was a long way up. The summer sunlight brightened a

countryside of forests and grassy knqlls that stretched away to

the edge of a huge lake that shimmered like liquid silver. Birds

flew across the lake, soaring and diving, their calls ringing out

in me stillness. High overhead, the faint traces of a vast, brightly

colored rainbow canopied the lake from shoreline to shoreline.

The prisoner caught his breath in surprise. It was me Rainbow

Lake.

He shifted his gaze hurriedly to me outer walls of his prison.

He could just catch a glimpse of mem as the window well opened

up and dropped away.

They were formed of black granite.

This time his revelation stunned him. For a moment, he could

not believe it. He was inside Southwatch.

Inside.

But who were his jailors-the Federation, the Shadowen, or

someone else altogether? And why Southwatch? Why was he

here? Why was he even still alive for that matter?

His frustration overcame him for a moment, and he lowered

his head against the window ledge and closed his eyes. So many

questions once again. It seemed that the questions would never

end.

What had become of Par?

Coil Ohmsford straightened, and his eyes slipped open. He

pressed his face back against the shutters, peered into the distant

countryside, and wondered what fate his captors had planned

for him.

That night Cogline dreamed. He lay in the shelter of the forest

trees that ringed the barren heights on which ancient Paranor

had once stood, tossing beneath the thin covering of his robes,

beset by visions that chilled him more surely man any night

wind. When he came awake, it was with a start. He was shaking

with fear.

He had dreamed that the Shannara children were all dead.

For a moment he was convinced that it must be so. Then fear

gave way to nervous irritation and that in turn to anger. He

realized that what he had experienced was more probably a pre-

monition of what might be than a vision of what was.

Steadying himself, he built a small fire, let it bum awhile to

warm him, then took a pinch of silver powder from a pouch at

his waist and dropped it into the flames. Smoke rose, filling the

air before him with images that shimmered with iridescent light.

He waited, letting them play themselves out, watching them

closely until they had faded away.

Then he grunted in satisfaction, kicked out the fire, rolled

himself back into his robes, and lay down again. The images

told him only a lime, but a little was all he needed to know. He

was reassured. The dream was only a dream. The Shannara

children lived. There were dangers that threatened them, of

course-just as there had been from the beginning. He had

sensed them in the images, monstrous and frightening, dark

wraiths of possibility.

But that was as it must be.

The old man closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. There

was nothing to be done about it this night.

Everything, he repeated, was as it must be.

Then he slept.

Here ends Book One of The Heritage of Shannara. Book

Two, The Druid of Shannara, will reveal more of Cogline, who

calls himself a failed Druid, and of the troubles of the children

of Shannara.