I

Busk settled down about the Four Lands, a slow graying
of light, a gradual lengthening of shadows. The swelter
of the late summer's day began to fade as the sun's red
fireball sank into the west and the hot, stale air cooled. The
hush that comes with day's end stilled the earth, and leaves
and grass shivered with expectation at the coming of night.

At the mouth of the Mermidon where it emptied into the
Rainbow Lake, Southwatch rose blackly, impenetrable and
voiceless. The wind brushed the waters of the lake and river,
yet did not approach the obelisk, as if anxious to hurry on to
some place mere inviting. The air shimmered about the dark
tower, heat radiating from its stone in waves, forming spectral
images that darted and flew. A solitary hunter at the water's
edge glanced up apprehensively as he passed and continued
swiftly on.

Within, the Shadowen went about their tasks in ghostly si-
lence, cowled and faceless and filled with purpose.

Rimmer Dall stood at a window looking out on the darken-
ing countryside, watching the color fade from the earth as the
night crept stealthily out of the east to gather in its own.

The night, our mother, our comfort.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rigid
within his dark robes, cowl pulled back from his rawboned,
red-bearded face. He looked hard and empty of feeling, and
had he cared he would have been pleased. But it had been a
long time since his appearance had mattered to the First
Seeker—a long time since he had bothered even to wonder.
2

2                            The Talismans of Shannara

His outside was of no consequence; he could be anything he
chose. What burned within mattered. That gave him life.

His eyes glittered as he looked beyond what he was seeing
to what one day would be.
To what was promised.

He shifted slightly, alone with his thoughts in the tower's si-
lence. The others did not exist for him, wraiths without sub-
stance. Below, deep within the bowels of the tower, he could
hear the sounds of the magic at work, the deep hum of its
breathing, the rumble of its heart. He listened for it without
thinking now, a habit that brought reassurance to his troubled
mind. The power was theirs, brought from the ether into sub-
stance, given shape and form, lent purpose. It was the gift of
the Shadowen, and it belonged to them alone.
Druids and others notwithstanding.
He tried a faint smile, but his mouth refused to put up with
it and it disappeared in the tight line of his lips. His gloved left
hand squirmed within the clasp of the bare fingers of his right.
Power for power, strength for strength. On his breast, the silver
wolf's-head insignia glittered.

Thrum, thrum, came the sound of the magic working down
below.

Rimmer Dall turned back into the grayness of the room—a
room that until recently had held Coil Ohmsford prisoner. Now
the Valeman was gone—escaped, he believed; but let go in fact
and made prisoner another way. Gone to find his brother. Par.
The one with the real magic.
The one who would be his.

The First Seeker moved away from the window and seated
himself at the bare wooden table, the weight of his big frame
causing the spindly chair to creak. His hands folded on the ta-
ble before him and his craggy face lowered.

All the Ohmsfords were back in the Pour Lands, all the sci-
ons of Shannara, returned from their quests. Walker Boh had
come back from Eldwist despite Pe Ell, the Black Elfstone re-
gained, its magic fathomed, Paranor brought back into the
world of men, and Walker himself become the first of the new
Druids. Wren Elessedil had come back from Morrowindl with
Arborlon and the Elves, the magic of the Elfstones discovered

The Talismans of Shannara                            3

anew, her own identity and heritage revealed. Two out of three
of Allanon's charges fulfilled. Two out of three steps taken.

Par's was to be the last, of course. Find the Sword of
Shannara. Find the Sword and it will reveal the truth.

Games played by old men and shades, Rimmer Dall mused.
Charges and quests, searches for truth. Well, he knew the truth
better than they, and the truth was that none of this mattered
because in the end the magic was all and the magic belonged
to the Shadowen.

It grated on him that despite his efforts to prevent it, both
the Elves and Paranor were back. Those he had sent to keep
the Shannara scions from succeeding had failed. The price
of their failure had been death, but that did little to assuage his
annoyance. Perhaps he should have been angry—perhaps even
a little worried. But Rimmer Dall was confident in his power,
certain of his control over events and time, assured that the fu-
ture was still his to determine. Though Teel and Pe EU had dis-
appointed him, there were others who would not.

Thrum, thrum, the magic whispered.

And so ...

Rimmer Dall's lips pursed. A little time was all that was
needed. A little time to let events he had already set in motion
follow their course, and then it would be too late for the Druid
dead and their schemes. Keep the Dark Uncle and the girl
apart. Don't let them share their knowledge. Don't let them
join forces.

Don't let them find the Valemen.

What was needed was a distraction, something that would
keep them otherwise occupied. Or better still, something that
would put an end to them. Armies, of course, to grind down
the Elves and the free-bom alike. Federation soldiers and
Shadowen Creepers and whatever else he could muster to
sweep these fools from his life. But something more, some-
thing special for the Shannara children with all their magics
and Druid charms.

He considered the matter for a long time, the gray twilight
changing to night about him. The moon rose in the east, a
scythe against the black, and the stars brightened into sharp
pinpricks of silver. Their glow penetrated the darkness where
the First Seeker sat and transformed his face into a skull.

4                            The Talismans of Shannara

Yes, he nodded finally.

The Dark Uncle was obsessed with his Druid heritage. Send
him something to play against that weakness, something that
would confuse and frustrate him. Send him the Four Horse-
men.

And the girl. Wren Elessedil had lost her protector and ad-
viser. Give her someone to fill that void. Give her one of his
own choosing, one who would soothe and comfort her, who
would ease her fears, then betray her and strip her of every-
thing.

The others were no serious threat—not even the leader of
the free-bom and the Highlander. They could do nothing with-
out the Ohmsford heirs. If the Dark Uncle was imprisoned in
his Keep and the Elf Queen's brief reign ended, the Druid
shade's carefully constructed plans would collapse about him.
Allanon would sink back into the Hadeshorn with the rest of
his ghost kin, consigned to the past where he belonged.

Yes, the others were insignificant.

But he would deal with them anyway.

And even if all his efforts failed, even if he could do noth-
ing more than chase them about, harry them as a dog would its
prey, still that would be sufficient if in the end Par Ohmsford's
soul fell to him. He needed only that to put an end to all of the
hopes of his enemies. Only that. It was a short walk to the
precipice, and the Valeman was already moving toward it. His
brother would be the staked goat that would bring him, that
would draw him like a wolf at hunt. Coil Ohmsford was deep
under the spell of the Mirrorshroud by now, a slave to the
magic from which the cloak was formed. He had stolen it to
disguise himself, never guessing that Rimmer Dall had in-
tended as much, never suspecting that it was a deadly snare to
turn him to the First Seeker's own grim purpose. Coil
Ohmsford would hunt his brother down and force a confronta-
tion. He would do so because the cloak would let him do noth-
ing less, settling a madness within him that only his brother's
death could assuage. Par would be forced to fight. And be-
cause he lacked the magic of the Sword of Shannara, because
his conventional weapons would not be enough to stop the
Shadowen-kind his brother had become, and because he would

The Talismans of Shannara                            5

be terrified that this was yet another trick, he would use the
wishsong's magic.

Perhaps he would kill his own brother, but this time kill him
in truth, and then discover—when it was too late to change
things back—what he had done.

And perhaps not. Perhaps he would let his brother escape—
and be led to his doom.

The First Seeker shrugged. Either way, the result would be
the same. Either way the Valeman was finished. Use of the
magic and the series of shocks that would surely result from
doing so would unbalance him. It would free the magic from
his control and let him become Rimmer Dall's tool. Rimmer
Dall was certain of it. He could be so because unlike the
Shannara scions and their mentor he understood the Elven
magic, his magic by blood and right. He understood what it
was and how it worked. He knew what Par did not—what was
happening to the wishsong, why it behaved as it did, how it
had slipped its leash to become a wild thing that hunted as it
chose.

Par was close. He was very close.

The danger of grappling with the beast is that you will be-
come it.

He was almost one of them.

Soon it would happen.

There was, of course, the possibility that the Valeman would
discover the truth about the Sword of Shannara before then.
Was the weapon he carried, the one Rimmer Dall had given up
so easily, the talisman he sought or a fake? Par Ohmsford still
didn't know. It was a calculated risk that he would not find
out. Yet even if he did, what good would it do him? Swords
were two-edged and could cut either way. The truth might do
Par more harm than good ...

Rimmer Dall rose and walked again to the window, a
shadow in the night's blackness, folded and wrapped against
the light. The Druids didn't understand; they never had.
Allanon was an anachronism before he had even become what
Bremen intended him to be. Druids—they used the magic like
fools played with fire: astounded at its possibilities, yet terri-
fied of its risks. No wonder the flames had burned them so of-
ten. But that did not prevent them from refusing their

6                            The Talismans of Shannara

mysterious gift. They were so quick to judge others who
sought to wield the power—the Shadowen foremost—to see
them as the enemy and destroy them.

As they had destroyed themselves.

But there was symmetry and meaning in the Shadowen vi-
sion of life, and the magic was no toy with which they played
but the heart of who and what they were, embraced, protected,
and worshipped. No half measures in which life's accessibility
was denied or self-serving cautions issued to assure that none
would share in the use. No admonitions or warnings. No
gamesplaying. The Shadowen simply were what the magic
would make them, and the magic when accepted so would
make them anything.

The tree-tips of the forests and the cliffs of the Runne were
dark humps against the flat, silver-laced surface of the Rain-
bow Lake. Rimmer Dall gazed out upon the world, and he saw
what the Druids had never been able to see.

That it belonged to those strong enough to take it, hold it,
and shape it. That it was meant to be used.

His eyes burned the color of blood.

It was ironic that the Ohmsfords had served the Druids for
so long, carrying out their charges, going on their quests, fol-
lowing their visions to truths that never were. The stories were
legend. Shea and Flick, Wil, Brin and Jair, and now Par. It had
all been for nothing. But here is where it would end. For Par
would serve the Shadowen and by doing so put an end forever
to the Ohmsford-Druid ties.

"Par. Par. Par."

Rimmer Dall whispered his name soothingly to the night. It
was a litany that filled his mind with visions of power that
nothing could withstand.

For a long time he stood at the window and allowed himself
to dream of the future.

Then abruptly he wheeled away and went down into the
tower's depths to feed.

II

The cellar beneath the gristmill was thick with shadows,
the faint streamers of light let through by gaps in the
floorboards disappearing rapidly into twilight. Chased
from his safe hole through the empty catacombs, pinned finally
against the blocked trapdoor through which he had thought to
escape. Par Ohmsford crouched like an animal brought to bay,
the Sword of Shannara clutched protectively before him as the
intruder who had harried him to this end stopped abruptly and
reached up to lower the cowl that hid his face.
"Lad," a familiar voice whispered. "It's me."
The cloak's hood was down about the other's shoulders,
and a dark head was laid bare. But still the shadows were too
great ...

The figure stepped forward tentatively, the hand with the
long knife lowering. "Par? "

The intruder's features were caught suddenly in a hazy wash
of gray light, and Par exhaled sharply.

"Padishar!" he exclaimed in relief. "Is it really you? "

The long knife disappeared back beneath the cloak, and the
other's laugh was low and unexpected. "In the flesh. Shades,
I thought I'd never find you! I've been searching for days, the
whole of Tyrsis end to end, every last hideaway, every burrow,
and each time only Federation and Shadowen Seekers wait-
ing!"

He came forward to the bottom of the stairs, smiling
broadly, arms outstretched. "Come here, lad. Let me see you."
Par lowered the Sword of Shannara and came down the

8                           The Talismans of Shannara

steps in weary gratitude. "I thought you were ... I was
afraid ..."

And then Padishar had his arms about him, embracing him,
clapping him on the back, and then lifting him off the floor as
if he were sackcloth.

"Par Ohmsford!" he greeted, setting the Valeman down fi-
nally, hands gripping his shoulders as he held him at arm's
length to study him. The familiar smile was bright and care-
less. He laughed again. "You look a wreck!"

Par grimaced. "You don't look so well-kept yourself." There
were scars from battle wounds on the big man's face and neck,
new since they had parted. Par shook his head, overwhelmed.
"I guess I knew you had escaped the Pit, but it's good seeing
you here to prove it."

"Hah, there's been a lot happen since then, Valeman, I can
tell you that!" Padishar's lank hair was tousled, and the skin
about his eyes was dark from lack of sleep. He glanced
about. "You're alone? I didn't expect that. Where's your
brother? Where's Damson? "

Par's smile faded. "Coil ..." he began and couldn't finish.
"Padishar, I can't..." His hands tightened about the Sword of
Shannara, as if by doing so he might retrieve the lifeline for
which he suddenly found need. "Damson went out this mom-
ing. She hasn't come back."
Padishar's eyes narrowed. "Out? Out where, lad? "
"Searching for a way to escape the city. Or in the absence
of that, another hiding place. The Federation have found us ev-
erywhere. But you know. You've seen them yourself. Padishar,
how long have you been looking for us? How did you manage
to find this place? "

The big hands fell away. "Luck, mostly. I tried all the places
I thought you might be, the newer ones, the ones Damson had
laid out for us during the previous year. This is an old one, five
years gone since it was prepared and not used in the last three.
I only remembered it after I'd given up on everything else."

He started suddenly. "Lad!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting
on the Sword in Par's hands. "Is that it? The Sword of
Shannara? Have you found it, then? How did you get it out of
the Pit? Where ... ?"

But suddenly there was a scuffling of boots on wooden steps

The Talismans of Shannara                            9

from the darkness behind, a clanking of weapons, and a raising
of voices. Padishar whirled. The sounds were unmistakable.
Armed men were descending the back stairs to the room Par
had just vacated, come through the same door that had brought
Padishar. Without slowing, they swept into the tunnels beyond,
guided by torches that smoked and sputtered brightly in the
near black.

Padishar wheeled back, grabbed Par's arm, and dragged him
towards the trapdoor. "Federation. I must have been followed.
Or they were watching the mill."

Par stumbled, trying to pull back. "Padishar, the door—"

"Patience, lad," the other cut him short, hauling him bodily
to the top of the stairs. "We'll be out before they reach us."

He slammed into the door and staggered back, a look of dis-
belief on his rough face.

"I tried to warn you," Par hissed, freeing himself, glancing
back toward the pursuit. The Sword of Shannara lifted menac-
ingly. "Is there another way out? "

Padishar's answer was to throw himself against the trapdoor
repeatedly, using all of his strength and size to batter through
it. The door refused to budge, and while some of its boards
cracked and splintered beneath the hammering they did not
give way.

"Shades!" the outlaw leader spit.

Federation soldiers emptied out of the passageway into the
room. A black-cloaked Seeker led them. They caught sight of
Padishar and Par frozen on the trapdoor steps and came for
them. Broadsword in one hand, long knife in the other,
Padishar wheeled back down the steps to meet the rush. The
first few to reach him were cut down instantly. The rest
slowed, turned wary, feinting and lunging cautiously, trying to
cripple him from the side. Par stood at his back, thrusting at
those who sought to do^ so. Slowly the two backed their way
up the stairs and out of reach so that their attackers were
forced to come at them head on.

It was a losing fight. There were twenty if there was one.
One good rush and it would be all over.

Par's head bumped sharply against the trapdoor. He turned
long enough to shove at it one final time. Still blocked. He felt
a well of despair open up inside. They were trapped.

10                           The Talismans of Shannara

He knew he would have to use the wishsong.

Below, Padishar launched himself at their attackers and
drove them back a dozen steps.

Par summoned the magic and felt the music rise to his lips,
strangely dark and bitter-tasting. It hadn't been the same since
his escape from the Pit. Nothing had. The Federation soldiers
rallied in a counterattack that forced Padishar back up the
stairs. Sweat gleamed on the outlaw's strong face.

Then abruptly something shifted above and the trapdoor
flew open. Par cried out to Padishar, and heedless of anything
else they rushed up the steps, through the opening, and into the
mill.

Damson Rhee was there, red hair flying out from her
cloaked form as she sped toward a gap in the sideboards of the
mill wall, calling for them to follow. Dark forms appeared sud-
denly to block her way, yelling for others. Damson wheeled
into them, quick as a cat. Fire sprang from her empty hand,
scattering into shards that flew into her attackers' faces. She
went spinning through them, the street magic flicking right and
left, clearing a path. Par and Padishar raced to follow, howling
like madmen. The soldiers tried in vain to regroup. None
reached Par. Fighting as if possessed, Padishar killed them
where they stood.

Then they were outside on the streets, breathing the humid
night air, sweat streaking their faces, breath hissing like steam.
Darkness had fallen in a twilight haze of grit and dust that
hung thickly in the narrow walled corridors. People ran
screaming as Federation soldiers appeared from all directions,
shouting and cursing, throwing aside any who stood in their
way.

Without a word. Damson charged down an alleyway, leading
Padishar and Par into a blackened tunnel stinking of garbage
and excrement. Pursuit was instant, but cumbersome. Damson
took them through a cross alley and into the side door of a tav-
ern. They pushed through the dimly lit interior, past men
hunched over tables and slumped in chairs, around kegs, and
past a serving bar, then out the front door.

A shabby, slat-board porch with a low-hanging roof
stretched away to either side. The street was deserted.

The Talismans of Shannara 11

"Damson, what kept you? " Par hissed at her as they ran.
"That trapdoor ..."

"My fault, Valeman," she snapped angrily. "I blocked the
door with some machinery to hide it. I thought it would be
safer for you. I was wrong. But I didn't bring the soldiers.
They must have found the place on their own. Or followed
Padishar." The big man started to speak, but she cut him short.
"Quick, now. They're coming."

And from out of the shadows in front and behind them, the
dark forms of Federation soldiers poured into the street. Dam-
son spun about, cut back toward the far row of buildings, and
took them down an alleyway so tight it was a close squeeze
just to pass through. Howls of rage chased after them.

"We have to get back to the Tyrsian Way!" she gasped
breathlessly.

They burst through an entry to a market, skidding on food
leavings, grappling with bins. A pair of high doors barred then-
way. Damson struggled futilely to free the latched crossbar,
and finally Padishar shattered it completely with a powerful
kick.

Soldiers met them as they burst free, swords drawn.
Padishar swept into them and sent them flying. Two went
down and did not move. The rest scattered.

Sudden movement to Par's left caused him to turn. A Seeker
rose up out of the night, wolf's head gleaming on his dark
cloak. Par sent the wishsong's magic into it in the form of a
monstrous serpent, and the Seeker tumbled back, shrieking.

Down the street they ran, cutting crosswise to a second
street and then a third. Par's stamina was being tested now, his
breathing so ragged it threatened to choke him, his throat dry
with dust and fear. He was still weak from his battle in the Pit,
not yet fully recovered from the damage caused by the magic's
use. He clutched the Sword of Shannara to his breast protec-
tively, the weight of it growing with every step.

They rounded a comer and paused in the lee of a stable
entry, listening to the tumult about them grow.

"They couldn't have followed me!" Padishar declared sud-
denly, spitting blood through cracked lips.

Damson shook her head. "I don't understand it, Padishar.

12                          The Talismans of Shannara

They've known all the safe holes, been there at each, waiting.
Even this one,"

The outlaw chief's eyes gleamed suddenly with recognition.
"I should have seen it earlier. It was that Shadowen, the one
who killed Hirehone, the one that pretended to be the Dwarf!"
Par's head jerked up. "Somehow he discovered our safe holes
and gave them all away, just as he did the Jut!"

"Wait! What Dwarf?" Par demanded in confusion.

But Damson was moving again, drawing the other two after,
charging down a walkway and through a square connecting
half-a-dozen cross streets. They pushed wearily on through the
heat and gloom, moving closer to the Tyrsian Way, to the city's
main street. Par's mind whirled with questions as he staggered
determinedly on. A Dwarf gave them away? Steff or Teel—or
someone else? He tried to spit the dryness from his throat.
What had happened at the Jut? And where, he wondered sud-
denly, was Morgan Leah?

A line of soldiers appeared suddenly to block the way
ahead. Damson quickly pushed Padishar and Par into the
building shadows. Crowded against the darkened wall, she
pulled their heads close.

"I found the Mole," she whispered hurriedly, glancing right
and left as new shouts rose. "He waits at the leatherworks on
Tyrsian Way to take us down into the tunnels and out of the
city."

"He escaped!" breathed Par.

"I told you he was resourceful." Damson coughed and
smiled. "But we have to reach him if he's to do us any good—
across the Tyrsian Way and down a short distance from those
soldiers. If we get separated, don't stop. Keep going."

Then before anyone could object, she was off again, darting
from their cover into an alleyway between shuttered stores.
Padishar managed a quick, angry objection, and then charged
after her. Par followed. They emerged from the alleyway into
the street beyond and turned toward the Tyrsian Way. Soldiers
appeared before them, just a handful, searching the night.
Padishar flew at them in fury, broadsword swinging with a
glint of wicked silver light. Damson took Par left past the
fighters. More soldiers appeared, and suddenly they were ev-
erywhere, surging from the dark in knots, milling about wildly.

The Talismans of Shannara                          13

The moon had gone behind a cloud bank, and the streetlamps
were unlit. It was so dark that it was impossible to tell friend
from foe. Damson and Par struggled through the melee, twist-
ing free of hands that sought to grab them, shoving away from
bodies that blocked their path. They heard Padishar's battle
cry, then a furious clash of blades.

Ahead, the night erupted suddenly in a brilliant orange flash
as something exploded at the center of the Way.

"The Mole!" Damson hissed.

They charged toward the light, a pillar of fire that flared into
the darkness with a whoosh. Bodies rushed past, going in every
direction. Par was spun about, and suddenly he was separated
from Damson. He turned back to find her and went down in
a tangle of arms and legs as a fleeing soldier collided with
him. The Valeman struggled up, calling her name frantically.
The Sword of Shannara reflected the orange fire as he turned
first one way and then the other, crying out.

Then Padishar had him, appearing out of nowhere to lift him
off his feet, sling him over one shoulder, and break for the
safety of the darkened buildings. Swords cut at them, but
Padishar was quick and strong, and no one was his match this
night. The leader of the free-bom launched himself through the
last of the milling Federation soldiers and onto the walkway
that ran the length of the buildings on the far side of the Way.
Down the walk he charged, leaping bins and kegs, kicking
aside benches, darting past the supporting posts of overhangs
and the debris of the workday.

The leatherworks sat silent and empty-seeming ahead.
Padishar reached it on a dead run and went through the door
as if it weren't there, blunt shoulder lowering to hammer the
portal completely off its hinges.

Inside, he swung Par down and wheeled about in fury.

There was no sign of Damson.

"Damson!" he howled.

Federation soldiers were closing on the leatherworks from
every direction.

Padishar's face was streaked red and black with blood and
dust. "Mole!" he cried out in desperation.

A furry face poked out of the shadows at the rear of the fac-

14                          The Talismans of Shannara

tory. "Over here," the Mole's calm voice advised. "Quickly,
please."

Par hesitated, still looking for Damson, but Padishar
snatched hold of his tunic and dragged him away. "No time,
lad!"

The Mole's bright eyes gleamed as they reached him, and
the inquisitive face lifted expectantly. "Lovely Damson ... ?"
he began, but Padishar quickly shook his head. The Mole
blinked, then swung away wordlessly. He took them through a
door leading to a series of storage rooms, then down a stairway
to a cellar. Along a wall that seemed sealed at every juncture,
he found a panel that released at a touch, and without a back-
ward glance he took them through.

They found themselves on a landing joined to a stairway
that ran down the city's sewers. The Mole was home again. He
trundled down into the dank, cool catacombs, the light barely
sufficient to enable Padishar and Par to follow. At the bottom
of the stairs he passed a sooty blackened torch to the outlaw
leader, who knelt wordlessly to light it.

"We should have gone back for her!" Par hissed at Padishar
in fury.

The other's battle-scarred face rose from the shadows, look-
ing as if it were chiseled from stone. The look he gave Par was
terrifying. "Be silent, Valeman, before I forget who you are."

He sparked a flint and produced a small flame at the pitch-
coated torch head, and the three started down into the sewer
tunnels. The Mole scurried steadily ahead through the smoky
gloom, picking his way with a practiced step, leading them
deeper beneath the city and away from its walls. The shouts of
pursuit had died completely, and Par supposed that even if the
Federation soldiers had been able to find the hidden entry, they
would have quickly lost their way in the tunnels. He realized
suddenly that he was still holding the Sword of Shannara and
after a moment's deliberation slipped it carefully back into its
sheath.

The minutes passed, and with every step they took Par de-
spaired of ever seeing Damson Rhee again. He was desperate
to help her, but the look on Padishar's face had convinced him
that for the moment at least he must hold his tongue. Certainly
Padishar must be as anxious for her as he was.

The Talismans of Shannara                           15

They crossed a stone walkway that bridged a sluggish flow
and passed into a tunnel whose ceiling was so low they were
forced to crouch almost to hands and knees. At its end, the
ceiling lifted again, and they navigated a confluence of tunnels
to a door. The Mole touched something that released a heavy
lock, and the door opened to admit them.

Inside they found a collection of ancient furniture and old
discards that if not the same ones the Mole had been in danger
of losing in his flight from the Federation a week ago were
certainly duplicates. The stuffed animals sat in an orderly row
on an old leather couch, button eyes staring blankly at them as
they entered.

The Mole crossed at once, cooing softly, "Brave Chalt,
sweet Everlind, my Westra, and little Lida." Other names were
murmured, too low to catch. "Hello, my children. Are you
well? " He kissed them one after the other and rearranged them
carefully. "No, no, the black things won't find you here, I
promise."

Padishar passed the torch he was carrying to Par, crossed to
a basin, and began splashing cold water on his sweat-encrusted
face. When he was finished, he remained standing there. His
hands braced on the table that held the basin, and his head
hung wearily.

"Mole, we have to find out what happened to Damson."

The Mole turned. "Lovely Damson? "

"She was right next to me," Par tried to explain, "and then
the soldiers got between us—"

"I know," Padishar interrupted, glancing up. "It wasn't your
fault. Wasn't anybody's. Maybe she even got away, but there
were so many ..." He exhaled sharply. "Mole, we have to
know if they have her."

The Mole blinked lazily and the sharp eyes gleamed. "These
tunnels go beneath the Federation prisons. Some go right into
the walls. I can look. And listen."

Padishar's gaze was steady. "The Gatehouse to the Pit as
well. Mole."

There was a long silence. Par went cold all over. Not Dam-
son. Not there.

"I want to go with him," he offered quietly.

"No." Padishar shook his head for emphasis. "The Mole

16                           The Talismans of Shannara

will travel quicker and more quietly." His eyes were filled with
despair as they found Par's own. "I want to go as much as you
do, lad. She is ..."

He hesitated to continue, and Par nodded. "She told me."

They stared at each other in silence.

The Mole crossed the room on cat's feet, squinting in the
glare of the light from the torch Par still held. "Wait here until
I come back," he directed.

And then he was gone.

Ill

^f t had been a long and arduous journey that brought Par

I Ohmsford from his now long-ago meeting at the
4w Hadeshom with the shade of Allanon to this present
place and time, and as he stood in the Mole's underground lair
staring at the ruins and discards of other people's lives he
could not help wondering how much it mirrored his own.

Damson.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened
to come. He could not face what losing her would cost. He
was only beginning to realize how much she meant to him.

"Par," Padishar spoke his name gently. "Come wash up, lad.
You're exhausted."

Par agreed. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He was
beaten down in every way possible, the strength drained from
him, the last of his hope shredded like paper under a knife.

He found candles set about and lit them off the torch before
extinguishing it. Then he moved to the basin and began to
wash, slowly, ritualistically, cleansing himself of grime and
sweat as if by doing so he was erasing all the bad things that
had befallen him in his search for the Sword of Shannara.

The Sword was still strapped to his back. He stopped halfway
through his bathing and removed it, setting it against an old bu-
reau with a cracked mirror. He stared at it as he might an en-
emy. The Sword of Shannara—or was it? He still didn't know.
His charge from Allanon had been to find the Sword, and
though once he had believed he had done so, now he was faced
with the possibility that he had failed. His charge had been all
but forgotten in the aftermath of Coil's death and the struggle to

27

18                          The Talismans of Shannara

stay alive in the catacombs of Tyrsis. He wondered how many
of Allanon's charges had been forgotten or ignored. He won-
dered if Walker or Wren had changed their minds.

He finished washing, dried himself, and turned to find
Padishar seated at a three-legged table whose missing limb had
been replaced by an upended crate. The leader of the free-bom
was eating bread and cheese and washing it down with ale. He
beckoned Par to a place that had been set for him, to a waiting
plate of food, and the Valeman walked over wordlessly, sat
down, and began to eat.

He was hungrier than he had thought he would be and con-
sumed the meal in minutes. All about him, the candles sput-
tered and flared in the near darkness like fireflies on a
moonless night. The silence was broken by the distant sound
of water dripping.

"How long have you known the Mole? " he asked Padishar,
not liking the empty feeling the quiet fostered within him.

Padishar pursed his lips. His face was scratched and cut so
badly that he looked like a badly formed puzzle. "About a year.
Damson took me to meet him one day in the park after nightfall.
I don't know how she met him." He glanced over at the stuffed
animals. "Peculiar fellow, but taken with her, sure enough."

Par nodded wordlessly.

Padishar leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak. 'Tell
me about the Sword, lad," he urged, moving the ale cup in front
of him, twisting it between his fingers. "Is it the real thing? "

Par smiled in spite of himself. "Good question, Padishar. I
wish I knew."

Then he told the leader of me free-bom what had befallen him
since they had struggled together to escape the Pit—how Dam-
son had found the Ohmsford brothers in the People's Park, how
they had met the Mole, how they had determined to go back
down into the Pit a final time to gain possession of the Sword,
how he had encountered Rimmer Dall within the vault and been
handed what was said to be the ancient talisman with no struggle
at all, how Coil had been lost, and finally how Damson and he
had been running and hiding throughout Tyrsis ever since.

What Par didn't tell Padishar was how Rimmer Dall had
warned him that, like the First Seeker, Par, too, was a
Shadowen. Because if it was the truth ...

The Talismans of Shannara

"I carry it, Padishar," he finished, dismissing the prospect,
gesturing instead toward the dusty blade where it leaned against
the bureau, "because I keep thinking that sooner or later I'll be
able to figure out whether or not it is real."

Padishar frowned darkly. "There's a trick being played here
somewhere. Rimmer Dall's no friend to anyone. Either the
blade is a fake or he has good reason to believe that you can't
make use of it."

If I'm a Shadowen ...

Par swallowed against his fear. "I know. And so far I can't.
I keep testing it, trying to invoke its magic, but nothing hap-
pens." He paused. "Only once, when I was in the Pit, after
Coil ... I picked up the Sword from where I had dropped it,
and the touch of it burned me like live coals. Just for a min-
ute." He was thinking it through again, remembering. "The
wishsong's magic was still live. I was still holding that fire
sword. Then the magic disappeared, and the Sword of
Shannara became cool to the touch again."

The big man nodded. "That's it, then, lad. Something about
the wishsong's magic interferes with use of the Sword of
Shannara. It makes some sense, doesn't it? Why not a clash of
magics? If it's so, Rimmer Dall could give you the Sword and
never have to worry one whit."

Par shook his head. "But how would he know it would
work that way? " He was thinking now that it was more likely
the First Seeker knew the Sword was useless to a Shadowen.
"And what about Allanon? Wouldn't he know as well? Why
would he send me in search of the Sword if I can't use it? "

Padishar had no answers to any of these questions, of
course, so for a moment the two simply stared at each other.
Then the big man said, "I'm sorry about your brother."

Par looked away momentarily, then back again. "It was
Damson who kept me from ..." He caught his breath sharply.
"Who helped me get past the pain when I thought it was too
much to bear." He smiled faintly, sadly at the other. "I love
her, Padishar. We have to get her back."

Padishar nodded. "If she's lost, lad. We don't know anything
for sure." His voice sounded uncertain, and his eyes were wor-
ried and distant.

20 The Talismans of Shannara

"Losing Coil is as much as I can stand." Par would not let
his gaze drop.

"I know. We'll see her safely back, I promise."

Padishar reached for the ale jug, poured a healthy measure
into his own cup, and, as an afterthought, added a small amount
to Par's. He drank deeply and set the cup down carefully. Par
saw that he had said as much as he wanted to on the matter.

"Tell me of Morgan," Par asked quietly.

"Ah, the Highlander." Padishar brightened immediately.
"Saved my life in the Pit after you and your brother escaped.
Saved it again—along with everyone else's—at the Jut. Bad
business, that."

And he proceeded to relate what had happened—how the
Sword of Leah had been shattered in their escape from the Pit
and its Shadowen, how the Federation had tracked them to the
Jut and laid siege, how the Creepers had come, how Morgan
had divined that Teel was a Shadowen, how the Highlander,
Steff, and he had tracked Teel deep into the caves behind the
Jut where Morgan had faced Teel alone and found just enough
of his broken Sword's magic to destroy her, how the free-born
had slipped away from the Federation trap, and how Morgan
had left them then to go back to Culhaven and the Dwarves so
that he might keep his promise to the dying Steff.

"I gave him my promise that I would go in search of you,"
Padishar concluded. "But I was forced to lie quiet at Firerim
Reach first while my broken arm mended. Six weeks. Still ten-
der, though I don't show it. We were supposed to meet Axhind
and his Rock Trolls at the Jannisson two weeks past, but I got
word to them to make it eight." He sighed. "So much time lost
and so little of it to lose. It's one step forward and two back.
Anyway, I finally healed enough to keep my end of the bargain
and come find you." He laughed wryly. "It wasn't easy. Every-
where I looked the Federation was waiting."

"Teel, then, you think? " Par asked.

The other nodded. "Had to be, lad. Killed Hirehone after
stealing his identity and his secrets. Hirehone was trusted; he
knew the safe holes. Teel—the Shadowen—must have gotten
that information from him, drained it from his mind." He spat.
"Black things! And Rimmer Dall would pretend to be your
friend! What lies!"

The Talismans of Shannara 21

Or worse, the truth. Par thought, but didn't say it. Par feared
that his affinity with the First Seeker, whatever its nature, let
Rimmer Dall glean the secrets he would otherwise keep
hidden—even those he was not immediately privy to, those
kept by his friends and companions.

It was a wild thought. Too wild to be believed. But then
much of what he had encountered these past few weeks was of
the same sort, wasn't it?

Better to believe that it was all Teel, he told himself.

"Anyway," Padishar was saying, "I've set guards to watch the
Reach ever since we settled there, because Hirehone knew of it
as well, and that means the Shadowen may know too. But so far
all's been quiet. A week hence we keep the meeting with the
Trolls, and if they agree to join we have an army to be reckoned
with, the beginning of a true resistance, the core of a fire that
will bum right through the Federation and set us free at last."

"At the Jannisson still? " Par asked, thinking of other things.

"We leave as soon as I return with you. And Damson," he
added quickly, firmly. "A week is time enough to do it all." He
didn't sound entirely sure.

"But Morgan's not come back yet? " Par pressed.

Padishar shook his head slowly. "Don't worry about your
friend, lad. He's tough as leather and swift as light. And deter-
mined. Wherever he is, whatever he's doing, he'll be fine.
We'll see him one day soon."

Oddly enough. Par was inclined to agree. If ever there was
someone who could find a way out of any mess, it was Mor-
gan Leah. He pictured his friend's clever eyes, his ready smile,
the hint of mischief in his voice, and found that he missed him
very much. Another of his journey's casualties, lost somewhere
along the way, stripped from him like excess baggage. Except
the analogy was wrong—his friends and his brother had given
their lives to keep him 'safe. All of them, at one time or an-
other. And what had he given them in return? What had he
done to justify such sacrifice?

What good had he accomplished?

His eyes fell once more upon the Sword of Shannara, trac-
ing the lines of the upraised hand with its burning torch. Truth.
The Sword of Shannara was a talisman for truth. And the truth

22 The Talismans of Shannara

he most needed to discover just now was whether this blade
for which so much had been given up was real.

How could he do that?

Across from him Padishar stretched and yawned. "Time to
get some rest. Par Ohmsford," he advised, rising. "We need
our strength for what lies ahead."

He moved to the couch on which the stuffed animals were
seated, gathered them up perfunctorily, and plopped them
down on a nearby chair. Turning back to the couch, he settled
himself comfortably on the worn leather cushions, boots hang-
ing off one end, head cradled in the crook of one arm. In mo-
ments he was snoring.

Par stayed awake for a time watching him, letting the dark
thoughts settle in his mind, keeping his resolve from scattering
like leaves in a wind storm. He was afraid, but the fear was
nothing new. It was the eroding of hope that unsettled him
most, the crumbling of his certainty that whatever happened he
would find a way to deal with it. He was beginning to wonder
if that was so anymore.

He rose finally and went to the chair where Padishar had
dumped the stuffed animals. Carefully he gathered them up—
Chalt, Lida, Westra, Everlind and the others—and carried them
to where the Sword of Shannara leaned up against the bureau.
One by one, he arranged them about the Sword, placing them
at watch—as if by doing so they might aid him in keeping the
demons from his sleep.

When he was finished, he walked to the back of the Mole's
lair, found some discarded cushions and old blankets, made
himself a pallet in a comer dominated by a collection of old
paintings, and lay down.

He was still listening to the sound of water dripping when
he finally drifted off to sleep.

When he woke again, he was alone. The couch where
Padishar had been sleeping was empty and the Mole's chambers
were silent. All of the candles were extinguished save for one.
Par blinked against the sharp pinprick of light, then peered
about into the gloom, wondering where Padishar had gone. He
rose, stretched, walked to the candle, used it to light the others,
and watched the darkness shrink to scattered shadows.

He had no idea how long he had slept; time lost all meaning

The Talismans of Shannara                           23

within these catacombs. He was hungry again, so he made
himself a meal from some bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, and
consumed it at the three-legged table. As he ate, he stared fix-
edly across the room at the Sword of Shannara, propped in the
comer, surrounded by the Mole's children.

Speak to me, he thought. Why won't you speak to me?

He finished eating, shoving the food in his mouth without
tasting it, drinking the ale without interest, his eyes and his
mind focused on the Sword. He pushed back from the table,
walked over to the blade, lifted it away from its resting place,
and carried it back to his chair. He balanced it on his knees for
a time, staring down at it. Then finally he pulled it free of its
scabbard and held it up before him, turning it this way and
that, letting the candlelight reflect off its polished surface.

His eyes glittered with frustration.

Talisman or trickster—which are you?

If the former, something was decidedly wrong between
them. He was the descendant of Shea Ohmsford and his Elven
blood was as good as that of his famous ancestor, he should
have been able to call up the power of the Sword with ease. If
it was the Sword in truth, of course. Otherwise ... He shook
his head angrily. No, this was the Sword of Shannara. It was.
He could feel it in his bones. Everything he knew of the
Sword, everything he had learned of it, all the songs he had
sung of it over the years, told him that this was it. Rimmer
Dall would not have given him an imitation; the First Seeker
was too eager that Par accept his guidance in the matter of his
magic to risk alienating him with a lie that would eventually
be discovered. Whatever else Rimmer Dall might be, he was
clever—far too clever to play such a simple game ...

Par left the thought unfinished, not as certain as he wanted
to be that he was right. Still, it felt right, his reasoning sound,
his sense of things balanced, Rimmer Dall wanted him to ac-
cept that he was a Shadowen. A Shadowen could not use the
Elven magic of the blade because ...

Because why?

The truth would destroy him, perhaps, and his own magic
would not allow it?

But when the Sword of Shannara had burned him in the Pit
after he had destroyed Coil and the Shadowen with him, hadn't

24                           The Talismans of Shannara

it been the blade's magic that had reacted to his rather than the
other way around? Which magic was resisting which?

He gritted his teeth, his hands clenching tightly about the
Sword's carved handle. The raised hand with its torch pressed
against his palm, the lines sharp and clear. What was the prob-
lem between them? Why couldn't he find the answer?

He shoved the blade back into its scabbard and sat unmoving
in the candle-lit silence, thinking. AUanon had given him the
charge to find the Sword of Shannara. Him, not Wren or Walker,
and they had Elven Shannara blood as well, didn't they?
AUanon had sent him. Familiar questions repeated themselves in
his mind. Wouldn't the Druid have known if such a charge was
pointless? Even as a shade, wouldn't he have been able to sense
that Par's magic was a danger, that Par himself was the enemy?

Unless Rimmer Dall was right and the Shadowen weren't the
enemy—the Druids were. Or perhaps they were all enemies of a
sort, combatants for control of the magic, Shadowen and Druid,
both fighting to fill that void that had been created at AUanon's
death, that vacuum left by the fading of the last real magic.

Was that possible?

Par's brow furrowed. He ran his fingers along the Sword's
pommel and down the bindings of the scabbard.

Why was the truth so difficult to discover?

He found himself wondering what had become of all the
others who had started out on the journey to the Hadeshom.
Steff and Teel were dead. Morgan was missing. Where was
Cogline? What had become of him after the meeting with
Allanon and the giving of the charges? Par found himself
wishing suddenly that he could speak with the old man about
the Sword. Surely Cogline would be able to make some sense
of all this. And what of Wren and that giant Rover? What of
Walker Boh? Had they changed their minds and gone on to
fulfill their charges as he had?

As he thought he had.

His eyes, staring into the space before him, lowered again to
the Sword. There was one thing more. Now that he had posses-
sion of the blade—perhaps—what was he supposed to do with
it? Giving AUanon the benefit of the doubt on who was good
and who was bad and whether Par was doing the right thing,
what purpose was the Sword of Shannara supposed to serve?

The Talismans of Shannara                           25

What truth was it supposed to reveal?

He was sick of questions without answers, of secrets being
kept from him, of lies and twisted half-truths that circled him
like scavengers waiting to feast. If he could break just a single
link of this chain of uncertainty and confusion that bound him,
if he could sever but a single tie ...

The door slipped open across the room, and Padishar ap-
peared through the opening. 'There you are," he announced
cheerfully. "Rested, I hope? "

Par nodded, the Sword still balanced on his knees. Padishar
glanced down at it as he crossed the room. Par let his grip
loosen. "What time is it? " he asked.

"Midday. The Mole hasn't come back. I went out because I
thought I might be able to leam something about Damson on
my own. Ask a few questions. Poke my nose in a few holes."
He shook his head. "It was a waste of time. If the Federation
has her, they're keeping it quiet."

He slumped down on the sofa, looking worn and discour-
aged, "If he isn't back by nightfall, I'll go out again."

Par leaned forward. "Not without me."

Padishar glanced at him and grunted. "I suppose not. Well,
Valeman, perhaps we can at least avoid another trip down into
the Pit ..."

He stopped, aware suddenly of what that implied, then
looked away uncomfortably. Par lifted the Sword of Shannara
from his knees and placed it next to him on the floor. "She
told me that you were her father, Padishar."

The big man stared at him wordlessly for a moment, then
smiled faintly. "Love seems to cause all sons of foolish talk."

He rose and walked to the table. "I'll have something to eat
now, I think." He wheeled about abruptly, and his voice was as
hard as stone. "Don't ever repeat what you just said. Not to
anyone. Ever."

He waited until Par nodded, then turned his attention to put-
ting together a meal. He ate from the same scraps of food as
the Valeman, adding a bit of dried beef he scavenged from a
food locker. Par watched him without comment, wondering
how long father and daughter had kept their secret, thinking
how hard it must have been for both of them. Padishar's chis-

26                           The Talismans of Shannara

eled features lowered into shadow as he ate, but his eyes glit-
tered like bits of white fire.

When he was finished, he faced Par once more. "She
promised—she swore—never to tell anyone."

Par looked down at his clasped hands. "She told me be-
cause we both needed to have some reason to trust the other.
We were sharing secrets to gain that trust. It was right before
we went down into the Pit that last time."

Padishar sighed. "If they find out who she is—"

"No," Par interrupted quickly. "We'll have her back before
then." He met the other's penetrating gaze. "We will,
Padishar."

Padishar Creel nodded. "We will, indeed. Par Ohmsford. We
will, indeed."

It was several hours later when the Mole appeared sound-
lessly through the entryway, sliding out of the dark Hke one of
its shadows, eyes blinking against the candlelight. His fur
stood on end, bristling from his worn clothes and giving him
the look of a prickly scrub. Wordlessly he moved to extinguish
several of the lights, leaving the larger part of his chambers
shrouded once more in the darkness with which he was com-
fortable. He scooted past to where his children sat clustered on
the floor, cooed softly to them for a moment, gathered them up
tenderly, and carried them back to the sofa.

He was still arranging them when Padishar's patience ran out.

"What did you find out? " the big man demanded heatedly.
'Tell us, if you think you can spare the time!"

The Mole shifted without turning. "She is a prisoner."

Par felt the blood drain from his face. He glanced quickly at
Padishar and found the big man on his feet, hands clenched.

"Where? " Padishar whispered.

The Mole took a moment to finish settling Chalt against a
cushion and then turned. "In the old Legion barracks at the
back of the inner wall. Lovely Damson is kept in the south
watchtower, all alone." He shuffled his feet. "It took me a long
time to find her."

Padishar came forward and knelt so that they were at eye
level. The scratches on his face were as red as fire. "Have
they ..." He groped for the words. "Is she all right? "

The Talismans of Shannara                           27

The Mole shook his head. "I could not reach her."
Par came forward as well. "You didn't see her? "
"No." The Mole blinked. "But she is there. I climbed
through the tower walls. She was just on the other side. I could
hear her breathe through the stone. She was sleeping."

The Valeman and the leader of the free-born exchanged a
quick glance. "How closely is she watched? " Padishar pressed.

The Mole brought his hands to his eyes and rubbed gently
with his knuckles. "Soldiers stand watch at. her door, at the
foot of the stairs leading up, at the gate leading in. They patrol
the halls and walkways. There are many." He blinked. "There
are Shadowen as well."

Padishar sagged back. "They know," he whispered harshly.
"No," Par disagreed. "Not yet." He waited for Padishar's
eyes to meet his own. "If they did, they wouldn't let her sleep.
They're not sure. They'll wait for Rimmer Dall—just as they
did before."

Padishar stared at him wordlessly for a moment, a glimmer
of hope showing on his rough features. "You might be right.
So we have to get her out before that happens."
"You and me," Par said quietly. "We both go."
The leader of the free-bom nodded, and an understanding
passed between them that was more profound than anything
words could have expressed. Padishar rose and they faced each
other in the gloom of the Mole's shabby chambers, resolve
hardening them against what most certainly lay ahead. Par
pushed aside the unanswered questions and the confusion over
the Sword of Shannara. He buried his doubts over the use of
his own magic. Where Damson was concerned, he would do
whatever it took to get her free. Nothing else mattered.

"We will need to get close to her," Padishar declared softly,
looking down at the Mole. "As close as we can without being
seen."

The Mole nodded solemnly. "I know a way."
The big man reached out to touch his shoulder. "You will
have to come with us."

"Lovely Damson is my best friend," the Mole said.
Padishar nodded and took his hand away. He turned to Par.
"We'll go after her now."

The man in the high castle was Walker Boh, and he
walked its parapets and battlements, its towers and
keeps, all of the corridors and walkways that defined its
boundaries like the wraith he had been and the outcast he felt.
Paranor, the castle of the Druids, was returned, come back into
the world of men, brought alive by Walker and the magic of
the Black Elfstone. Paranor stood as it had three hundred years
before, lifting out of the dark forest where wolves prowled and
moms the size of lance-points bristled protectively. It rose out
of the earth, set upon a bluff where it could be seen across
the whole of the valley it dominated, from the Kennon to the
Jannisson, from one ridgeline of the Dragon's Teeth to the
other, spires and walls and gates. As solid as the stone from
which it had been built more than a thousand years earlier, it
was the Keep of legends and folk tales made whole once more.

But shades. Walker Boh thought in his despair, what it had
cost!                                                    '

"It was waiting for me down in the tower well, the essence
of the Druid magic he had set at watch," Walker explained to
Cogline that first night, the night he had emerged from the
Keep with Allanon's presence at haunt within. "All those years
it had been waiting, his spirit or some part of that spirit, con-
cealed in the serpentine mist that had destroyed the Mord
Wraiths and their allies and sent Paranor out of the land of
men to wait for the time it would be summoned back again.
Allanon's shade had been waiting as well, it seems, there
within the waters of the Hadeshom, knowing that the need for
the Keep and its Druids would one day prove inexorable, that
28

The Talismans of Shannara                          29

the magic and the lore they wielded must be kept at hand
against the possibility that history's evolution would take a dif-
ferent path than the one he had prophesied."

Cogline listened and did not speak. He was still in awe of
what had happened, of whom Walker Boh had become. He
was afraid. For Walker was Walker still, but something more
as well. Allanon was there, become a part of him in the
transformation from man to Druid, in the rite of passage that
had taken place in the Keep's dark hold. Cogline had ventured,
in his spirit form, just long enough to pull Walker back from
the madness that threatened to engulf him before he could
come to grips with the change that was taking place. In those
few seconds Cogline had felt the beginnings of Walker's
change—and he had fled in horror.

"The Black Elfstone drew the mist into itself and thereby
into me," Walker whispered, the words a familiar repetition by
now, as if saying them would make them better understood.
His stark visage lowered into the cowl of his robe, a mask still
changing. "It brought Allanon within. It brought all of the Dru-
ids within—their history and lore and magic, their knowledge,
their secrets, all that they were. It spun them through me like
threads on a loom that weaves a new cloth, and I could feel
myself invaded and helpless to prevent it."

The face within the cowl swung slightly toward the old man.
"I have all of them inside me, Cogline. They have made a
home within me, determined that I should have their knowl-
edge and their power and that I should use it as they did. It
was Allanon's plan from the beginning—a descendant of Brin
to carry forth the Druid lineage, one that would be chosen
when the need arose, one who would serve and obey."

Iron fingers fastened suddenly on Cogline's shoulder and
made him wince. "Obey, old man! That is what they intend of
me, but not what they.shall have!" Walker Boh's words were
edged with bitterness. "I can feel them working about inside,
living things! I can sense their presence as they whisper then-
words and try to make me heed. But I am stronger than they
are, made so by the very process that they used to change me.
I survived the trial they set for me, and I will be what I
choose, be they living within my body and mind, be they
shades or memories of the past, be they what they will! If I

30 The Talismans of Shannara

must be this ... this thing they have made of me, I shall at
least give it my voice and my heart!"

So they walked, Cogline as cold as death listening to the tor-
mented Walker Boh, Walker as hot as the fires that had begun
to bum anew within the furnaces below Paranor's stone walls,
his fury made over into the strength that sustained him against
what was happening.

For the change continued even now as they walked the castle
corridors, the old man and the becoming Druid, shadowed by
the silent presence of Rumor the moor cat, as black-browed as
his masters. The change swirled through Walker like smoke in
the wind, stirred by the hands of the Druids gone, their spirits
alive within the one who would permit the magic to live again.
It came as knowledge revealed in bits and pieces and sometimes
in sharp bursts, knowledge gained and preserved through the
years, all that the Druids had discovered and shaped in their or-
der, the whole of what had sustained them through the years of
the Warlock Lord and the Skull Bearers, through the Demons
within the Forbidding, through the Ildatch and the Mord
Wraiths, through all the trials of dark evil set to challenge hu-
mankind. The magic revealed itself little by little, peeking forth
from the jumble of hands and eyes and whispered words that
roiled in Walker Boh's mind and gave him no peace.

He did not sleep at all for three days. He tried, exhausted to
the point of despair, but when he endeavored to let himself go,
to slip away into the comfort of the rest he so desperately
needed, some new facet of the change lurched alive and
brought him upright as if he were a puppet on strings, making
him aware of its need, of its presence, of its determination to
be heard. Each time he would fight it, not to prevent it from
being, for there was no sense in that, but to assure that it was
not accepted without question, that the knowledge was perused
and studied, that he recognized its face and was cautioned
thereby against blind use. The Druids were not his maker, he
reminded himself over and over again. The Druids had not
given him his life and should not be allowed to dictate his des-
tiny. He would do that. He would decide the nature of his life,
power of magic or no, and in doing so would be accountable
only to himself.

The Talismans of Snannara                          31

Cogline and Rumor stayed with him, as exhausted as he
was, but frightened for him and determined that he would not
be left alone to face what was happening. Cogline's was the
voice that Walker needed to hear now and again in response to
his own, a caution and reassurance to blunt his lamentations of
disgust. Rumor was the shaggy dark certainty that some things
did not change, a presence as solid and dependable as the com-
ing of day after night, the promise that there could be a waking
from even the worst of nightmares. Together they sustained
him in ways he could not begin to describe and that they in
turn could not begin to understand. It was enough that they
sensed that the bond was there.

Three days passed, then, before the change finally ran its
course and the transformation was made complete. All at once
the hands stopped molding, the eyes disappeared, and the
whispers faded. Within Walker Boh, everything suddenly went
still. He slept then and did not dream, and when he woke he
knew that while he was changed in ways he was only begin-
ning to discover, still he was in the deepest part of himself the
same person he had always been. He had preserved the heart
of the man who mistrusted the Druids and their magics, and
while the Druids now lived within him and would have then-
voice in the way he conducted his life, nevertheless they would
be ruled by beliefs that had preceded their coming and would
survive their stay. Walker rose in the solitude of his sleeping
chamber, alone in the darkness that the windowless room pro-
vided, at peace with himself for the first time he could remem-
ber, the long, terrible journey to fulfill the charge he had been
given ended, the ordeal of the transformation set for him fin-
ished at last. Much had come undone and more than a little
had been lost, but what mattered above all else was that he had
survived.

He went out then to Cogline and found him sitting close-by
with the moor cat curled at his feet, worry lines etched in his
aging face, uncertainty reflected in his eyes. He came up to the
old man and raised him to his feet as if he were a child—
grown impossibly strong with the change, made over by the
hands and eyes and voices until he was as ten men. He put his
good arm about the frail old body and held his mentor gently.

"I am well again," he whispered. "It is over and I am safe."

32                           The Talismans of Shannara

And the old man gripped him back and cried into his shoul-
der.

They talked then as they had of old, two men who had ex-
perienced more than their share of surprises in life, joined by
the common bond of the Druid magic and by the fates that had
brought them to this time and place. They spoke of Walker's
change, of the feelings it had generated, of the knowledge it
had brought, and of the needs it might fulfill. They were whole
again, flesh-and-blood men, and Paranor was returned. It was
the beginning of a new era in the world of the Four Lands, and
they were at the first moment in time that would determine
how that era evolved. Walker Boh was uncertain even now
how he was to wield the Druid magic—or even that he should.
There was the Shadowen threat to consider, but the nature and
extent of that threat remained a mystery. Walker had been
given the Druid lore, but not an insight into what he was ex-
pected to do with it—especially as regarded the Shadowen.

"My transformation has left me with certain insights that
weren't there before," Walker confided. "One is that the use of
Druid magic will prove necessary if the Shadowen threat is to
be ended. But whose insight is it—mine or Allanon's? Can I
trust it, I wonder? Is it a truth or a fiction? "

The old man shook his head. "I think you must discover that
for yourself. I think Allanon wants it that way. Hasn't it always
been left to the Ohmsfords to discover the truth of things on
their own? Gamesplaying, you once called it. But isn't it really
much more than that? Isn't it the nature of life? Experience
comes from doing, not from being told. Experiment and dis-
cover. Seek and find. It is not the machinations of the Druids
that compel us to do so; it is our need to know. It is, in the
end, the way we learn. I think it must be your way as well,
Walker."

What should be done first, they decided, was to find out
what had become of the other scions of Shannara—Par, Coil,
and Wren. Had they fulfilled the charges they had been given?
Where were they and what secrets had they uncovered in the
weeks that had passed since their meeting at the Hadeshom?

"Par will have found the Sword of Shannara or be searching
for it," Walker declared. They sat within the Druid study, the

The Talismans of Shannara                           33

Histories spread out before them, perused this time for partic-
ulars that Walker remembered from his previous readings and
now understood differently with the knowledge his transforma-
tion had wrought. "Par was driven in his quest. He was all iron
and determination. Whatever the rest of us chose to do, he
would not have given up."

"Nor Wren either, I think," the old man offered thoughtfully.
"There was as much iron in her, though it was not so appar-
ent." He met Walker's gaze boldly. "Allanon's shade sensed
what would drive each of you, and I think no one ever really
stood a chance of being able to walk away."

Walker leaned back in the chair that cushioned him, lean
face shadowed by lank dark hair and beard, the eyes so pene-
trating it seemed that nothing could hide from them. "From the
time of Shea Ohmsford, the Druids have made us their own,
haven't they?" he mused, cool and distant. "They found in us
something that could be shackled, and they have held us pris-
oner ever since. We are servants to their needs—and paladins
to the races."

Cogline felt the air in the room stir, a palpable response to
the flow of magic that rose from Walker's voice. He had
sensed it more than once since Walker had come out of the
Keep, a measure of the power bestowed on him. More Druid
than man, he was a manifestation of the dark arts and lore that
once, long ago, the old man had studied and rejected in favor
of forms of the old-world sciences. Opportunity lost, he
thought. But sanity gained. He wondered if Walker would find
peace in his own evolution.
"We are just men," he said cautiously.
And Walker replied, smiling, "We are just fools."
They talked late into the night, but Walker remained unde-
cided on a course of, action. Find the others of his family,
yes—but where to begin and how to go about it? Use of his
newfound magic was an obvious choice, but would that use
reveal him to the Shadowen? Did his enemies know what had
happened yet—that he had become a Druid and that Paranor
had been brought back? How strong was the Shadowen magic?
How far could it reach? He should not be too quick to test it,
he kept repeating. He was still learning about his own. He was

34                          The Talismans of Shannara

still discovering. He should not be hasty about what he chose
to do.

The debate wore on, and as it did so it began to dawn on
Walker that something was different between Cogline and him-
self. He thought at first that his reluctance to commit to a
course of action was simply indecision—even though that was
very unlike him. He soon realized it was something else alto-
gether. While they talked as they had of old, there was a dis-
tance between them that had never been there before, not even
when he had been angry with and mistrustful of the old man.
The relationship between them had changed. Walker was no
longer the student and Cogline the teacher. Walker's
transformation had left him with knowledge and power far su-
perior to Cogline's. Walker was no longer the Dark Uncle hid-
ing out in Darklin Reach. The days of living apart from the
races and forswearing his birthright were gone forever. Walker
Boh was committed to whom and what he had become—a
Druid, the only Druid, perhaps the single most powerful indi-
vidual alive. What he did could affect the lives of everyone.
Walker knew that. Knowing, he accepted that his decisions
must be his own and the making of them could never again be
shared, because no one, not even Cogline, should have to bear
the weight of such a terrible responsibility.

When they parted finally to sleep, exhausted anew from
their efforts. Walker found himself besieged by a mix of feel-
ings. He had grown so far beyond the man he had been that in
many ways he was barely recognizable. He was conscious of
the old man staring after him as he retreated down the hall to
his sleeping room and could not shake the sense that they were
drawing apart in more ways than one.

Cogline. The Druid-who-never-was made companion to the
Druid-who-would-be—what must he be feeling?

Walker didn't know. But he accepted reluctantly that from
this night forward things would never be the same between
them again.

He slept then, and his dreams wer^ tenuous and filled with
faces and voices he could not recognize. It was nearing dawn
when he woke, an urgency gripping him, whispering insidi-
ously at him, bringing him out of his sleep like a swimmer out

The Talismans of Shannara 35

of water, thrusting to the surface and drawing in huge gulps of
air. For a moment he was paralyzed by the suddenness of his
waking, frozen with uncertainty as his heart pounded within
his chest and his eyes and ears struggled to make sense of the
darkness surrounding him. At last he was able to move, swing-
ing his legs down off the bed, steadied by the feeling of the
solid stone beneath his feet. He rose, aware that he was still
wearing the dark robes in which he had fallen asleep, the
clothing he had been too tired to remove.

Something stirred just outside his door, a soft padding, a
rubbing against the ancient wood.

Rumor.

He went to the door and opened it. The big cat stood just
without, staring up at him. It circled away anxiously and came
back again, big head swinging up, eyes gleaming.

It wants me to follow, Walker thought. Something is wrong.

He wrapped himself in a heavy cloak and went out from his
sleeping chamber into the tomblike silence of the castle. Stone
walls muffled the sound of his feet as he hurried down the an-
cient corridors. Rumor went on ahead, sleek and dark in the
gloom, padding soundlessly through the shadows. Without
slowing, they passed the room in which Cogline slept. The
trouble did not lie there. The night faded about them as they
went, dawn rising out of the east in a shimmer of silver that
seeped through the castle windows in wintry, clouded light.
Walker barely noticed, his eyes fixed on the movement of the
moor cat as it slid through the overlapping shadows. His ears
strained to hear something, to catch a hint of what was wait-
ing. But the silence persisted, unbroken.

They climbed from the main hall to the battlement doors
and went out into the open air. The dawn was chill and empty-
feeling. Mist lay over the whole of the valley, climbing the
wall of the Dragpn's Teeth east and stretching west to the
Streleheim in a blanket that shrouded everything between.
Paranor lay wrapped within its upper folds, its high towers is-
lands thrusting out of a misty sea. The mist swirled and spun,
stirred by winds that came down off the mountains, and in the
weak light of the early dawn strange shapes and forms came
alive.

Rumor padded down the walkway, sniffing the air as he

36 The Talismans of Shannara

went, tail switching uneasily. Walker followed. They circled
the south parapet west without slowing, seeing nothing, hear-
ing nothing. They passed open stairwells and tower entryways,
ghosts at haunt.

On the west battlement. Rumor slowed suddenly. The hair
on the moor cat's neck bristled, and his dark muzzle wrinkled
in a snarl. Walker moved up beside him and quickly placed a
reassuring hand on the coarse hair of his back. Rumor was fac-
ing out now into the gloom. They stood just above the castle's
west gate.

Walker peered into the mist. He could sense it, too.

Something was out there.

The seconds slipped away, and nothing showed. Walker be-
gan to grow impatient. Perhaps he should go out for a look.

Then suddenly the mist drew back, seemed to pull away as
if in revulsion, and the riders appeared. There were four of
them, gaunt and spectral in the faint light. They came slowly,
purposefully, as gray as the gloom that had hidden their ap-
proach. Four riders atop their mounts, but none was human,
and the animals they rode were loathsome parodies, all scales
and claws and teeth. Pour riders, each markedly different from
the other, each with a mount that was a mirror of itself.

Walker Boh knew at once that they were Shadowen. He
knew as well that they had come for him.

Coolly, dispassionately, he studied them.

The first was tall and lean and cadaverous. Bones pressed
out against skin shrunk tight against it, the skeletal frame
hunched forward like a cat at hunt. The face was a skull in
which the jaw hung open slackly and the eyes stared out, too
wide and too blank to be seeing. It wore no clothes, and its na-
ked body was neither that of a man nor of a woman, but some-
thing in between. Its breath clouded the air before it, a vile
green mist.

The second lacked any semblance of identity. It was human-
shaped, but had no skin or bones. It was instead a raging cloud
of darkness, buzzing and shrieking within its form. The cloud
had the look of flies or mosquitoes trapped behind glass, gath-
ered so thick that they shut out the light. The wicked sounds
that issued from this rider seemed to warn that it hid within its
spectral form an evil too dreadful to imagine.

The Talismans of Shannara                           37

The third was more immediately recognizable. Armored
head to foot, it bristled with spikes and cutting edges and
weapons. It wore maces and knives, swords and battle-axes,
and carried a huge pike strung with skulls and finger bones
laced together in a chain. A helmet hid its face, but the eyes
that peered out through the visor slit were as red as fire.

The last rider was cloaked and hooded and as invisible as
the night. No face could be seen within the concealing cowl.
No hands showed to grip the reins of its sinewy mount. It rode
hunched forward like a very old man, all bent and gnarled, a
creature crippled by age and time. But there was no sense of
weakness about it, nothing to suggest that it was anything of
what it appeared. This rider rode steady and sure, and what
crippled it was neither time nor age but the weight of the bur-
den it bore for the lives it had taken.

Slung across its back was a scythe.

Walker Boh went cold with recognition. Far back in the
Druid Histories, recorded from the old world of Men, there
was mention of these four. He knew who they were, whom
they had been created to be. Now Shadowen had taken on their
guises, assumed the identities of the dark things of old.

His chest tightened. Four riders. The Pour Horsemen of the
legends, the slayers of mortal men come out of a time so dis-
tant it had been all but forgotten. But he had read the tales, he
repeated to himself, and he knew what they were.

Famine. Pestilence. War. Death.

Walker's hand lifted away from Rumor, and the cat began to
growl deep in his chest. Shadowea. Walker thought in a mix of
awe and fear, created to be something that never was, that was
only a manifestation of abstracts, of killing ways, come now to
destroy me.

He wondered anew at who and what the Shadowen were, at
the source of power, that would let them be anything they
chose. His transformation had given him no insight into this.
He was as ignorant of their origins now as he had been at the
start of things. Yes, they were as dark as the shade of Allanon
had forewarned. Yes, they were an evil that used magic as a
weapon to destroy. But who were they? Where had they come
from? How could they be destroyed?

Where could he find the answers to his questions?

38                           The Talismans of Shannara

He watched the Four Horsemen advance, settled atop their
lurching, writhing mounts, things that vaguely resembled
horses but were intended to be much more. Breath steamed on
the morning air like poisonous vapor. Claws scraped and
crunched on the rock. Heads lifted and muzzles drew back to
show hooked, yellowed teeth. Steadily, the Horsemen came on.

When they reached the gates, they stopped. They made no
move to pass through. They showed no interest in advancing.
In a line they faced the gate and waited. Walker waited with
them. The minutes passed and the light brightened slowly, the
gloom taking on a whiteness as the dawn neared.

Then at last the sun crested the mountains east, a faint glim-
mer above the dark peaks, and at the gates below, the rider
Famine suddenly advanced. When it was next to the barrier, it
lifted its skeletal hand and knocked. The sound was a dimly
heard, echoing, hollow thud—the shudder that life makes as it
departs the body for the final time. Walker cringed in spite of
himself, revolted by how it made him feel.

Famine backed away then, and one by one the Four Horse-
men turned right, spreading out in a thin line to circle the cas-
tle walls. Around they went, passing beneath Walker one by
one as he watched them return and disappear again, keeping
carefully apart in their movement so that there was always one
at each wall, one at each comer of the compass.

A siege. Walker realized. The knock was a challenge, and if
he did not come out to answer it, they intended to keep him
trapped within. Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen had discovered
that Paranor was back and that Walker had accepted the mantle
of Allanon. The Horsemen had been sent in response.

Walker folded his arms within his cloak. We 'II see who traps
whom, he thought darkly.

He stood looking down for a while longer on the apparitions
below, then went to wake Cogline.

v

The sewers beneath Tyrsis were dank and chill in a twi-
light dark that seeped along gutters and down grates
like spilled ink. Daylight had gone west, and the night
hovered in shadows that lengthened from buildings and walls,
a ghost come to life. Footsteps and voices faded homeward,
and the weariness of day's end was a sigh echoed by the hot
summer wind as it settled into pockets of still, suffocating heat
in the runnels of the city's streets and byways, an airless blan-
ket laid over the catacombs below.

Padishar Creel, Par Onmsford, and the Mole groped their
way slowly and steadily through those catacombs, three of the
shadows that grew out of night's coming, as silent as the dust
stirred by the boots passing in the streets above. They breathed
through their mouths, the sewer smells oppressive and rank
within the twisting conduits, the city's waste a sluggish flow at
the edges of their feet. At times they climbed iron ladders and
stone steps, at times they crawled through narrow tunnels, all
the while working their way outward from the city's center to-
ward its walls and the bluff face, the watchtower where Dam-
son Rhee was held prisoner, and the confrontation that waited.

"We will not return without her," Padishar had declared.
"Whatever proves necessary to free her, we will do. Once we
have her, we will not give her up again.

"Mole," he had whispered, kneeling before the strange little
fellow. "You will guide us in and, if possible, out again. But
you will not fight, do you understand? Keep yourself clear and
safe. Because, Mole, once we have freed Damson"—there was
no suggestion. Par noted, that they would not—"you alone will

39

40                           The Talismans of Shannara

know how to see her safely away again. Agreed? " And the
Mole had nodded solemnly.

"Par, yours is a harder task still," the leader of the free-born
had continued, turning next to the Valeman. "If we encounter
the Shadowen, you must use your magic to keep them from us.
The Highlander was able to do so with his sword when we
were trapped in the Pit. This time it will be up to you. I lack
any means to defend against these monsters. If we encounter
them, lad, don't hesitate."

Par had already decided that use of the wishsong in this en-
deavor was a foregone conclusion, so he was quick to give
Padishar his promise. What he could not promise—and what
he did not tell the other—was that he was no longer certain he
could control the magic. It had already proved unreliable, al-
ready shown that it could take on a life of its own, unleashing
power that might well consume him. But such fears as recog-
nition of this danger generated paled against his feelings for
Damson Rhee. Buried by the struggle they had shared to es-
cape the city and its hunters, and by the fact that he had felt
her safe with him, his feelings had surfaced instantly with the
report of her taking, and now they raged within him like a fire
unchecked. He loved her. Perhaps he had loved her from the
first, but certainly since she had held him together after Coil's
death. She was as much a' part of him as anything separate
could possibly be, and he could not stand the thought of losing
her. He would give anything to see her safe again. He would
give everything. If it meant risking the fury of a magic that
could change him irrevocably, that could even destroy him,
then so be it. If Rimmer Dall was right about who and what
he was, then there was nothing he could do to save himself in
any case. He would not shy from the dangers of the magic
where Damson's safety was at stake. He would do what he
must.

So they had set out, each determined that Damson was
worth losing everything, knowing the risk was such that every-
thing could well be lost. Now the sewers stretched away in
narrow, winding tunnels before them, the darkness closing fast
about the litde Ught that remained. Soon they would be forced
to use torchlight to see, and that would be especially dangerous
as they neared the city's walls. For there the dark things would

The Talismans of Shannara                           41

likely be at watch below ground as well as above, and torch-
light would be seen coming from a long way off.

They hurried on, the Mole's sharp eyes and steady senses
choosing their way unerringly, sorting out which paths were
safe, avoiding the ones that might impede them. As they went,
they could hear the sounds of the city above drifting down in
trickles and snatches, bits and pieces of a life as disconnected
from their own as the living from the dead. Par's thoughts
drifted. It felt somehow as if they were entombed within the
stone of the bluff on which Tyrsis had been built, specters at
haunt just out of sight of the people they had once been. It
seemed to the Valeman, on reflection, that he was indeed more
ghost than human, that in his flight from the Shadowen and the
other dangers encountered on this journey he had become
transformed in a way that he did not entirely understand and as
a result had been stripped of substance and left ethereal. He
moved now in a shadow existence, increasingly bereft of
friends and family, left trapped in a tangle of magics that were
causing him to disintegrate. There should have been a way to
save himself, he knew, but somehow he could not seem to dis-
cover what it was.

They reached a broad confluence of pipes and slowed be-
hind the Mole's cautious signal. Huddled close at the bottom of
a well from which a stone stairway climbed, they held their
last council.

"The stairway leads to a cellar within the inner wall," whis-
pered the Mole. His nose was damp and gleaming. "From
there we must climb to a hall, follow it to an entryway that
leads outside again, cross to another door, enter, and follow a
second hall to a hidden passageway that will take us up
through the watchtower to where Damson waits."

He looked frorr; Padishar to Par and back again, intent.

The big man nodded. "Federation guards? "

The Mole blinked. "Everywhere."

"Shadowen? "

"In the tower, somewhere."

Padishar gave Par a wry smile. "Somewhere. Very incisive."
He hunched his big shoulders. "All right. Remember what I
said, the both of you. Remember what you are to do—and not

42 The Talismans of Shannara

to do." He glanced at Par. "If I fall, you go on—if you can. If
not, get to Pirerim Reach and find help there. Promise me."

Par nodded, thinking as he did that the promise was a lie,
that he would never turn back, not until Damson was safe, no
matter what.

Padishar reached back over his shoulder and tightened the
straps that secured the broadsword to his back, then checked
the long knives and short sword strapped about his waist. The
handle of yet another long knife protruded from one boot. All
were carefully sheathed and wrapped in cloth to keep the metal
from rattling or reflecting light. Par wore only the Sword of
Shannara. The Mole carried no weapons at all.

Padishar looked up again. "All right, then. Let's go in."

In single file they climbed the stairs, crouching low against
me stone, easing their way toward the faint light that shone
above. A grate came into view, bars of iron that cast a web of
shadows down the steps and onto their bodies. There was si-
lence above, an empty, hollow nothingness.

On reaching the grate, the Mole paused to listen, his head
cocked in the manner of an animal at hunt—or at risk—then
reached up and with surprising strength lifted the grate away
almost soundlessly. Stepping from the well, he carried the grate
overhead as the other two climbed swiftly free, then set it care-
fully back in place.

They stood in a cellar that was one in a series of intercon-
nected rooms, all in a line that ran away to either side as far
as the eye could see. Stores were stacked everywhere, crates of
weapons, tools, clothes, and sundry goods, all carefully labeled
and piled back against the thick stone walls on wooden pallets.
Barrels were housed in an adjoining chamber, and barely vis-
ible through the gloom the rusting frames of old beds formed
a maze of metal bones. High on the walls, just below the cellar
ceiling and just above the ground without, a row of narrow,
barred windows let in thin streamers of dusk's fading light.

The Mole took them ahead through the maze of cellar
rooms, past the stacks of stores, and around the tangle of crates
to where a second set of stairs climbed to a heavy wooden
door. They went up the stairs cautiously, and Par felt the hairs
on the back of his neck prickle with the possibility that unseen

The Talismans of Shannara 43

eyes watched their every move. He peered left and right, over-
head and all about, but saw nothing.

At the door they stopped again while the Mole used a small
metal implement to spring the lock. In seconds they were
through, moving swiftly into the hallway beyond. They were
inside the citadel's inner wall now, the second line of defense
to the city and the location of the barracks that housed most of
the Federation garrison. The corridor was straight and narrow,
and riddled with doors and windows that might give them
away to anyone. But no one appeared in the moments it took
them to reach the entry the Mole sought, and they were
through another door almost before Par had time to take a
steadying breath.

Now they stood in a shadowed alcove that looked out across
the courtyard that lay between the inner and outer walls of the
city. Federation soldiers stood watch at gates and on ramparts,
dim shapes in the growing dark. Lights flickered from the win-
dows of the sleeping quarters and guardhouses and off the bat-
tlements and gates. Booted feet scraped in the stillness. Voices
rose in low murmurs. Somewhere, a whetstone was sharpening
metal. Par felt his stomach tighten. The sounds of activity were
all about.

They clung to the shadows of the alcove for long minutes,
listening and watching, waiting before trying to go on. Par
could hear Padishar's breathing as the big man hunched next to
him against the wall. His own breathing punctuated the rapid
beating of his heart. Stirrings of the wishsong's magic rose out
of the depths of his chest, down deep where emotions have
their beginnings, and he fought to keep it under control. He
found himself thinking again about what would happen when
he tried to use the magic. It was there, and he would use it—of
that he was certain. But whether it would obey him was an-
other matter entirely, and it occurred to him suddenly that if it
should indeed overwhelm him and cause him to become the
thing that Rimmer Dall had warned he must be, what was to
prevent him from turning on his friends?

Damson, he decided. Damson and what she meant to him
would keep the magic in hand.

Then the Mole was moving again, sliding away from the
darkened entry along the roughened stone of the great wall.

44                           The Talismans of Shannara

Padishar followed instantly, and Par found himself hurrying to
keep up almost before he knew what he was doing. They
inched swiftly through the blackness, shying when light from
the torches brightened their path in soft pools, trying to blend
into the stone, to think of themselves as invisible so that they
would in fact become so. Federation soldiers continued to
move all about, impossibly loud, uncomfortably close, and
each moment it seemed certain to Par that they must be dis-
covered.

But seconds later they were before another door, this one
unlocked, and then through it to the light beyond ...

A startled Federation soldier stood before them, pike held
casually in his hands as he prepared to go out on watch. His
mouth gaped open, and for a second he froze. His hesitation
cost him his life. Padishar was on him instantly. One hand
came up to cover his mouth. The blade of a long knife flashed
in the other and then disappeared. Par saw the soldier's eyes
widen in surprise. He saw the pain and then the emptiness. The
soldier slumped into Padishar's arms like a rag doll. The pike
fell away, and the quick hands of the Mole caught it before it
could strike the floor. In a hall of stone and old wood lit by
fire that flickered at the ends of pitch-coated torches fixed in
the mortared walls, the intruders stood breathless and unmov-
ing with the dead soldier clutched between them and listened
to the silence.

Then Padishar lifted the body in his arms, carried it back
into the shadows of a niche, and shoved it from view. Par
watched it happen as if from a great distance, removed some-
how from the event, as cold as the stone about him. He tried
not to look. He could still hear the sound the soldier made
when he died. He could still see the look in his eyes.

They went down the passageway swiftly, wary of other sol-
diers who might appear, listening for the silence to be dis-
turbed. But they met no one else, and almost before Par
realized it they were through a small, iron-bound door that was
barely visible even from within the shadowed niche in which
it was set.

The door closed behind them, and they stood in a blackness
as complete as moonless night. Par could smell wood and dust
and feel the roughness of boards beneath his feet. There was a

The Talismans of Shannara 45

moment's pause as the Mole rummaged about. Then a flint
struck—once, twice—and a candle's thin flame cast its small
glow. They were in a closet of some sort, barely six feet
square, crammed with odd supplies and debris. The Mole
moved things carefully aside, freeing a space at the back of the
cubicle, and then pushed against the wall. A section of it that
had been invisible to the naked eye came away in the form of
a small door swinging inward.

Quickly they moved through. A narrow space opened be-
tween walls of stone and wood shoring, so low-ceilinged that
Padishar was forced to crouch to avoid bumping his head. One
big hand came up guardedly. Par saw blood on the hand and
felt suddenly the nearness of his own death, as if it were some-
thing the dead soldier's eyes had foretold.

The Mole slid past him and began to lead them down
through the walls, edging past stone projections, iron nails, and
jagged wood splinters. Cobwebs brushed at their faces and
small rodents ran squeaking through the dark ahead. The can-
dle's flame was a dim glow against the black.

They began to climb, finding rungs hammered into the shor-
ing and steps cut in the rock, a mix of ladders and ramps that
wound up through the walls. They were in the tower now,
working their way toward its apex and Damson's prison. From
time to time they would hear voices, muffled and faint. It grew
steadily warmer and more airless, and Par began to sweat.
Their passageway became smaller and more difficult to navi-
gate, and Padishar was having trouble squeezing through.

Then abruptly the Mole stopped, frozen in place. The leader
of the free-born and the Valeman went still as well, crouched
in the near blackness, listening. There was only the silence to
be heard, but Par sensed something nevertheless—the feel of
something alive and moving, just through the walls, just on the
other side. Within him, the magic of the wishsong stirred like
a hungry cat, and its fire purred anxiously. Par closed his eyes
and concentrated on muting its sound.

What he sensed beyond the wall was one of the Shadowen.

He felt his breath catch in his throat as an image formed in
his mind of the black thing, a vision brought to life by his
magic. It stole along a corridor within the tower, hooded and
cloaked, fingers testing the air like tentacles in search of prey.

46                           The Talismans of Shannara

Could it sense them as well? Did it know they were there? The
magic rustled like a snake inside Par Ohmsford, coiling, tens-
ing, gathering force. Par muffled it and would not let go. Too
soon! It was too soon!

The air whispered in his ear as if it were alive. He gritted
his teeth and held on.

Then the Shadowen was gone, fading like a momentary
thought, dark and evil and full of hate. The wishsong's magic
cooled, easing down once again. Par felt some of the tautness
let go, and the muscles in his chest and stomach relaxed. He
was aware of Padishar looking at him, of the uneasiness mir-
rored on the other's face. Padishar reached back to grip his
shoulder questioningly. Par felt the iron in the other's fingers,
and stole some of its strength. He managed a quick, reassuring
nod.

They continued on, climbing still, edging ahead through the
gloom. Everywhere it was still, the small sounds of Federation
voices and boots gone completely. The night was a blanket of
silence in which every living thing seemed to have drifted off
to sleep. Deceptive, Par thought as he labored on. Dangerous.

A moment later they stopped again, this time at a stretch of
mortared stone wall framed by heavy timbers that buttressed
one end of a floor overhead. The Mole handed the candle to
Padishar and began to explore the stone with his fingers.
Something clicked beneath his careful touch, and a section of
the wall gave way. A seam of light appeared, faint and smoky.

The Mole turned back to Padishar. His voice was hushed.
'They keep her one flight down through the second door
somewhere." He hesitated. "I could show you."

"No," Padishar said at once. "Wait here. Wait for us to
come back."

The Mole studied him a moment and then nodded reluc-
tantly. "Second door," he repeated.

With both hands braced against it, he pushed the portal in
the wall all the way open. Padishar and Par Ohmsford stepped
cautiously through.

They stood on a landing in a stairwell where the steps both
climbed and descended. A door across from them was closed
and barred, the metal thick with rust. Torches rested in iron

The Talismans of Shannara 47

brackets hammered into the stone, their glow tracing the line of
the worn steps, their acrid smoke rising into the tower's gloom.

Everything was silent.

Behind them, the hidden door swung closed again.

Par glanced at Padishar. The big man was looking about
guardedly. There was renewed uneasiness in his eyes. He
shook his head at something unseen.

They began the descent, backs against the wall, ears strain-
ing to catch any threatening sounds. The stairs curled in ser-
pentine fashion along the wall, the patches of torchlight just
barely meeting at the turns. A hint of night sky was visible
now and again through the slits in the stone, high and beyond
reach from where they passed. Par's stomach was churning. He
thought he heard something on the steps above, a small scrap-
ing of boots, a rustle of clothing. He blinked and wiped the
sweat from his face. There was only silence.

They reached the next landing. There was a single door,
unguarded, unlocked. They opened it and passed through
easily. Par didn't like it If this was where Damson was being
kept, there should have been guards. He glanced again at
Padishar, but the big man was looking ahead, down a dimly lit
corridor that ran to the promised second door. They moved to
it swiftly, and as they did Par felt the magic of the wishsong
again stir suddenly to life. He gasped at the swiftness of its
coming, almost doubling over with the heat it generated, like
a furnace door being opened.

Something was wrong.

He grasped Padishar's arm. The big man turned, startled.
Par jerked about, sensing movement behind, a dark presence
... The Shadowen! They were—

And the door behind them flew open with a crash. Three
black-cloaked Seekers surged through, Shadowen forms
hunched and twisted within the concealing garb, weapons
glinting in the torchlight. Padishar's broadsword scraped free
of its scabbard. Par reached back for the Sword of Shannara,
then jerked his hands away as if from live coals. He would be
burned if he touched it! Burned, he knew!

"Padishar!" he gasped.

The big man wheeled toward the door behind them, but it,
too, swung wide, and two more of the black-cloaked monsters

48                           The Talismans of Shannara

appeared. Both ends of the corridor were blocked now, and Par
Ohmsford and Padishar Creel were trapped.

"The Mole!" Padishar swore, certain they had been be-
trayed.

But Par did not hear him. The Seekers rushed to seize them,
and the magic of the wishsong exploded in the sound of his
warning cry, filling the tower with fury. It enveloped him like
a whirlwind, pressing him back against an astonished Padishar.
He fought to contain it, but it overpowered him effortlessly.
Then it broke away in shards of white-hot fire that flew at the
Shadowen. The black figures threw up their arms, but the
wishsong's magic tore through them and they were turned to
ash. Par screamed, unable to help himself, and the wishsong
broke through the walls like a flood through a dam, shattering
mortared seams and blowing holes through the stone. Padishar
flinched away, then grabbed at Par in desperation and hauled
him bodily through the second door, slamming it shut behind
them.

Par dropped to his knees, the wishsong silent once more.

"\ ... I can't breathe!" he gasped.

Padishar yanked him to his feet. "Par! Shades, lad! What's
happening to you? What's wrong? "

Par shook his head in despair. The magic's evolution contin-
ued unchecked within him. Substantive again, not imaginary.
Brin's magic, not Jair's. A fire he could not control, smolder-
ing, waiting ...

His hands clasped the other's arms and his breath returned,
a cooling within that stilled the madness. "Find Damson!" he
hissed. "Maybe she's here, Padishar! Find her!"

There were shouts all about, the cries of Federation soldiers
rushing along the ramparts and into the watchtower. Padishar
grasped Par's tunic and dragged the Valeman after him as he
hurried along a hall studded with heavy wooden doors, all
locked and barred.

"Damson!" the big man called frantically.

Behind them, beyond the door through which they had fled,
Par thought he heard the whisper of Shadowen robes.

"They're coming!" he warned, feeling the heat of the
wishsong's magic beginning to build again.

"Damson!" Padishar Creel howled.

The Talismans of Shannara 49

There was a muffled reply from behind one of the doors.
Releasing Par, the leader of the free-bom rushed on, calling out
his daughter's name. The reply came again, and he skidded to
a stop. The broadsword rose and fell, hacking at one of the
doors. Shouts rose from a stairwell at the far end of the corri-
dor. Padishar hammered at the door with several jarring
strokes, then threw himself at what remained, his shoulder
lowered. The door flew off its hinges and Padishar disappeared
inside.

Par rushed to the opening and stopped. Padishar was back
on his feet, bloodied and dazed, and Damson Rhee was hug-
ging him, red hair dusty and tangled, her pale face smudged
with dirt. Her eyes were all fire as they swept up to find the
Valeman.

"Par," she breathed softly, and rushed to hold him.
The hallway behind was filled with the sound of armed
men. Par turned to meet the attack, but Padishar Creel was past
him in an instant and into the corridor. There was a chilling
clash of weapons.

"Par!" the big man called. "Take her and run!"
Without thinking. Par grabbed Damson's arm and pulled her
after him through the door. Padishar stood toe to toe with a
knot of Federation soldiers. More appeared in the stairwell be-
yond. The leader of the free-bom threw back the foremost by
sheer strength alone and spun about in fury.

"Drat you, boy—run! Now! Remember our agreement!"
Then the soldiers were on him again, and he was fighting
for his life. Two went down, then another, but there were more
to take their place. Too many. Par thought. Too many to stand
against. He felt his chest tighten. He must help his friend. But
that would mean using the wishsong's magic, the fire he could
not control. It would mean seeing those men ripped to pieces.
It would mean chancing that Padishar would be ripped to
pieces as well.

And he had given the big man his promise.
"Padishar," he heard Damson breathe in his ear and felt her
start toward the big man.

Instantly he had hold of her and was dragging her back the
way they had come, away from the fighting. He had made his
choice. "Par!" she screamed in anger, but he shook his head

50                           The Talismans of Shannara

no. They reached the closed door. Were there Shadowen be-
hind it? Par could not hear them; he could not hear anything
above the sounds of the battle behind him.

"We can't leave him!" Damson was screaming.
He pulled her close. "We have to." Before him, the wooden
door loomed, hiding what lay behind, forbidding and silent. He
braced himself, summoning the wishsong's magic because this
time there was no choice. The magic stirred, anxious.

Please, he thought, let me keep control of it just this once!
He flung open the door, ready to send the magic careening
down the corridor beyond, white-hot and deadly. Silence
greeted him. Moonlight flooded down through cracks in the
shattered stone. Debris littered the floor. The passage was
empty.

He cast a final look back at the embattled Padishar Creel, a
solitary barrier against the flood of Federation soldiers seeking
to break past. There was no hope for Padishar, he knew. It had
been a trap from the beginning. And the trap was about to
close.

Yet there was still time to save Damson.
As they had agreed they would, whatever the cost.
With Damson still clinging to his arm, he charged ahead into
the empty corridor, leaving Padishar Creel behind.

VI

They were through the stairwell door and back out on the
landing in seconds. A haze of sound and fury rose from
the corridor behind them, where Padishar held the Fed-
eration soldiers at bay.

Par wheeled back and kicked the tower door shut.

Which way?

From below, he could hear the thudding of boots and the
shouts of men as they ascended the stairs. They could not go
down.

"Let go of me!" Damson cried furiously, and yanked free of
him. Her green eyes were bright with tears and anger. "You
left him!"

Par was barely listening. They had to go up, back the way
they had come, back to where the Mole waited. Unless
Padishar had been right and the Mole had indeed betrayed
them. It was possible. The Mole might have been taken days
ago when the Federation had first found them in his lair. But,
no, if he had been taken then, he would not have helped them
escape when they had fled the gristmill; he would have let the
Federation have them and been done with the matter. But what
if he had been caught when he had gone in search of Damson
this last time—taken and subverted, made over into a Sha-
dowen?

Damson was tearing at him. "We have to go back. Par! He
needs us! He's my father!" Her teeth bared. "He came back for
you!"

Par wheeled on her, grasped her arms, and dragged her so
close that he could feel the heat of her breath on his face. "I'll

51

52                          The Talismans of Shannara

only say this once. I gave him my promise. Whatever else hap-
pened, you were to be gotten safely away. He's given himself
up for you. Damson, and it is not going to be for nothing!
Now, run!"

He spun her about and shoved her up the stairwell. They
raced up the steps, listening to the sounds of pursuit grow
closer. Par's face was grim with purpose. If the Mole had be-
trayed them, they were finished whichever way they ran. If he
had not, then their only chance was to find him.

They reached the next landing, and Par cast about in vain
for the hidden door. He could not remember where it was; he
hadn't paid that much attention when he had come through.
Now everything looked the same.

"Mole!" he shouted in desperation.

Immediately the wall split apart to his left, and the Mole's
furry face peered out. "Here! Here, lovely Damson!" he called
frantically.

They hurried through the opening, and the Mole pushed the
wall closed behind them. "Padishar? " he inquired anxiously,
and the way he spoke and the look that came into his damp
eyes suggested to Par for reasons he would never be able to
explain that no betrayal had taken place.

"They have him," the Valeman answered, forcing himself to
look directly at Damson. She turned aside instantly.

"Come away, then," the Mole urged, the candle in his hand
as he scurried ahead of them. "Hurry."

They went back down into the tower walls, winding and
twisting their way through the gloom, listening to the cries of
soldiers filter through the stone in a muffled cacophony. They
reached the closet and passed quickly into the hallway beyond.
Outside, soldiers ran past the barracks windows, headed for the
watchtower and the gates. Torchlight sparked and flared as it
was brought to bear against the darkness, and the sound of
bolts being thrown and crossbars being dropped into their
metal fitting was deafening. Pressed against the wall in a pool
of darkness, the Mole held his charges in place for a moment,
then beckoned them ahead. They ran in a crouch through the
empty corridor to the door that had brought them and pushed
through to the courtyard without.

Darkness had fallen, and the moon and stars were hidden by

The Talismans of Shannara                          53

clouds that hung low and sullen across the bluff. Fire cast its
smoky light through the gloom with little effect. Figures
charged about everywhere, but it was impossible to make out
their faces.

"This way!" the Mole whispered hoarsely.

They moved left along the wall, hurrying because everyone
else was hurrying as well. They slipped through the dark, just
three more bodies in the confusion, another three for which no
one had time or interest.

They were almost to the door leading back to the city's un-
derground when they were challenged. A shout brought them
about, and a dark figure came striding out of the gloom. For an
instant Par thought it was Padishar, miraculously escaped, but
then he saw the markings of a Federation captain on a dark
uniform. All three froze at his approach, uncertain what to do.
The captain reached them, his dark bearded face coming into
the light.

Then Damson stepped forward, smooth and relaxed, smiling
at him. A confused look appeared on his face. She gave him
an instant more, then hit him three times across the face with
the blade of her hand, the blows so quick that Par could barely
see them. She stepped into him, drew his arm across her shoul-
der, and threw him down. He wheezed and tried to cry out, but
a final blow to the throat silenced him for good.

Damson rose and pushed past Par to where the Mole was al-
ready disappearing through the door. Par remembered in that
instant how easily she had overcome him that night in the Peo-
ple's Park when he had believed her responsible for the Feder-
ation trap that had ensnared Padishar and the others. She might
have done so again in the watchtower, he realized. She could
have forced him to go back if she had wished. Why hadn't
she?

They were inside the inner wall again, hurrying back down
to the cellars that had brought them. The sounds without were
fading now, muffled behind the layers of stone block. They
reached the trapdoor and passed through, descending the steps
to the tunnels below. From there, they moved swiftly through
the gloom, away from the city's walls and back toward its cen-
ter. Soon they were deep within the sewers and everything was
silent.

54                           The Talismans of Shannara

"Let's ... let's just rest a moment," Par suggested finally,
out of breath from running, needing to think, to decide what to
do next.

"Here," the Mole offered, directing them to a platform that
served as a base for a ladder climbing to the streets at a con-
fluence of tunnels and pipes. Overhead, light shone dimly
through a grate. The streets were still and empty of life. "I will
go back and make certain we are not followed."

He disappeared into the dark, leaving them the candle. The
Valeman and the girl watched him go, then settled themselves
gingerly in place, backs to the wall, side by side with the can-
dle before them. Par felt drained. He stared at the darkness be-
yond the candle's flame, exhaustion spreading through him. He
could hear Damson breathing, could feel the heat of her body.

"You know what they'll do to him," she said finally. He
didn't respond, looking straight ahead. "They'll make him one
of them. They'll use him."

If they manage to take him alive. Par thought. And maybe
not even then. Rimmer Dall is unpredictable.

"Why didn't you make me go back for him? " he asked her.

There was a long silence before she spoke. "I would never
do that to you."

He didn't say anything for a moment, letting the import of
the words sink in. "I'm sorry about Padishar," he said finally.
"I didn't want to leave him either."

"I know," she said quietly.

She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that he looked over
at her to make certain he had heard her correctly. Her eyes met
his. "I know," she repeated. The pain in her voice was palpa-
ble. "It wasn't your fault. Padishar made you promise to save
me first. He would have made me promise as well if our po-
sitions had been reversed." She looked away again. "I was just
angry when I saw ..." She shook her head.

"Are you all right? "

She nodded wordlessly, and her eyes closed.

"Do they know who you are? "

She glanced over again. "No. Why would they? "

He took a deep breath. "The Mole. That was a trap back
there. Damson. They were waiting for us. They had some rea-
son to believe we would come for you. What better reason

The Talismans of Shannara                          55

than if they knew that you were Padishar Creel's daughter?
Padishar thinks the Mole gave us away."

There was new anger in her eyes. "Par, the Mole saved us!
Saved you, anyway. I was just unlucky. The Federation recog-
nized me from the streets, and they knew I had helped you es-
cape the gristmill." She hesitated. "That was a trap as well,
wasn't it? They knew ..." She paused again, uncertain of
where she was going.

"It could have been the Mole," Par pressed. "He could have
been taken when he came to look for you. Or sometime be-
fore."

"And helped us escape anyway? " she asked incredulously.
"Why? What would be the point? The Federation would have
had us all if he hadn't gotten us out of the watchtower."

"I know. I was thinking that, too." He shook his head. "But
they keep finding us. Damson. How do they do that? The
Shadowen seem to have an ear to every wall. It's insidious.
Sometimes it seems as if there isn't anyone left to trust."

Her smile was bitter. "There isn't. Par. Not anyone. Didn't
you realize that? There's only you and me. And can we even
trust each other? "

He stared at her in shock. A sadness came into her eyes, and
she reached out quickly, put her arms about him, and drew him
close.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he could feel her crying.

"I thought I might have lost you for good," he whispered
into her hair. He felt her nod slightly. "I'm so tired of all this.
I just want it to end."

They clung to each other in silence, and Par let himself drift
with the feel of her, closing his eyes, letting the weariness seep
away. He wished suddenly that he were back in the Vale, re-
turned home again to his family and his old life, that Coil were
alive, and that none of this had ever happened. He wished he
had it all to do over again. He would not be so eager to go in
search of Allanon. He would not be so quick to undertake his
search for the Sword of Shannara.

And he would not be tricked into believing that his magic
was a gift.

He thought then of how much a part of him the wishsong
had once been and how alien it seemed now. It had broken free

56                           The Talismans of Shannara

of his control again when he had called upon it in the watch-
tower. Despite his preparations, despite his efforts. Could he
even say, in fact, that he had summoned it—or had it simply
come on its own when it sensed those Shadowen? Surely it
had done as it chose in any case, lancing out like knives to cut
them apart. Par felt himself shudder at the memory. He would
never have wished for that. The magic had destroyed the black
things without thought, without compunction. His brow fur-
rowed. No, not the magic. Him. He had destroyed them. He
had not wanted to, perhaps, but he had done so nevertheless.
Par didn't like what that suggested. The Shadowen were what
they were, and perhaps it was true that they would not hesitate
the span of a breath to kill him. But that did not change who
and what he was. He could still see the eyes of that soldier
Padishar had killed. He could see the life fade from them in an
instant's time. It made him want to cry. He hated the fact that
it was necessary and that he was a part of it. Understanding the
reasons for it did not make it any more palatable. Yet what sort
of hypocrite was he, despairing for a single life one moment
and putting an end to half-a-dozen the next?

He didn't want to know the answer to that question. He
didn't think he could bear it. What he recognized was that the
magic of the wishsong had changed somehow within him and
in so doing had changed him as well. It made him think more
closely of Rimmer Dall's claim that he, too, was a Shadowen.
After all, what was the difference between them?

"Damson? "

The Mole's tentative voice whispered from out of the black
and parted her from him as she looked up. Funny, he thought,
how the Mole only speaks to her.

The little fellow slipped into the light, blinking and squint-
ing. "They do not follow. The tunnels are empty."

Damson looked back at Par. "What do we do now. Elf-
boy? " she whispered, reaching up to brush back his hair.
"Where do we go? "

Par smiled and took the hand in his own. "I love you. Dam-
son Rhee," he told her quietly, his words so soft they were lost
in the rustle of his clothing.

He rose. "We get out of this city. We try to find help. From
Morgan or the free-bom or someone. We can't continue on

The Talismans of Shannara                           57

alone." He looked down at the hunched form of the Mole.
"Mole, can you help us get away? "

The Mole glanced at Damson. "There are tunnels beneath
the city that will take you to the plain beyond. I can show
you."

Par turned back to Damson. For a moment she did not
speak. Her green eyes were filled with unspoken thoughts.
"All right. Par, I'll go," she said at last. "I know we can't stay.
Time and luck are running out for us here in Tyrsis." She
stepped close. "But now you must give me your promise—just
as you gave it to Padishar. Promise that we will come back for
him—that we won't leave him to die."

She does not give a moment's consideration to the possibility
that he might already be dead. She believes him stronger than
that. And so do I, I guess.

"I promise," he whispered.

She leaned close and kissed him on the mouth, hard. "I love
you, too. Par Ohmsford," she said. "I'll love you to the end."

It took them the remainder of the night to navigate the maze
of tunnels that lay beneath Tyrsis, the ancient passageways that
had served long ago as bolt holes for the city's defenders and
now served as their escape. The tunnels crisscrossed over and
back again, sometimes broad and high enough for wagons to
pass through, sometimes barely large enough for the Mote and
his charges. At places the rock was dry and dusty and smelled
of old earth and disuse; at times it was damp and chill and
stank of sewage. Rats squealed at their coming and disap-
peared into the walls. Insects skittered away like dry leaves
blown across stone. The sound of their boots and their breath-
ing echoed hollowly down the passageways, and it seemed that
they could not possibly go undetected. But the Mole chose
their path carefully, frequently taking them away from the most
direct route, choosing on the basis of things that he alone
sensed and knew. He did not speak to them; he guided them
ahead through his silent netherworld like the specter at haunt
he had become. Now and again he would pause to look back
at them or to study something he found on the tunnel floors or
to consider the gloom that pressed in about them, distracted
and distant in his musings. Par and Damson would stop with

58 The Talismans of Shannara

him, waiting, watching, and wondering what he was thinking.
They never asked. Par wanted to, but if Damson thought it
wise to keep silent he was persuaded to do so as well.

At last they reached a place where the darkness ahead was
broken by a hazy silver glow. They stumbled toward it through
a curtain of old webbing and dust, scrambling up a rocky slide
that narrowed as it went until they were bent double. Bushes
blocked the way forward, so thick that the Mole was forced to
cut a path for them using a long knife he had somehow man-
aged to conceal within his fur. Pushing aside the severed
branches, the three crawled through the last of the concealing
foliage and emerged into the light.

They came to their feet then and looked about. The moun-
tains sheltering the bluff on which Tyrsis was settled rose be-
hind them, a jagged black wall against the light of the dawn
breaking east, the shadow of its peaks stretching away north
and west across the plains like a dark stain until it disappeared
into the trees of the forests beyond. The air was warm and
smelled of grasses dried by the summer sun. Birdsong rose
from the concealment of the trees, and dragonflies darted over
small pools of weed-grown water formed by streams that ran
down out of the rocks behind them.

Par looked over at Damson and smiled. "We're out," he said
softly, and she smiled back.

He turned to the Mole, who blinked uncertainly in the unfa-
miliar light. Impulsively, he reached down. "Thank you,
Mole," he said. "Thank you for everything."

The Mole's face furrowed, and the blinking grew more
rapid. A hand came up tentatively, touched Par's, and with-
drew. "You are welcome," was the soft reply.

Damson came over, knelt before the Mole, and put her arms
about him. "Good-bye for now," she whispered. "Go some-
where safe. Mole. Stay well away from the black things. Keep
hidden until we return."

The Mole's arms lifted and his wrinkled hands stroked the
girl's slim shoulders. "Always, lovely Damson. Always, for
you."

She released him then, and the Mole's fingers brushed her
face gently. Par thought he saw tears at the comers of the little

The Talismans of Shannara                           59

fellow's bright eyes. Then the Mole turned from them and dis-
appeared back into the gloom.

They stared after him for a moment, then looked at each
other.

"Which way? " Par asked.

She laughed. "That's right. You don't know where Firerim
Reach is, do you? I forget sometimes, you seem so much a
part of things."

He smiled. "Hard to remember when you didn't have me to
look after, isn't it? "

She gave him a questioning look. "I'm not complaining. Are
you? "

He moved over to her and held her for a moment. He didn't
say anything; he simply stood with his arms about her, his
cheek against her auburn hair, and his eyes closed. He thought
about all they had come through,, how many times their lives
had been at risk, and how dangerous their journey had been.
So little distance traveled to come so far, he mused. So little
time to have discovered so much.

Still holding her, he stroked her back in small circles and
said, "I'll tell you something. It sometimes seems as if I'm
frightened all the time. Ever since Coil and I first left Varfleet,
all those weeks ago, I've been afraid. Everything that happens
seems to cost something. I never know what I'm going to lose
next, and I hate it. But what frightens me most. Damson Rhee,
is the possibility that I might lose you."

He tightened his arms about her, pressing her close. "What
do you think about that? " he whispered.

Her response was to tighten her arms back.

They walked through the early morning without saying
much after that, leaving behind the city of Tyrsis, moving
north across the plains \to the forested threshold of the Drag-
on's Teeth. The day warmed quickly, crystals of night's dew
faded with the sun's rise, and dampness dried away into stir-
rings of dust. They saw no one for a long time, and then only
peddlers and families coming in from their farms to market in
the city. Par found himself thinking of home again, of his par-
ents and Coil, but it all seemed to be something that had hap-
pened a long time ago. He might wish that things were as they
had been and that all that had happened since his encounter

60                           The Talismans of Shannara

with Cogline had not—but he knew he might as well wish the
day become night and the sun the moon. He looked at Damson
walking beside him, at the soft strong lines of her face and the
movement of her body, and let what might have been slide
quickly away.

At midday they crossed the Mermidon into the forests be-
yond and stopped to eat. They foraged for fresh water, berries,
roots, and vegetables, and made do. It was cool and silent
within the trees while the day's heat suffocated the surrounding
land in an airless, sweltering blanket. After eating, they de-
cided to sleep for a time, weary from their night's efforts and
anxious to take advantage of their refuge. It was only several
hours further to the Kennon Pass, Damson advised, where they
would cross through the Dragon's Teeth into the valley that
had once been Paranor's home. From there they would travel
north and east to the Jannisson Pass and Firerim Reach. In an-
other two days, she promised, they should reach the free-bom.

But they slept longer than they had planned, lulled by the
coolness and the soothing sound of the wind in the trees, and
it was nearing sunset when they came awake again. They rose
and set out at once, anxious to make up as much time as they
could. If the moon was out, they could navigate the pass at
night. Otherwise, they would have to wait until morning. In ei-
ther case, they wanted to reach the Kennon by nightfall.

So they traveled swiftly, unhindered by heavy stands of
scrub or grasses in woods that were well traveled and spacious,
feeling rested and fit after their sleep. The sun drifted west,
edging down into the trees until it was a bright flare of gold
and crimson through the screen of the leaves and branches.
The moon appeared in skies that were clear and blue, and the
day birds began to grow silent in response to the coming of
night. Par felt at ease for the first time in days, at peace with
himself. He was relieved to be out of Tyrsis, clear of her sew-
ers and cellars, free of the confinement of her walls, safe from
the things that had hunted him there. He looked over at Dam-
son often and smiledJwhen he did. He thought of Padishar and
tried to keep from being sad. His thoughts scattered through
the trees and across the carpet of the earthen floor like small
creatures at play. He let them wander where they chose, con-
tent to let them go.

The Talismans of Shannara                           61

Not once did it occur to him that it might be wise to hide
his trail.

Sunset burned like fire across the plains below Tyrsis as day
inched toward night and the heat began to dissipate. Shadows
lengthened and grew, taking on strange and suggestive shapes,
coming alive with the dark. They rose out of gullies and ra-
vines, from forests and solitary groves, stretching this way and
that as if to flex their limbs on waking from the sleep that pre-
pared them for going abroad to hunt

One of those shadows moved with insidious purpose along
the empty stretches running north to the Mermidon, a faint
darkness hidden within the long grasses through which it
passed. As the light failed it grew bolder, rising up now and
again to sniff me air before lowering back to the earth to keep
the scent it followed fresh. It ate as it went, sustaining itself
with whatever it found, roots and berries, insects and small an-
imals, anything it came across that was unable to escape. For
the most part its attention was focused on the trail it followed,
on the smell of the one it hunted so diligently, the one that was
the source of its madness.

At the Mermidon it lifted to its hindquarters, a bunched-
over, gnarled form wrapped in a shining black cloak that some-
how resisted the dust and grime that coated its wearer. Hands
skinned and scraped so badly they bled clutched at the cloak
so that it would not wash free as it forded that river at a shal-
lows. The cloak never left it, not for a moment. The cloak sus-
tained it in some way, it knew. The cloak was what protected
it.

Yet it seemed a source of the madness as well. Some part of
the creature's mind whispered that this was so. It whispered it
to the creature in warning, over and over again.

But most of what worked in the creature's thoughts assured
it that the cloak was good and necessary to its survival, and
that the madness was caused instead by the one it tracked. By
him. (My brother?) The name would not come. Only the face.
The madness buzzed within its head, through its ears, and out
its mouth like a swarm of gnats, itching and biting and con-
suming its reason until it could think of nothing else.

Earlier that day, in the shadow of late afternoon, come

62 The Talismans of Shannara

abroad in the hated light because the madness drove it from its
den with increasing frequency, it had found at last the scent of
the one it hunted. (His name? What was his name?) Prowling
the base of the bluff night after night for more than a week
now, it had grown increasingly desperate, needing to find him,
to search him out so that relief would come, so that the mad-
ness would end.

But how? How would it end?

It didn't know. Somehow it would happen. When it found
the cause. When it ... hurt him like he was hurting it ...

The thought drifted before its eyes, unclear. But there was
pleasure in the thought, in the taste and feel of it.

Teeth and eyes gleamed in the brightening moonlight.

On the far side of the river, the creature picked up the trail
easily and again began to track. Fresh it was. As clear as the
stench of something dead and left to rot in the sun. Not far it
was. Another few hours, perhaps less ...

A shudder passed through the creature. Anticipation. Need.
The seeds of the madness in flower.

Coil Ohmsford put his nose to the ground like the animal he
had become and disappeared into the trees.

VII

^T\ usk was edging into night by the time Par and Damson
y preached the base of the Dragon's Teeth and the trail that
Sv wound upward through the cliffs to the Kennon. Moon-
light flooded down from the north, and the skies were clear
and bright with stars. The day's heat had cooled, and there was
a breeze blowing out of the mountains.

Somewhere in the trees of the forest behind, an owl hooted
softly and was still.

Because there was light enough to navigate the trail and they
were well rested, the Valeman and the girl pushed on. The
night was well suited for travel, even in the mountains, and
they made good time climbing from the lower slopes into the
pass. As they went, night descended and the silence deepened,
the forest and its inhabitants falling away behind them in a
pool of black, the rocks closing about and becoming silhou-
ettes that rose jagged and stark against the sky. Their boots
scraped and crunched on the loose stone and their breathing
grew labored, but beyond those immediate sounds the world
was still and empty-feeling.

Time passed, and midnight approached. They were well into
the pass now, approaching its apex, the point where the trail
would start down again into the valley beyond. The light ahead
seemed brighter than the light behind, a phenomenon for which
neither the Valeman nor the girl could account, and they ex-
changed more than one questioning glance. It was not until
they had reached the top of the pass, deep within the mountain
peaks, the way forward a long, broad corridor through the
rock, that they realized that what they were seeing was not the

63

64 The Talismans of Shannara

light of moon or stars, but the blaze of watch fires burning di-
rectly ahead.

Now the glance they exchanged was a wary one. Why were
there watch fires burning here? Who had set them?

They proceeded more cautiously man before, keeping well
into the shadows on the dark side of the pass, stopping fre-
quently to listen for what might be waiting ahead. Even so,
they almost missed seeing the guards posted on a rise several
hundred yards further on, positioned so as to give them a clear
view of anyone trying to slip past. The guards were soldiers,
and they wore Federation uniforms. Par and Damson melted
instantly into the shadows and out of view.

"What are they doing here? " the girl whispered in Par's ear.

The Valeman shook his head. There was no reason for them
to be here that he could figure out. The free-born were no-
where near the Kennon. Pirerim Reach was far to the east.
There was only the valley beyond, and there was nothing in
the valley, hadn't been anything there for that matter since ...

His mind froze and his eyes went wide.

Since Paranor had disappeared.

He took a deep breath and held it, remembering Allanon's
charge to Walker Boh. Was it possible that Walker had ... ?

He did not finish the thought. He would not let himself. He
knew he was jumping to conclusions, that the presence of the
soldiers in the pass could be for any number of reasons.

Yet something inside whispered that he was right. The sol-
diers were there because Paranor was back.

He bent hurriedly to Damson. She stared at him in surprise,
seeing the excitement in his eyes. "Damson." He breathed her
name. "We have to get past those guards. Or at least..." His
mind raced. "At least we have to get far enough into the rocks
to see what's beyond, what's down in the valley. Can we do
that? Is there a way? Another way? "

He was speaking so fast that his words were tumbling over
one another. Walker Boh, he was thinking. The Dark Uncle.
He had almost forgotten about Walker—had all but given up
on him since their separation at the Hadeshom. But Walker
was unpredictable. And Allanon had believed in him, enough
so that he had determined that the charge to find Paranor
should be his.

The Talismans of Shannara 65

Shades! His heart was pumping so fast it seemed to jump in-
side his chest. What if ... ?

Damson's hand on his arm startled him. "Come with me."

They retraced their steps through the pass to a cut in the
rocks where a narrow trail led upward. Slowly, they began to
climb. The trail twisted and wound about, sometimes doubling
back on itself, sometimes angling so steeply that they were
forced to proceed on hands and knees, pulling themselves up-
ward by gripping rocks and bits of scrub. The minutes slipped
by and still they climbed, sweating freely now, breathing
through their mouths, their muscles beginning to ache. Par did
not question where they were going. These mountains had
been the stronghold of the free-born for years. No one knew
them better. Damson would know what she was about.

At last the trail flattened again and angled forward toward
the glow from the watch fires. They were high in the peaks
now, well above the pass. The air blew chilly and sharp here,
and sound was muffled. They went forward in a crouch as the
rocks to either side gave way to a narrow bluff. The wind
whipped against them violently, and the light of the fires
spread against the screen of the night sky like a misted autumn
sunset.

The trail ended at a drop that fell away hundreds of feet
along a cliff face. Below and halfway up lay the north entrance
to the Kennon Pass. It was there that the watch fires burned,
dozens of them, steady and bright within the shelter of the
rocks. Sleeping forms lay all about, wrapped in blankets.
Horses were tethered on a picket line. Sentries patrolled at ev-
ery juncture. The Federation had blocked the pass completely.

Almost afraid of what he would find—or wouldn't find—
Par lifted his gaze beyond the Federation encampment to the
valley beyond. For a moment he couldn't see anything, his vi-
sion weakened from' staring at the fires, the blackness into
which he peered a sweeping curtain that shrouded the whole of
the horizon. He waited for his eyes to adjust, keeping them fo-
cused on the dark. Slowly the valley began to take shape. In
the softer light of moon and stars, the silhouettes of mountains
and forests etched themselves against the skyline; lakes and
rivers glimmered in dull flashes of silver, and the fuzzy deep

66                           The Talismans of Shannara

gray of nighttime meadows and grassy hills were a patchwork
against the black.

"Par!" Damson whispered suddenly, and her fingers tight-
ened on his arm. Leaning into him with excitement, her hand
lifted hurriedly to point.

And there was Paranor.

She had seen it first—far out in the valley, washed in moon-
light and centered on a great rise. Par caught his breath and
leaned forward, stretching out as far as he could from the edge
of the drop to make certain that he was not deceived, that he
was not mistaken ...

No. There was no mistake. It was indeed the Druid's Keep,
come back out of time and history, come back from dreams of
what might once have been into the world of men. Par still
couldn't believe it. No one living had ever seen Paranor. Par
himself had only sung about it, envisioning it from the stories
he had heard, from the tales of generations of Ohmsfords now
long dead. Gone for all those years, gone for so long that it
was only legend to most, and suddenly here it was, returned to
the Four Lands—here, as real as life, walls and ramparts, tow-
ers and parapets, rising up out of the earth phoenixlike amid
the dark girdle of the forests that encircled it protectively be-
low.

Paranor. Somehow Walker Boh had found a way to bring it
back.

Par's smile stretched ear to ear as he reached for Damson
and hugged her until he feared she would break in two. She
hugged him back as fiercely, laughing softly as she did. Then
they broke apart, stared downward a final time at the dark bulk
of the castle, and wormed their way back along the bluff into
the shelter of the rocks.

"Did you see it?" Par exclaimed when they were safely
away again. He hugged her once more. "Walker did it! He
brought back Paranor! Damson, it's happening! The charges
Allanon gave us are coming to pass! If I really do have the
Sword of Shannara and if Wren has found the Elves . . . !" He
caught himself. "I wonder what's happened to Wren? I wish I
knew something more, confound it! And where's Walker? Do
you think he's down there, inside the castle? Is that why the
Federation has blocked the pass—to keep him there? " His

The Talismans of Shannara                           67

hands gestured excitedly against her back. "And what about
the Druids? What do you think. Damson? Has he found
them? "

She shook her head, grinning at him. "We won't know for
a while, I'm afraid. We're still stuck on the wrong side of the
pass." The smile faded, and she loosened his arms gently.
"There's no way around those soldiers. Par. Not unless you
want to use your magic to disguise us. What do you think? Do
you want to do that? Could you? "

Cold blossomed in the pit of his stomach. The wishsong
again. There was no escape from it. He could feel its magic
stir inside him in anticipation of the possibility that it might be
needed again, that it might be given a new release ...

Damson saw the change that came into his face and pulled
him quickly to his feet. "No, you won't use the magic. Not if
you don't have to, and you don't. We can go another way—
east below the mountains and then north across the Rabb. A
little longer journey perhaps, but just as sure."

He nodded, relief washing through him. Her instincts were
right. He was frightened of using the magic. He didn't trust it
anymore. "All right," he agreed, forcing a smile. "That's what
we'll do."

"Come on, then." She pulled at his hand. "Let's go back the
way we came. We can sleep a few hours and then start out
again." Her smile was brilliant. "Think of it, Par. Paranor!"

They retraced their steps along the narrow pathway, easing
down out of the rocks to the main pass, and then began the
trek south. They traveled swiftly, excited by what they had
found, anxious to convey the news to others. But after the first
rush of euphoria had passed. Par found himself having second
thoughts. Perhaps he was being premature in celebrating the
return of Paranor. AUanon's shade had never explained what
purpose would be served in fulfilling the charges he had given.
Paranor was back, but what difference did it make? Were the
Druids back as well? If so, would they help in the battle
against the Shadowen?

Or would they, as Rimmer Dall had suggested, prove to be
the real enemy of the races?

As they twisted and wound their way along the trail toward
the dark belt of the forests below. Par's mood darkened

68 The Talismans of Shannara

steadily. Walker had been wary of Allanon's motives. He had
been the first to warn against the Druids. What had happened
then to make him change his mind? Why had he agreed to
bring back Paranor? Par wished he could speak with him, just
for a moment. He wished he could talk to almost anyone from
the original company who had come with him to the
Hadeshom. He was tired of feeling alone and abandoned in
this. He was weary of having questions with no answers.

They reached the base of the Dragon's Teeth two hours later
and moved back into the shelter of the trees. Behind them, the
glow of the Federation watch fires had long since faded into
the rocks, and the excitement of discovering Paranor had
turned to insistent doubt. Par kept his thoughts to himself, but
Damson's occasional glance suggested she was not fooled by
his silence. It seemed to Par that they were so close and knew
each other so well by now that words weren't necessary for
communication. Damson could read his thoughts. She knew
what he was thinking; he could see it in her eyes.

She took the lead as they entered the trees, turning them east
along the base of the mountains, guiding them through heavier
undergrowth to where the trees spread apart and there were
grassy clearings and small streams in which to set camp. The
night was filled with small, delicate sounds, a balance of con-
tentment that no predator disturbed. The wind had died away,
and the air before them turned frosty with their breath as they
walked. The moon had disappeared below the horizon, and
they were left with starlight to show them the way.

They did not go far, no more than a mile, before Damson
settled on a glade beside a small spring for their resting place.
A few hours, she advised; they would start out again before
daybreak. They wrapped themselves in blankets that had been
provided by the Mole from one of his underground caches and
lay close to each other in the dark, staring up into the trees. Par
cradled the Sword of Shannara in the crook of one arm, its
length resting against his body, wondering again what purpose
his talisman was meant to serve, wondering how he was ever
supposed to find out.

Wondering still, at the very back of his mind, if it was really
what he believed it to be.

The Talismans of Shannara                           69

"I think it is a good thing," Damson whispered just before
he fell asleep. "I don't think you should worry."

He wasn't sure what she was talking about, and although he
was tempted he didn't ask.

He woke while it was still dark, the sunrise a faint glimmer-
ing of silver far east, barely visible through the tops of the
trees. It was the silence that woke him, the sudden absence of
all sound—the birds and insects gone still, the animals frozen
to ice, the whole of the immediate world turned empty and
dead. He sat up with a start, as if waking from a bad dream.
But it was the silence that had interrupted his slumber, and he
was struck with the thought that no dream could ever be as ter-
rifying.

Shadows cloaked the glade, deep and melting pools of
damp. Gloom hung across the air like smoke, and there was a
faint hint of mist through the trees. Par's hands were on the
Sword of Shannara, the blade clutched before him as if to ward
off his fear. He glanced about hurriedly, saw nothing, looked
about some more, then came to his feet warily. Damson was
awake as well now, sleepy-eyed as she lifted from her blanket,
stifling a yawn.

Still as death. Par thought. His eyes shifted anxiously.

What was wrong? Why was it so quiet?

Then something moved in the deepest of the glade's shad-
ows, a shifting of blackness barely discernible to the naked
eye, the kind of motion that comes when clouds drift across
the face of the moon. Except that there were no clouds or
moon, nothing but the night sky and its fading stars.

Damson stood up beside him. "Par? " she whispered ques-
tioningly.

He did not avert his eyes from the movement. It began to
take shape, an insidious coalescence that lent definition to what
moments before had been nothing but the night.

A figure appeared, stunted and crouched, all black and face-
less beneath a concealing cloak and hood.

Par stared. There was something about this intruder that was
familiar, something he could almost put a name to. It was in
the way it moved, or held itself, or breathed. But how could
that be?

70 The Talismans of Shannara

The figure approached, not walking as a man or animal
would, but slouching like something that was neither and still
both. It hunched its way out of the deep gloom and came to-
ward them, the sound of its breathing suddenly audible. Huff,
huff, a rasping cough, a hiss. Black-cloaked and hooded, it
stayed hidden in its silky covering of night until all at once its
head lifted and the light caught the faint glimmer of its crim-
son eyes.

Par felt Damson's fingers close on his arms.

It was Shadowen.

A weary and futile acceptance came with the Valeman's rec-
ognition of his enemy. He must fight again after all. He must
call upon the wishsong once more. There was no end to it, he
thought dully. Wherever he went, they found him. Each time
he thought he had used the magic for the last rime, he was re-
quired to use it one time more. And one time after that. For-
ever.

The Shadowen advanced, a humping of black cloth and a
dragging of limbs. The thing seemed barely able to make itself
move, and it clung to its cloak as if it could not bear to let go.
The cloak, too, was an odd thing—all shiny black and as clean
as new cloth despite the ragged, soiled appearance of the thing
that wore it. Par felt the wishsong's magic begin building
within him, unbidden, rising up on its own, the core of a fire
that would not stay quenched. He let it come, knowing the fu-
tility of trying to stop it, realizing that there was no other
choice. He did not even try to look for a way to escape the
glade. Running, after all, was pointless. The Shadowen would
simply track them. It would keep coming until it was stopped.

Until he killed it.

He winced at the words and thought. Not again!—seeing the
face of that soldier in the watchtower, seeing all their faces, all
the dead from all the encounters ,..

The creature stopped. Within the cloak, its head shook vio-
lently, as if it were beset by demons that only it could see. It
made a sound; it might have been crying.

Then its face lifted into the light, and Par Ohmsford felt the
world fall away beneath him.

He was looking at Coll.

The Talismans of Shannara 71

Ravaged, twisted, bruised, and dirtied, the face before him
was still Coil's.

For a moment, he thought he was going mad. He heard
Damson's gasp of disbelief, felt himself take an involuntary
step backward, and watched his brother's lips part in a twisted
effort to speak.

"Par? " came the plea.

He gave a low, despairing cry, cut it short immediately, and
with a supreme effort steadied himself. No. No, this had been
tried once, tried and failed. This was not Coll. This was just
a Shadowen pretending to be his brother, a trick to deceive
him ...

Why?

He groped for an answer. To drive him mad, of course. To
make him ... to force him to ...

He clenched his teeth. Coil was dead! He had seen him die,
destroyed in the fire of the wishsong's magic—Coil, who had
become one of them, a Shadowen, like this one ...

Something whispered at the back of his mind, a warning
that took no discernible form, words that lacked meaning be-
yond their intent. Caution, Valeman! Beware!

His hands still clenched the Sword of Shannara. Without
thinking, still lost in the horror of what he was seeing, he
brought the blade and scabbard up before him like a shield.

Instantly, the Shadowen was on him, closing the distance be-
tween them in the blink of an eye, moving far more swiftly
than should have been possible for such a twisted body. It
sprang into him, giving forth an anguished shriek, and Coil's
face rose up, large and terrifying, until it was right against his
own and he could smell the stench of it. Gnarled hands closed
about the handle of the Sword of Shannara and tried to wrench
it free. Down the Valeman and the Shadowen went in a tangle
of arms and legs. Par heard Damson cry out, and then he was
rolling away from her, fighting for possession of the Sword.
His hands shifted from the scabbard to the pommel, trying to
gain leverage, to twist the blade free. He was face to face with
his adversary as he fought. He could see into the depth of his
brother's eyes ...

No! No, it wasn 't possible!

They tumbled into the trees, into grasses that whipped and

72                           The Talismans of Shannara

sawed at their hands and faces. The scabbard to the Sword slid
free, and now there was only the razor-sharp metal of the blade
between them, jerking back and forth like a deadly pendulum
as they struggled. Par became tangled in the folds of the
strange, glimmering cloak, and the feel of it against his skin
was repulsive, like the touch of something living. Thrashing
wildly, he flung the trailing cloth away. He kicked out, and the
Shadowen grunted as Par's knee jammed into its body. But it
would not let go, hands clasped about the blade in a death grip.
Par was furious. The Shadowen seemed to have no purpose
other than to hang onto the Sword. Its eyes were fixed on the
blade. Its face was slack and empty. Par's hands shifted to
grasp what remained of the handle, coming tight against those
of his adversary, feeling the rough, sweating skin. Their fingers
intertwined as each sought to break the other's grip, their bod-
ies thrashing and twisting ...

Par gasped. A tingling sensation entered his fingers and
spread into his hands and arms. He jerked backward in
surprise—felt the Shadowen jerk as well. A flush of warmth
surged through him, an odd pulse of heat that was centered in
the palms of his hands.

His eyes snapped down.

The blade of the Sword of Shannara had begun to give off
a faint blue glow.

Par's eyes widened. What was happening? Shades! Was it
the magic? The magic of the Sword of—

The talisman flared sharply, and the blue light turned to
white fire that blazed as bright as the midday sun. In its terri-
fying glow, he saw the face of the Shadowen change, the
slackness disappearing as the features tightened in shock. Par
wrenched wildly at the blade, but the Shadowen hung on.

From what seemed like a long way off, he heard Damson
call his name once.

Then the Sword's light was surging through him, the white
fire flaring like blood down the limbs of his body, cool but in-
sistent as it took possession. It surrounded him and then drew
him away, outward from himself into the blade and then into
the body of the Shadowen. He fought to resist the abduction,
but found himself powerless. He entered the dark-cloaked fig-
ure, feeling the other shudder at the intrusion. Par tried to cry

The Talismans of Shannara 73

out and could not. He tried to break free and failed. Down into
the Shadowen he went, raging and despairing all at once. The
Shadowen was all around him, was there before him, eyes
and mouth wide with disbelief, features contorted into
something ..

Someone ...

Coil! Oh, it was Coil!

He might have whispered the words. He might have
shrieked them aloud. He could not tell. There, in the dark cen-
ter of his adversary's soul, the lies fell away before the power
of the Sword of Shannara and became the truth. This was no
Shadowen he fought, no dark demon with his brother's face,
but his brother in fact. Coil, come back from the dead. come
back to life, as real as the talisman they both clasped. Par saw
the other shudder with some recognition of his own, realizing
in the next instant that it was a recognition of what he had be-
come. He saw his brother's tears, heard his wail of despair, and
saw him convulse as if stricken with poison. His brother's
mind shut down, too devastated by the revelation of what he
had become to witness anything more. But Par saw the rest of
it, all that his brother could not. He saw the truth of the cloak
that wrapped Coil, a thing called the Mirrorshroud, Shadowen-
made, stolen by his brother so that he could escape his impris-
onment at Southwatch. He saw Rimmer Dall smile darkly,
looming above them both from within a vortex of images. But
most terrible of all, he saw the madness that engulfed his
brother, that drove him in search of Par, in search of the per-
ceived cause of his pain, determined to put an end to both ...

Then Coil thrashed uncontrollably and tore free, his hands
releasing their grip on the Sword of Shannara. The images
ceased instantly, the white fire dying. Par tumbled backward,
his head striking the base of a tree with stunning force.
Through a spinning dark haze he watched his brother. Shadow-
en-consumed, still wrapped within the hateful cloak, rise up
like a netherworld specter. For an instant he crouched there,
hands pressed against his hooded head as if to crush the images
still locked within, shrieking against his madness. In the next
he was gone, fled into the trees, crying as he went until the
cries were just an echo in his horrified brother's mind.

74                           The Talismans of Shannara

Damson was there then, helping Par to his feet, holding him
up until she was sure he could stand alone. Her eyes were anx-
ious and frightened, and he was conscious of the way she
moved her body to shelter him. Soft streaks of morning light
dappled their faces as they clung to each other. Together they
stared out into the forest gloom, as if somehow they might
catch a final glimpse of the creature who fled from them.

"It was Coll." Par breathed the words as if they were ana-
thema. "Damson, it was Coil!"

She stared at him in disbelief, not daring a reply.

"And this!" He brought up the Sword of Shannara, still
clasped in his scraped, raw hands. "This is the Sword."

"I know," she whispered, more certain of this second decla-
ration. "I saw."

He shook his head, still trying to comprehend. "I don't
know what happened. Something triggered the magic. I
don't know what. But something. It was there, buried inside
the Sword." He wheeled to face her. "I couldn't bring it out
alone, but when both of us held the blade, when we strug-
gled .. ." His fingers tightened on her arms. "I saw him,
Damson—as clearly as I see you. It was Coll."

Damson held herself rigid. "Par, Coil is dead."

"No." The Valeman shook his head adamantly. "No, he is
not dead. That was what I was supposed to think. But that
wasn't Coil I killed in the Pit. It was someone or something
else. That"—he gestured toward the trees—"was Coll. The
Sword showed me. Damson. It showed me the truth. Coil was
imprisoned at Southwatch and escaped. But he's been changed
by that cloak he wears. There is some sort of malevolent
magic in it, something that subverts you if you wear it. It's
Coil, but he's turning into a Shadowen!"

"Par, I saw his face, too. And it looked a little like Coil, but
not enough that—"

"You didn't see everything," he cut her short. "I did, be-
cause I was holding the Sword, and the Sword of Shannara
reveals the truth! Remember the legends? " He was so excited
he was shouting. "Damson, this is the Sword of Shannara! It
is! And that was Coil!"

"All right, all right." She nodded quickly, trying to calm

The Talismans of Shannara                          75

him. "It was Coll. But why was he chasing us? Why did he at-
tack you? What was he trying to do? "

Par's lips tightened. "I don't know. I didn't have time to
find out. And Coil doesn't know what's happening either. I
could see what he was thinking for a moment—as if I was in-
side his mind. He realized what had been done to him, but he
didn't know what to do about it. That was why he ran. Dam-
son. He was horrified at what he had become."

She stared at him. "Did he know who you were? "

"I don't know."

"Or how to help himself? Did he know enough to take off
the cloak? "

Par took a deep breath. "I don't think so. I'm not even sure
he can." His face was stricken. "He looked so lost. Damson."

She put her arms around him then, and he held her as if she
were a rock without which the sea of his uncertainty might
wash him away. All about them darkness was fading as sunrise
brightened the skies east. Birds were coming awake with
cheerful calls, and a faint scattering of dampness sparkled on
the grass.

"I have to go after him," Par said into her shoulder, feeling
her stiffen at the words. "I have to try to help him." He shook
his head despairingly. "I know it means breaking my promise
to go back for Padishar. But Coil's my brother."

She moved so that she could see his face. Her eyes searched
his and did not look away. "You've made up your mind about
this, haven't you? " She looked terrified. "This is probably a
trap, you know."

His smile was bitter. "I know."

She blinked rapidly. "And I can't come with you."

"I know that, too. You have to continue on to Firerim Reach
and get help for your father. I understand."

There were tears in her eyes. "I don't want to leave you."

"I don't want to leave you either."

"Are you sure it was Coil? Absolutely sure? "

"As sure as I am that I love you. Damson."

She brought her arms about him again. She didn't speak, but
buried her face in his shoulder. He could feel her crying. He
could feel himself breaking apart inside. The euphoria of find-
ing Paranor was gone, the discovery itself all but forgotten.

76                           The Talismans of Shannara

The sense of peace and contentment he had experienced so
briefly on getting free of Tyrsis was buried in his past.

He pulled away again. "I'll come back to you," he said qui-
etly. "Wherever you are, I'll find you."

She bit at her lower lip, nodding. Then she fumbled through
her clothing, reaching down the front of her tunic. A moment
later she pulled forth a thin, flat metal disk with a hole in it
through which a leather cord had been threaded and then tied
about her neck. She looked at the disk a moment, then at him.

"This is called a Skree," she said. "It is a kind of magic, a
street magic. It was given to me a long time ago." There was
fire in the look she gave him. "It can only be used once."

Then she took the disk in both hands and snapped it in two
as easily as she might a brittle stick. She handed the loose half
to him. "Take it and bind it about your neck. Wear it always.
The halves will seek each other out. When the metal glows, it
will tell us we are close. The brighter it becomes, the closer we
will be."

She pressed the broken half of the disk into his hands. "That
is how I will find you again. Par. And I will never stop look-
ing."

He closed his fingers about the disk. He felt as if a pit had
opened beneath him and was about to swallow him up. "I'm
sorry. Damson," he whispered. "I don't want to do this. I
would keep my promise if I could. But Coil's alive, and I
can't—"

"No." She put her fingers against his lips to silence him.
"Don't say anything more. I understand. I love you."

He kissed her and held her against him, memorizing the
touch and feel of her until he was certain the memory was
burned into him. Then he released her, retrieved the scabbard
for the Sword, picked up his blanket, rolled it up, and slung it
over his shoulder.

"I'll come back to you," he repeated. "I promise I will."

She nodded without speaking and would not look away, so
he turned from her instead and hurried off into the trees.

VIII

Sy was nearing midaftemoon of the day following the sep-

• aration of Par and Damson when Morgan Leah at last
w came in sight of the borderland city of Varfleet. The sum-
mer was drifting toward autumn now, and the days were long
and slow and filled with heat that arrived with the sun and lin-
gered on until well after dark. The Highlander stood on a rise
north of the city and looked down at the jumble of buildings
and crooked streets and thought that nothing would ever be the
same for him again.

It had been more than two weeks since he had parted com-
pany with Walker Boh—the Dark Uncle gone in search of
Paranor, the Black Elfstone his key to the gates of time and
distance that locked away the castle of the Druids, and the
Highlander come looking for Padishar Creel and the Ohmsford
brothers.

Two weeks. Morgan sighed. He should have reached
Varfleet in two days, even afoot. But then nothing much
seemed to work out the way he expected it these days.

What had befallen him was ironic considering what he had
survived during the weeks immediately preceding. On leaving
Walker, he had followed the Dragon's Teeth south along the
western edge of the Rabb. He reached the lower branch of its
namesake river by sunset of his second day out and made
camp close-by, intent on crossing at sunrise and completing his
journey the next day. The plains were sweltering and dusty,
and there were pockets of the same sickness that marked the
Four Lands everywhere, patches of blight where everything
was poisoned. He thought that he had avoided these, that he
77

78 The Talismans of Shannara

had kept well clear in his passing. But when he woke at dawn
on that third morning he was hot and feverish and so dizzy that
he could barely walk. He drank some water and lay down
again, hoping the sickness would pass. But by midday he was
barely able to sit up. He forced himself to his feet, recognizing
then how sick he was, knowing it was necessary that he find
help immediately. His stomach was cramping so badly he
could not straighten up, and his throat was on fire. He did not
feel strong enough to cross the river, so instead he wandered
upstream onto the plains. He was hallucinating when he came
upon a farmhouse settled in a shady grove of elm. He stag-
gered to the door, barely able to move or even speak, and col-
lapsed when it opened.

For seven days he slept, drifting in and out of consciousness
just long enough to eat and drink the small portions of food
and water he was offered by whoever it was who had taken
him in. He did not see any faces, and the voices he heard were
indistinct. He was delirious at times, thrashing and crying out,
reliving the horrors of Eldwist and Uhl Belk, seeing over and
over again the stricken face of Quickening as she lay dying,
feeling again the anguish he had experienced as he stood help-
lessly by. Sometimes he saw Par and Coil Ohmsford as they
called to him from a great distance, and always he found that
try as he might he could not reach them. There were dark
things in his dreams as well, faceless shadows that came at
him unexpectedly and from behind, presences without names,
unmistakable nevertheless for who and what they were. He ran
from them, hid from them, tried desperately to fight back
against them—but always they stayed just out of his reach,
threatening in ways he could not identify but could only imag-
ine.

His fever broke at the end of the first week. When at last he
was able to open his eyes and focus on the young couple who
had cared for him, he saw in their faces an obvious relief and
realized how close he had come to not waking at all. His sick-
ness had left him drained of strength, and for several days after
he had to be fed by hand. He managed to stay awake for short
periods and to speak a little when he did. The young wife with
the straw-blond hair and the pale blue eyes looked after him
while her husband worked in the fields, and she smiled with

The Talismans of Shannara                           79

concern when she told him that his dreams must have been
bad ones. She gave him soup and bread with water and a small
ration of ale. He accepted it gratefully and thanked her repeat-
edly for looking after him. Sometimes her husband would ap-
pear, standing next to her and looking down at him, bluff and
red-faced from the sun, with kind eyes and a broad smile. He
mentioned once that Morgan's sword was safely put aside, that
it had not been lost. Apparently that had been part of the night-
mares as well.

At the end of the two weeks Morgan was taking his meals
with them at their dinner table, growing stronger daily, close to
returning to normal. His memories lingered, however—the
feeling of pain and nausea, the sense of helplessness, the fear
that the sickness was the door to the darkness that would come
at the end of his life. The memories stayed, for Morgan had
come close to dying too often in the past few weeks to be able
to put them aside easily. He was marked by what he had ex-
perienced and endured as surely as if scarred in battle, and
even the farmer and his wife could see in his eyes and face
what had been done to him. They never asked for an explana-
tion, but they could see.

He offered to pay them for their care and predictably they
refused. When he said good-bye to them seventeen days later,
he slipped half of what money remained to him into the pocket
of the wife's worn apron when she wasn't looking. They
watched after him as parents might a child until he was out of
sight.

And so not only was his arrival at Varfleet and his search
for Padishar and Par and Coil considerably delayed, but he was
left as well with a renewed sense of his own mortality. Morgan
Leah had come down out of Eldwist and the Chamals still
grappling with Quickening's death, devastated by the loss he
felt with her passing, in awe of her strength in carrying out her
father's wish that she give up her own life in order that the
land should be restored. An elemental that had become more
human than her father had anticipated, she remained for Mor-
gan an enigma for which he did not believe he would ever find
a resolution. Coupled with this realization was the undeniable
pride and strength he had found in helping to defeat Uhl Belk
and in regaining anew the magic of the Sword of Leah. When

80 The Talismans of Shannara

the Sword had been made whole again, somehow so had he.
Quickening had given him that. In the loss of Quickening,
Morgan realized, he had somehow found himself. The contra-
dictions between what had been lost and gained had warred
within him as he traveled south with Walker and Homer Dees,
a conflict that would never be entirely settled, and it was not
until the sickness had overtaken him that their raging was
forced to give way to the more basic need of finding a way to
stay alive.

Now, staring down at the city, come back out of several
nightmare worlds, out of the lives he had expended in those
worlds, so distant that they might have been lived by someone
else, Morgan reflected that he stood at the beginning of yet an-
other life. He found himself wondering if those who had
known him in the old life would ever recognize now who he
was.

He entered Varfleet as just another traveler come down out
of the north, a Southlander weathered and seasoned from trou-
bles that were his own business, and he was pretty much ig-
nored by the people of the city, who, after all, had troubles of
their own to worry about. He passed through the poorer sec-
dons where families lived in makeshift shelters and children
begged in the streets, conscious again of how little the ill-
named Federation Protectorate had done to help anyone in
Callahom. He passed into the city proper, where the smells of
cooking and sewage mingled unpleasantly, the merchants
hawked their wares in strident voices from carts and
shopfronts, and the tradesmen serviced the needs of those who
could afford the price. Federation soldiers patrolled the streets,
a threatening presence wherever they went, looking as uncom-
fortable as the people they were charged with policing. If you
stripped away the weapons and uniforms, the Highlander
thought darkly, it would be hard to tell who was who.

He found a clothing shop and used most of his remaining
money to buy pants, a tunic, a well-made forest cloak, and
some new boots. His own clothing was frayed and soiled and
worn beyond help, and he left it all behind in the shop when
he departed, taking only his weapons. He asked for directions
to the Whistledown, not certain even now what it was, and was

The Talismans of Shannara                           81

told by the shopkeeper that it was a tavern that could be found
at the center of the city on Wyvem Split.

Making his way through the crowds and the midday heat,
Morgan recalled anew the instructions that Padishar Creel had
given him weeks ago. He was to go to the Whistledown and
show the hawk ring to a woman named Matty Roh. She would
know how to find Padishar. Morgan fingered the hawk ring
where it was buried in his pocket, safely tucked away for the
time he would need it. He mused on how often he had doubted
that such a time would come. The rough outline of the hawk
emblem pressed against his skin as he twisted it about, bring-
ing back memories of the outlaw chief. He wondered if
Padishar Creel had been forced to come back from the dead as
often as he had these past few weeks. The possibility brought
a bitter smile to his lips.

He found Wyvem Split and turned down its length toward a
square ringed by taverns, inns, and pleasure houses. Not a very
attractive part of the city, but a busy one. He shifted the Sword
of Leah from where it was draped across his back, adjusting
the straps, feeling sad and weary and at the same time
buoyed—an odd mix, but somehow a proper one. Sickness and
loss had worn him down, but surviving both had strengthened
his resolve. There was not much out there, he believed, that he
could not get through. He needed that conviction. For weeks
he had watched his friends and companions slip away, some
lost to fortune, some to the machinations of others. He had
seen his own plans repeatedly altered, his course turned aside
time and again to serve a higher—or at least a different—
purpose. He had done what he had believed right in each case,
and he had no reason to second-guess himself. But he was
tired of having his life rearranged like furniture in a room
where each time he turned to look everything was in a differ-
ent place. He had honored Steff's dying wish and gone back to
Culhaven to rescue Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt. He had given
himself then to Quickening and her journey to Eldwist. Now it
was time to do what he had been promising himself he would
do since escaping Tyrsis and the Pit. It was time to find Par
and Coil, to give them what protection he could, to see to it
that he stayed with them until ...

82                          The Talismans of Shannara

He gave a mental shrug. Well, until they no longer needed
him, he guessed—whenever that might be.

And where were they now? he wondered for what must
have been the hundredth dme. What had become of them since
their own escape?

Thinking of them made him uneasy. It always did. Too
much time had passed since he had left them. The danger of
the Shadowen was too great for the Valemen to have been left
out there alone. He hoped Padishar had found them by now.
He hoped that they'd had an easier time of things than he had.

But he wouldn't have cared to place a bet on it.

He arrived at the square and saw the Whistledown off to the
left in the far comer. A weather-beaten wooden sign carved
with a flute and a foaming tankard over the name announced
its location. It was a slat-boarded building like all the others
clustered about it, sharing a common wall with the ones on ei-
ther side, looming three stories against the skyline, with cur-
tained windows on the second and third floors where there
were either living quarters for the owners and their families or
sleeping rooms for hire. The square was thronged with people
coming and going from this place to that, more than a few me-
andering from tavern to tavern, some so drunk they could
hardly stand. Morgan avoided them, moving aside to let those
he encountered pass, smelling the sweat and dirt of their
bodies and the stench of the streets. Wyvem Split, he thought,
was a cesspool.

He reached the Whistledown's open doors, stepped through,
and was surprised to find that the inside of the ale house bore
an entirely different look. Although it was plain and sparsely
furnished, the floors were scrubbed clean, the wood trim on the
serving bar was polished to a high sheen, the tables and chairs
and stools were neatly arranged, and the smell of cedar chips
and lacquer was everywhere. Ale casks gleamed in their racks
against the wall behind the serving counter, and there were
glass doors and metal trim on the tankard cupboard. A pair of
heavy swinging doors at the end of the serving counter hung
closed. A massive stone fireplace dominated the wall to the
left of the counter, and a narrow staircase leading to the upper
floors took up most of the wall to the right. Serving bowls and
cleaning cloths were stacked on the counter itself.

The Talismans of Shannara                           83

But it was something else that caught Morgan's eye and
held it, something so obviously out of place that he had to take
a second look to be certain he was not mistaken about what he
was seeing.

There were bunches of wildflowers arranged in large vases
on shelves bracketing the ale casks and tankard cupboard.

Flowers—here, of all places! He shook his head.

The swinging doors opened and a boy with a broom pushed
through. He was tall and lean with short-cropped black hair
and fine, almost delicate features. He moved with fluid grace
as he swept down the length of the serving counter, almost as
if dancing, working the broom in front of him, lost in thought.
He whistled softly, unaware yet of Morgan.

Morgan shifted his stance enough to announce that he was
there, and the boy looked up at once.

"We're closed," he said. Cobalt eyes fixed on the High-
lander, a frank, almost challenging stare. "We open at dusk."

Morgan stared back. The boy's face was smooth and hair-
less, and his hands were long and thin. The clothes he wore
were loose and shapeless, hanging on him as if on sticks,
belted at his narrow waist and tied at his ankles. He wore
shoes instead of boots, low-cut, stitched leather things that
molded to his feet.

"Is this the Whistledown? " Morgan asked, deciding he had
better make sure.

The boy nodded. "Come back later. Go take a bath first."

Morgan blinked. Take a bath? "I'm looking for someone,"
he said, beginning to feel uncomfortable under the other's
steady gaze.

The boy shrugged. "I can't help you. There's no one here
but me. Try across the street."

'Thanks, but I'm not looking for just anyone ..." Morgan
began.

But the boy was already turning away, working the broom
back up the floor against the counter. "We're closed," he re-
peated, as if that settled the matter.

Morgan started forward, a hint of irritation creeping into his
voice. "Wait a minute." He reached for the other's shoulder.
"Hold on a minute. Did you say you were the only one ... ?"

The boy wheeled about smoothly as Morgan touched him,

84 The Talismans of Shannara

the broom came up, and the blunt end jabbed the Highlander
hard below the rib cage. Morgan doubled over, paralyzed, then
dropped to one knee, gasping.

The boy came up beside him and bent close. "We're closed,
I told you. You should pay better attention." He helped Morgan
to his feet, surprisingly strong for being so lean, and guided
him to the door. "Come back later when we open."

And the next thing Morgan knew he was back outside on
the street, leaning against the slat-board wall of the building,
arms clasped about his body as if he were in danger of falling
apart—which was not too far off the mark in terms of how he
felt. He took several deep breaths and waited for the ache in
his chest to subside.

This is ridiculous, he thought angrily. A boy!

He managed to straighten finally, rubbed at his chest, ad-
justed the shoulder straps of his sword where they had begun
to chafe, and walked back through the Whistledown's doors.

The boy, who was sweeping behind the counter now, did not
look pleased to see him. "What seems to be your problem? "
he asked Morgan pointedly.

The Highlander walked to the counter and glared. "What
seems to be my problem? I didn't have a problem until I came
in here. Don't you think you were a little quick with that
broom? "

The boy shrugged. "I asked you to leave and you didn't.
What do you expect? "

"How about a little help? I told you I was looking for some-
one."

The boy sighed wearily. "Everyone is looking for someone—
especially the people who come in here." His voice was low
and smooth, an odd mix. "They come in here to drink and to
feel better. They come in here to find company. Fine. But they
have to do it when we're open. And we're not open. Is that
plain enough for you? "

Morgan felt his temper begin to slip. He shook his head.
"I'll tell you what's plain to me. What's plain to me is that you
don't have any manners. Someone ought to box your ears."

The boy set the broom down and put his slim hands on the
counter. "Well, it won't be you who does it. Now turn around

The Talismans of Shannara 85

and go back out that door. And forget what I said before.
Don't come back later. Don't come back at all."

For a moment Morgan considered reaching over the counter,
taking hold of the boy by the scruff of his neck, and pulling
him across. But the memory of that broom handle was too re-
cent to encourage precipitous action, and besides, the boy
didn't look the least bit afraid of him.

Keeping his anger in check, he folded his arms across his
chest and held his ground. "Is there anyone else here that I can
talk to besides you? " he asked.

The boy shook his head.

"The owner, maybe? "

The boy shook his head.

"No? " Morgan decided to take a chance. "Is the owner's
name Matty Roh? "

There was a flicker of recognition in the cobalt eyes, there
for an instant and then gone. "No."

Morgan nodded slowly. "But you know who Matty Roh is,
don't you? " He made it a statement of fact.

The boy's gaze was steady. "I'm tired of talking to you."

Morgan ignored him. "Matty Roh. That's who I came here
to find. And I came a long way. Which is why I need a bath,
as you so rudely pointed out. Matty Roh. Not some nameless
companion for some unmentionable purpose, thanks just the
same." His voice was taking on a sharper edge. "Matty Roh.
You know the name; you know who she is. So if you want to
be rid of me, just tell me how to find her and I'll be on my
way."

He waited, arms folded, feet planted. The boy's expression
never changed; his gaze never moved off Morgan. But his
hands slipped down behind the serving counter and came up
again holding a thin-bladed sword. The way they held it sug-
gested a certain familiarity.

"Now, what's this? " Morgan asked quietly, "Am I really
that unwelcome? "

The boy was as still as stone. "Who are you? What do you
want with Matty Roh? "

Morgan shook his head. 'That's between her and me." Then
he added, "I'll tell you this much. I'm not here to cause trou-
ble. I just need to speak with her."

86

The Talismans of Shannara

The boy studied him for a long time, gaze level and fixed,
body still. He stood behind the serving counter like a statue,
and Morgan had the uneasy feeling that he was poised between
fleeing and attacking. Morgan watched the eyes and the hands
for a hint of which way the boy would go, but there was no
movement at all. From outside, the sounds of the street drifted
in through the open doors and hung shrill and intrusive in the
silence.

"I'm Many Ron," the boy said.

Morgan Leah stared. He almost laughed aloud, almost said
something about how ridiculous that was. But something in the
boy's voice stopped him. He took a closer look at the other—
the fine, delicate features, the slim hands, the lean body con-
cealed beneath the loose-fitting clothing, the way he held
himself. He remembered how the boy had moved. None of it
seemed quite right for a boy. But for a girl ...

He nodded slowly. "Many Roh," he said, his surprise still
evident. "I thought you were a ... that you were ..."

The girl nodded. "That's what you were supposed to think."
Her hand did not move off the sword. "What do you want with
me?"

For a moment Morgan did not respond, still grappling with
the idea that he had mistaken a girl for a boy. Worse, that he
had let her make him look like such a fool. But you mustered
the defenses available to you when you lived in a place like
Wyvem Split. The girl was clever. He had to admit her dis-
guise was a good one.

He reached into his tunic pocket and drew forth the ring
with the hawk emblem and held it out. "Recognize this? "

She took a quick look at the ring, and her hand tightened on
the sword. "Who are you? " she asked.

"Morgan Leah," he said. "We both know who gave me the
ring. He told me to come to you when I needed to find him."

"I know who you are," she declared. Her gaze stayed level,
appraising. "Do you still carry a broken sword, Morgan
Leah?"

An image of Quickening as she lay dying flashed in his
mind. "No," he said quietly. "It was made whole again." He
pushed back the pain the memory brought and forced himself

The Talismans of Shannara                           87

to reach over his shoulder and touch the sword's hilt. "Do you
want to have a look?"

She shook her head no. "I'm sorry I gave you such a bad
time. But it's difficult to know who to trust. The Federation
has spies everywhere—Seekers more often than not."

She picked up her own sword and slipped it back under the
counter. For a moment she didn't appear to know what to do
next. Then she said, "Would you like something to eat? "

He said he would, and she took him through the swinging
doors in back into a kitchen where she seated him at a small
table, scooped some stew into a serving bowl from a kettle
hung over a cooking fire in the hearth, cut off several slices of
bread, poured ale into a mug, and brought it all over to where
he waited. He ate and drank eagerly, hungrier than he had been
in days. There were wildflowers in a vase on the table, and he
touched them experimentally. She watched him in silence, the
same serious expression on her face, studying him with that
frank, curious gaze. The kitchen was surprisingly cool, with a
breeze blowing in through the open back door and venting up
the chimney of the fireplace. Sounds from the streets continued
to drift in, but the Highlander and the girl ignored them.

"It took you a long time to get here," she said when he had
finished his meal. She carried his dishes to a sink and began
to wash them. "He expected you sooner than this."

"Where is he now? " Morgan asked. They were taking great
pains to avoid saying Padishar Creel's name—as if mention of
it might alert the Federation spies set at watch.

"Where did he say he would be? " she countered.

Still testing, Morgan thought. "At Firerim Reach. Tell me
something. You're being pretty careful about me. How am I
supposed to know I can trust you? How do I know you really
are Many Roh? "

She finished with' the dishes, set them to dry on the counter,
and turned to face him. "You don't. But you came looking for
me. I didn't come looking for you. So you have to take your
chances."

He rose. 'That's not very reassuring."

She shrugged. "It isn't meant to be. It isn't my job to reas-
sure you. It's my job to make sure you're who you say you
are."

§8                          The Talismans of Shannara

"And are you sure? "
She stared at him. "More or less."
Her stare was impenetrable. He shook his head. "When do
you think you might know? "
"Soon."
"And what if you decide I'm lying? What if you decide I'm

someone else? "

She came forward until she was directly across the table
from him, until the blue of her eyes was so brilliant that it
seemed to swallow all the light.

"Let's hope you don't have to find out the answer to that
question," she said. She held his gaze challengingly. "The
Whistiedown stays open until midnight. When it closes, we'll
talk about what happens next."

As she turned away, he could have sworn she almost smiled.

IX

^QEporgan spent the rest of the day in the kitchen with an
f I 1 old woman who came in to do the cooking but de-
LJLJI voted most of her time to sipping ale from a metal
flask and stealing food from the pots. The old woman barely
gave him a glance and then only long enough to mutter some-
thing undecipherable about strange men, so he was left pretty
much to himself. He took a bath in an old tub in one of the
back rooms (because he wanted to and not because Matty Roh
had suggested it, he told himself), carrying steaming water in
buckets heated over the fire until he had enough to submerse
himself. He languished in the tub for some time, letting more
than just the dirt and grit soak away, staying long after the wa-
ter had cooled.

After the Whistiedown had opened for business he left the
kitchen and went out into the main room to have a look
around. He stood at the serving counter and watched the citi-
zens of Varfleet come and go. The crowd was a well-dressed
one, men and women both, and it was immediately clear that
the Whistiedown was not a workingman's tavern. Several
of the tables were occupied by Federation officers, some with
their wives 'or consorts. Talk and laughter was restrained, and
no one was particularly boisterous. Once or twice soldiers from
Federation patrols paused long enough for a quick glance in-
side, but then passed on. A strapping fellow with curly dark
hair drew ale from the casks, and a serving girl carried frays of
the foaming brew to the tables.

Many Roh worked, too, although it was not immediately ap-
parent to Morgan what her job was. At times she swept the

89

90                           The Talismans of Shannara

floor, at times she cleared tables, and occasionally she simply
went about straightening things up. He watched her for some
time before he was able to figure out that what she was really
doing was listening in on the conversations of the tavern pa-
trons. She was always busy and never seemed to stand about
or to be in any one place for more than a moment, a very un-
obtrusive presence. Morgan couldn't tell if anyone knew she
was a girl or not, but in any case they paid almost no attention
to her.

After a time she came up to the counter carrying a tray full
of empty glasses and stood next to him. As she reached back
for a fresh cleaning rag she said, "You're too obvious standing
here. Go back into the kitchen." And then she turned back to
the crowd.

Irritated, he nevertheless did as he was told.

At midnight the Whistledown closed. Morgan helped clean
up, and then the old cook and the counterman said good-night
and went out the back door. Matty Roh blew out the lamps in
the front room, checked the locks on the doors, and came back
into the kitchen. Morgan was waiting at the little table for her,
and she came over and sat down across from him.

"So what did you leam tonight?" he asked, half joking.
"Anything useful?"

She gave him a cool stare. "I've decided to trust you," she
announced.

His smile faded. "Thanks."

"Because if you're not who you say you are, then you are
the worst Federation spy I've ever seen."

He folded his arms defensively. "Forget the thanks. I take it
back."

"There is a rumor," she said, "that the Federation have cap-
tured Padishar at Tyrsis." Morgan went still. The cobalt eyes
stayed fastened on him. "It had something to do with a prison
break. I overheard a Federation commander talking about it.
They claim to have him."

Morgan thought about it a moment. "Padishar's hard to trap.
Maybe a rumor is all it is."

She nodded. "Maybe. It wasn't so long ago that they
claimed to have killed him at the Jut. They said the Movement

The Talismans of Shannara                          91

was finished." She paused. "In any case, we'll leam the truth
at Firerim Reach."

"We're going? " Morgan asked quickly.

"We're going." She rose. "Help me pack some food. I'll get
us some blankets. We'll slip away before it gets light. It will
be better if we aren't seen leaving."

He stood up with her and moved over to the pantry. "What
about the tavern? " he asked. "Doesn't someone have to look
after it? "

"The tavern will stay closed until I return."

He glanced up from stuffing a loaf of bread into a sack.
"You lied to me, didn't you? You are the owner."

She met his gaze and held it. 'Try not to be so stupid, High-
lander. I didn't lie to you. I'm the manager, not the owner. The
owner is Padishar Creel."

They finished putting together supplies and sleeping gear,
strapped everything across their backs, and went out the back
door into the night. The air was warm and filled with the
smells of the city as they hurried down empty streets and alley-
ways, keeping close watch for Federation patrols. The girl was
as silent as a ghost, a knife-lean figure cutting smoothly
through the building shadows. Morgan noticed that she wore
the sword she'd kept hidden beneath the counter, the narrow
blade strapped across her back beneath her other gear. He won-
dered, rather unkindly, if she'd brought her broom. At least her
odd shoes were gone, replaced by more serviceable boots.

They passed from the city into the land beyond and marched
north to the Mermidon where they crossed at a shallows and
turned east. They followed the line of the Dragon's Teeth, and
by daybreak they were traveling north again across the Rabb.
They walked steadily until sunset, pausing long enough at mid-
day to eat and to wait out the worst of the afternoon heat. The
plains were dusty-and dry and empty of life, and the journey
was uneventful. The girl spoke little, and Morgan was content
to leave things that way.

At sunset they made camp close against the Dragon's Teeth
beside a tributary of the Rabb, settling themselves in a grove
of ash that climbed into the rocks like soldiers on the march.
They ate their evening meal as the sun disappeared behind the
mountains, its hazy mix of red and gold melting across the

92                           The Talismans of Shannara

plains and sky. When they were finished, they sat watching the
dusk deepen and the river's waters turn silver in the light of
the moon and stars.

"Padishar told me you saved his life," the girl said after a
time.

She hadn't spoken a word all through dinner. Morgan looked
over, surprised by the suddeimess of the declaration. She was
watching him, her strange blue eyes depthless.

"I saved my own in the bargain," he replied, "so it wasn't
an entirely selfless act."

She folded her arms. "He said to keep watch for you and to
take good care of you. He said I'd know you when I saw you."

Her expression never changed. Morgan grinned in spite of
himself. "Well, he makes mistakes like everyone else." He
waited for a response and, when there was none, said, a bit
huffy, "You may not believe this but I can take pretty good
care of myself."

She looked away, shifting to a more comfortable position.
Her eyes gleamed in the starlight. "What is it like where you
come from? "

He hesitated, confused. "What do you mean? "

'The Highlands, what are they like? "

He thought for a moment she was teasing him, then decided
she wasn't. He took a deep breath and stretched out, remem-
bering. "It is the most beautiful country in the Four Lands," he '
said, and proceeded to describe it in detail—the hills with their
carpets of blue, lavender, and yellow grasses and flowers, the
streams that turned frosty at dawn and blood-red at dusk, the
mist that came and went with the changing seasons, the forests
and the meadows, the sense of peace and timelessness. The
Highlands were his passion, the more so since his departure
weeks earlier. It reminded him again how much home meant to
him, even a home that was really no longer his now that the
Federation occupied it—though in truth, he thought, it was still
more his than theirs because he kept the feel of it with him in
his mind and its history was in his blood and that would never
be true for them.

She was silent for a time when he finished, then said, "I like
how you describe your home. I like how you feel about it. If
I lived there, I think I would feel the same."

The Talismans of Shannara 93

"You wouM," he assured her, studying the profile of her
face as she stared out across the Rabb, distracted. "But I guess
everyone feels that way about their home."

'1 don't," she said.

He straightened up again. "Why not? "

Her forehead furrowed. It produced only a slight marring of
her smooth features but gave her an entirely different look, one
at once both introspective and distant. "I suppose it's because
I have no good memories of home. I was born on a small farm
south of Varfleet, one of several families that occupied a val-
ley. I lived there with my parents and my brothers and one sis-
ter. I was the youngest. We raised milk cows and grain. In
summer, the fields would be as gold as the sun. In fall, the
earth would be all black after it was plowed." She shrugged. "I
don't remember much other than that. Just the sickness. It
seems a long rime ago, but I guess k wasn't. The land went
bad first, then the stock, and finally my family. Everything be-
gan to die. Everyone. My sister first, then my mother, my
brothers, and my father. It was the same with the people who
lived on the other farms. It happened all at once. Everyone was
dead in a few months. One of the women on the other farms
found me and took me to Varfleet to live with her. We were
the last. I was six years old."

She made it all sound as if it were nothing out of the ordi-
nary. There was no emotion in her voice. She finished and
looked away. "I think there might be some rain on the way,"
she said.

They slept until dawn, ate a breakfast of bread, fruit, and
cheese, and began their trek north again. The skies were cloud-
ing when they woke, and a short time after they crossed the
Rabb it began to rain. Thunderheads built up, and lightning
streaked the blacjaiess. When the rain began to come down in
torrents, they took shelter in the lee of an old maple set back
against a rocky rise. Brushing water from their faces and
clothes, they settled back to wait out the storm. The air cooled
slightly, and the plains shimmered with the damp.

Shoulder to shoulder, they sat with their backs against the
maple, staring out into the haze, listening to the sound of the
rain.

94 The Talismans of Shannara

"How did you meet Padishar? " Moigan asked her after they
had been quiet for a time.

She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms about them.
Water beaded on her skin and glistened in her black hair. "I
apprenticed to Hirehone when I was old enough to work. He
taught me to forge iron and to fight. After a while I was better
than he was at both. So he brought me into the Movement, and
that's how I met Padishar."

Memories of Hirehone crowded Morgan's mind. He let them
linger a moment and then banished them. "How long have you
been looking after the Whistledown? "

"A couple of years. It offers an opportunity to learn things
that can help the free-bom. It's a place to be for now."

He glanced over. "But not where you want to end up, is that
what you're saying? "

She gave him a flicker of a smile. "It's not for me."

"What is? "

"I don't know yet. Do you? "

He thought about it. "I guess I don't. I haven't let myself
think beyond what's been happening these past few weeks.
I've been running so fast I haven't had time to stop and think."

She leaned back. "I haven't been running. I've been stand-
ing in place, waiting for something to happen."

He shifted to face her. "I was like that before I came north.
I spent all of my time thinking of ways to make life miserable
for the Federation occupiers—all those officers and soldiers
living in the home that had belonged to my family, pretending
it was theirs. I thought I was doing something, but I was really
just standing in place."

She gave him a curious glance. "So now you're running in-
stead. Is that any better? "

He smiled and shrugged. "At least I'm seeing more of the
country."

The rains slowed, the skies began to clear, and they resumed
their journey. Morgan found himself sneaking glances at Many
Roh, studying the expression on her face, the lines of her body,
and the way she moved. He thought her intriguing, suggestive
of so much more than what she allowed to show. On the sur-
face she was cool and purposeful, a carefully fixed mask that
hid stronger and deeper emotions beneath. He believed, for

The Talismans of Shannara                           95

reasons he could not explain, that she was capable of almost
anything.

It was nearing midday when she turned him into the rocks
and they began to follow a trail that ran upward into the hills
fronting the Dragon's Teeth. They entered a screen of trees that
hid the mountains ahead and the plains behind, and when they
emerged they were at the foot of the peaks. The trail disap-
peared with the trees, and they were soon climbing more
rugged slopes, picking their way over the rocks as best they
could. Morgan found himself wondering, rather uncharitably, if
Matty Roh knew where she was going. After a while they
reached a pass and followed it through a split in the rocks into
a deep defile. The cliff walls closed about until there was only
a narrow ribbon of clouded blue sky visible overhead. Birds
took flight from their craggy perches and disappeared into the
sun. Wind whistled in sudden gusts down the canyon's length,
a shrill and empty sound.

When they stopped for a drink from the water skin, Morgan
glanced at the girl to see how she was holding up. There was
a sheen of sweat on her smooth face, but she was breathing
easily. She caught him looking, and he turned quickly away.

Somewhere deep in the split Matty Roh took them into a
cluster of massive boulders that appeared to be part of an old
slide. Behind the concealing rocks they found a passageway
that tunneled into the cliff wall. They entered and began to
climb a spiraling corridor that opened out again onto a ledge
about halfway up. Morgan peered down cautiously. It was a
straight drop. A narrow trail angled upward from where they
stood, the cut invisible from below, and they followed the
pathway to the summit of the cliff and along the rim to another
split, this one barely more than a crack in the rocks, so narrow
that only one person at a time could pass through.

Matty Roh stopped at the opening. "They'll come for us in
a moment," she announced, slipping the water skin from her
shoulder and passing it to him so that he could drink.

He declined the offering. If she didn't need a drink, neither
did he. "How will they know we're here? " he asked.

That flicker of a smile came and went. "They've been
watching us for the past hour. Didn't you see them? "

96                           The Talismans of Shannara

He hadn't, of course, and she knew it, so he just shrugged
his indifference and let the matter drop.

Shortly afterward a pair of figures emerged from the shad-
ows of the split, bearded, hard-faced men with longbows and
knives. They greeted Matty Roh and Morgan perfunctorily,
then beckoned for them to follow. Single file, they entered the
split and passed along a trail that wound upward into a jumble
of rocks that shut away any view of what lay ahead. Morgan
climbed dutifully, unable to avoid noticing that Matty Roh con-
tinued to look as if she were out for a midday stroll.

Finally they reached « plateau that stretched away north,
south, and west and offered the most breathtaking views of the
Dragon's Teeth and the lands beyond that Morgan had ever
seen. Sunset was approaching, and the skies were turning a
brilliant crimson through the screen of mist that clung to the
mountain peaks. Hence the name Firerim Reach, thought Mor-
gan. East, the plateau backed up against a ridge grown thick
with spruce and cedar. It was here that the outlaws were en-
camped, their roofed shelters crowded into the trees, their
cooking fires smoldering in stone-lined pits. There were no
walled fortifications as there had been at the Jut, for the pla-
teau dropped away into a mass of jagged fissures and deep
canyons, its sheer walls unscalable by one man let alone any
sort of sizable force. At least, that was the way it appeared
from where Morgan stood, and he assumed it was the same on
all sides of the quarter-mile or so stretch of plain. The only
way in appeared to be me way they had come. Still, the High-
lander knew Padishar Creel well enough to bet there was at
least one other.

He turned as a familiar burly figure lumbered up to meet
them, black-bearded and ferocious-looking with his missing
eye and ear and his scarred face. Chandos embraced Matty
Roh warmly, nearly swallowing her up in his embrace, and
then reached out for Morgan.

"Highlander," he greeted, taking Morgan's hand in his own
and crushing it. "It's good to have you back with us."

"It's good to be back." Morgan extracted his hand painfully.
"How are you, Chandos? "

The big man shook his head. "Well enough, given every-
thing that's happened." There was an angry, frustrated look in

The Talismans of Shannara                           97

his dark eyes. His jaw tightened. "Come with me where we
can talk."

He took Morgan and Many Roh from the rim of the cliffs
across the bluff. The guards who had brought them in disap-
peared back the way they had come. Chandos moved deliber-
ately away from the encampment and the other outlaws.
Morgan glanced questioningly at Matty Roh, but the girl's face
was unreadable.

When they were safely out of earshot, she said immediately
to Chandos, "They have him, don't they? "

"Padishar? " Chandos nodded. "They took him two nights
earlier at Tyrsis." He turned and faced Morgan. "The Valeman
was with him, the smaller one, the one Padishar liked so
well—Par Ohmsford. Apparently the two of them went into
the Federation prisons to rescue Damson Rhee. They got her
out, but Padishar was captured in the attempt. Damson's here
now. She arrived yesterday with the news."

"What happened to Par? " Morgan asked, wondering at the
same time why there had been no mention of Coll.

"Damson said he went off in search of his brother—
something about the Shadowen." Chandos brushed the ques-
tion aside. "What matters at the moment is Padishar." His
scarred face furrowed. "I haven't told the others yet." He
shook his head. "I don't know if I should or not. We're sup-
posed to meet with Axhind and his Trolls at the Jannisson at
the end of the week. Five days. If we don't have Padishar with
us, I don't think they'll join up. I think they'll just turn around
and go right back the way they came. Five thousand strong!"
His face flushed, and he took a steadying breath. "We need
them if we're to have any kind of chance against the Federa-
tion. Especially after losing the Jut."

He looked at them hopefully. "I was never much at making
plans. So if you've any ideas at all ..."

Matty Roh shook her head. "If the Federation has Padishar,
he won't stay alive very long."

Chandos scowled. "Maybe longer than he'd like, if the
Seekers get their hands on him."

Morgan recalled the Pit and its inhabitants momentarily and
quickly forced the thought away. Something about all this
didn't make sense. Padishar had gone looking for Par and Coil

98                           The Talismans of Shannara

weeks ago. Why had it taken him so long to find them? Why
had the Ohmsford brothers remained in Tyrsis all that time?
And when Par and Padishar had gone into the prisons to rescue
Damson Rhee, where was Coil? Did the Shadowen have Coil
as well?

It seemed to Morgan that there was an awful lot unac-
counted for.

"I want to speak with Damson Rhee," he announced ab-
ruptly. He had wondered about her at the beginning, and
suddenly he was beginning to wonder about her all over again.

Chandos shrugged. "She's sleeping. Walked all night to get
here."

Images of Teel danced in Morgan's head, whispering insid-
iously. "Then let's wake her."

Chandos gave him a hard stare. "All right, Highlander. If
you think it's important. But it will be your doing, not mine."

They crossed to the encampment and passed through the
cooking fires and the free-bom at work about them. The sun
had dropped further in the west, and it was nearing dinnertime.
There was food in the cooking kettles, and the smells wafted
on the summer air. Morgan scarcely noticed, his mind at work
on other matters. Shadows crept out of the trees, lengthening
as dusk approached. Morgan was thinking about Par and Coil,
still in Tyrsis after all this time. They had escaped the Pit
weeks ago. Why had they stayed there? he kept wondering.
Why for so long?

As the questions pressed in about him, he kept seeing Teel's
face—and the Shadowen that had hidden beneath.

They reached a small hut set well back in the trees, and
Chandos stopped. "She's in there. You wake her if you want.
Come have dinner with me when you're finished, the both of
you."

Morgan nodded. He turned to Matty Roh. "Do you want to
come with me? "

She gave him an appraising look. "No. I think you should
do this on your own."

It seemed for a moment as if she might say more, but then
she turned and walked off into the trees after Chandos. She
knew something she wasn't telling, Morgan decided. He

The Talismans of Shannara                           99

watched her go, thinking once again that Matty Roh was a
good deal more complex than what she revealed.

He looked back at the hut, momentarily undecided as to
how he should go about bracing Damson Rhee. Suspicions and
fears shouldn't be allowed to get in the way of common sense.
But he couldn't shake the image of Teel as a Shadowen. It
could easily be the same with this girl. The trick was in finding
out.

He reached back over his shoulder to make certain that the
Sword of Lean would slide free easily, took a deep breath, then
walked up to the door and knocked. It opened almost immedi-
ately, and a girl with flaming red hair and emerald eyes stood
looking out at him. She was flushed, as if she had just
awakened, and her dark clothing was disheveled. She was
tall, though not as tall as Matty, and very pretty.

"I'm Morgan Lean," he said.

She blinked, then nodded. "Par's friend, the Highlander.
Yes, hello. I'm Damson Rhee. I'm sorry, I've been sleeping.
What time is it? " She peered up at the sky through the
trees. "Almost dusk, isn't it? I've slept too long."

She stepped back as if to go inside, then stopped and turned
to face him again. "You've heard about Padishar, I suppose.
Did you just get here? "

He nodded, watching her face. "I wanted to hear what hap-
pened from you."

"All right." She did not seem surprised. She glanced over
her shoulder, then came out into the light. "Let's talk out here.
I'm tired of being shut away. Tired of being inside where
there's no light. How much did Chandos tell you? "

She moved away from the hut into the trees, a very deter-
mined stride, and he was swept along in her wake. "He told
me that Padishar had been taken by the Federation when he
and Par came to rescue you. He said Par had left you to go
find Coil—that it had something to do with the Shadowen."

"Everything has something to do with the Shadowen,
doesn't it? " she whispered, her head lowering wearily.

She walked over to one end of a crumbling log and sat
down. Morgan hesitated, still guarded, then sat with her. She
turned slightly so that she was facing him. "I have a very long
story to tell you, Morgan Lean," she advised.

100 The Talismans of Shannara

She began with finding Par and Coil after they had escaped
the Pit in Tyrsis. She told of how they had decided to go back
down into the Shadowen breeding ground one final time, how
they had enlisted the help of the Mole and found their way
through the tunnels beneath the city to the old palace. From
there the brothers had gone off together in search of the Sword
of Shannara. Par had come back alone, carrying with him what
he believed to be the talisman, half-mad with grief and horror
because he had killed his brother. She had nursed him for
weeks in the Mole's underground home, slowly bringing him
back to himself, carefully bringing him out of his dark night-
mare. From there they had fled from safe house to safe house,
the Sword of Shannara in tow, hiding from the Seekers and the
Federation, looking for a way to escape the city. Finally
Padishar had found them, but in the process of yet another es-
cape from the Federation, Damson herself had been taken.
Padishar and Par had come back to rescue her, and that in turn
had led to Padishar's capture. Fleeing the city completely, be-
cause at last there was a way to do so and there was nothing
they could do for Padishar without help, they had come north
through the Kennon.

She touched his arm impulsively. "And what we saw, Mor-
gan Leah, from high in the pass, far off in the distance beyond
the Federation watch fires, but as clear as I see you, was
Paranor. It is back, Highlander, returned out of the past. Par
was certain of it. He said it meant mat Walker Boh had suc-
ceeded!"

Then, growing subdued again, she described their journey
back out of the pass and their fateful encounter with Coil—or
the thing Coil had become, wrapped in that strange, shimmer-
ing cloak, hunched and twisted as if his bones had been rear-
ranged. In the struggle that followed the power of the Sword
of Shannara had somehow been invoked, revealing what Par
now thought to be the truth about the brother he believed dead.

"He went after Coil, of course," she finished. "What else
could he do? I did not want him to go, not without me—but
I did not have the right to stop him." She searched Morgan's
eyes. "I am not as certain as he that it is Coil he tracks, but
I realize that he must find out one way or the other if he is
ever to be at peace."

The Talismans of Shannara 101

Morgan nodded. He was thinking that Damson Rhee had
given up an awful lot of herself to help Par Ohmsford, that she
had risked more than he would have expected anyone to risk
besides himself and Coll. He was thinking as well that the
story she had told him had a feeling of truth to it, that it
seemed right in the balance of things. The doubts he had
brought with him coming in began to fade away. Certainly
Par's persistence in going after the Sword of Shannara was in
character, as was this new search to find his brother. The prob-
lem now was that Par was more alone than ever, and Morgan
was reminded once again of his failure to watch out for his
friend.

He realized Damson was studying him, a hard, probing look,
and without warning his suspicions flared anew. Damson
Rhee—was she the friend that Par believed or the enemy he
sought so desperately to escape. Certainly she could have been
the reason he'd had so many narrow escapes, the reason the
Shadowen had almost trapped him so many times. But then,
too, wasn't she also the reason he had escaped?

"You're not certain of me, are you? " she asked quietly.

"No," he admitted. "I'm not."

She nodded. "I don't know what I can do to convince you,
Morgan. I don't know that I even want to try. I have to spend
whatever energy is left me finding a way to free Padishar.
Then I will go in search of Par."

He looked away into the trees, thinking of the dark suspi-
cions that the Shadowen bred in all of them, wishing it could
be otherwise. "When I was at the Jut with Padishar," he said,
"I was forced to kill a girl who was really a Shadowen." He
looked back at her. "Her name was Teel. My friend Steff was
in love with her, and it cost him his life."

He told her then of Teel's betrayals and the eventual con-
frontation deep within the' catacombs of the mountains behind
the Jut where he had killed the Shadowen who had been Teel
and saved Padishar Creel's life.

"What frightens me," he said, "is that you could be another
Teel and Par could end up like Steff."

She did not respond, her gaze distant and lost. She might
have been looking right through him. There were tears in her
eyes.

102                          The Talismans of Shannara

He reached back suddenly and drew out the Sword of Lean.
Damson watched him without moving, her green eyes fixing
on the gleaming blade as he placed it point downward in the
earth between them, his hands fastened on the pommel.

"Put your hands on the flat of the blade. Damson," he said
softly.

She looked at him without answering, and for a long time
she did not move. He waited, listening to the distant sounds of
the free-bom as they gathered for dinner, listening to the si-
lence closer at hand. The light was fading rapidly now, and
there were shadows all about. He felt oddly removed from ev-
erything about him, as if he were frozen in time with Damson
Rhee.

Not this girl, he found himself praying. Not again.

At last she reached out and touched the Sword of Leah, her
palms tight against the metal. Then she deliberately closed her
fingers about the edge. Morgan watched in horror as the blade
cut deep into her flesh, and her blood began to trickle down its
length.

"A Shadowen couldn't do that, could it? " she whispered.

He reached down quickly and pried her fingers away. "No,"
he said. "Not without triggering the magic." He lay the talis-
man aside, tore strips of cloth from his cloak, and began to
bind her hands. "You didn't have to do that," he reproached
her.

Her smile was faint and wistful. "Didn't I? Would you have
been sure of me otherwise, Morgan Leah? I don't think so.
And if you're not sure of me, how can we be of help to each
other? There has to be trust between us." She fixed him with
her gentle eyes. "Is there now? "

He nodded quickly. "Yes. I'm sorry. Damson."

Her bound hands reached up to clasp his own. "Let me tell
you something." The tears were back in her eyes. "You said
that your friend Steff was in love with Teel? Well, Highlander,
I am in love with Par Ohmsford."

He saw it all then, the reason she had stayed with Par, had
given herself so completely to him, following him even into
the Pit, watching over him, protecting him- It was what he
would have done—had tried to do—for Quickening. Damson
Rhee had made a commitment that only death would release.

The Talismans of Shannara                         103

"I'm sorry," he said again, thinking how inadequate it
sounded.

Her hands tightened on his and did not let go. They faced
each other m the dusk without speaking for a long time. As
he held her hands, Morgan was reminded of Quickening, of the
way she had felt, of the feelings she had invoked in him. He
found that he missed her desperately and would have given
anything to have her back again.

"Enough testing," Damson whispered. "Let's talk instead.
I'll tell you everything that's happened to me. You do the same
about yourself. Par and Padishar need us. Maybe together we
can come up with a way to help."

She squeezed his hands as if there were no pain in her own
and gave him an encouraging smile. He bent to retrieve the
Sword of Leah, then started back with her through the trees to-
ward the glow of the cooking fires. His mind was spinning,
working through what she had told him, sorting out impres-
sions from facts, trying to glean something useful. Damson
was right. The Valeman and the leader of the free-born needed
them. Morgan was determined not to let either down.

But what could he do?

The smell of food from the cooking fire reached out to him
enticingly. For the first time since he had arrived, he was hun-
gry-
Par and Padishar.

Padishar first, he thought.

Chandos had said five days.

If the Seekers didn't reach him first ...

It came to him in a rush, the picture so clear in his mind he
almost cried out. He reached over impulsively and put his arm
around Damson's shoulders.

"I think I know how to free Padishar," he said.

x

Five days the Four Horsemen circled the walls of Paranor,
and five days Walker Boh stood on the castle battlements
and watched. Each dawn they assembled at the west
gates, shadows come from the gloom of fading night. One
would approach, a different one each time, and strike the gates
once in challenge. When Walker failed to appear they would
resume their grim vigil, spreading out so that there was one at
each compass point, one at each of the main walls, riding in
slow, ceaseless cadence, circling like birds of prey. Day and
night they rode, specters of gray mist and dark imaginings, si-
lent as thought and certain as time.

"Incarnations of man's greatest enemies," Cogline mused
when he saw them for the first time. "Manifestations of our
worst fears, the slayers of so many, given shape and form and
sent to destroy us." He shook his head. "Can it be that Rimmer
Dall has a sense of humor? "

Walker didn't think so. He found nothing amusing about any
of it. The Shadowen appeared to possess boundless raw power,
the kind of power that would let them become anything. It was
neither subtle nor intricate; it was as straightforward and re-
lentless as a flood. It seemed able to build on itself and to
sweep aside anything that it found in its path. Walker did not
know how powerful the Horsemen were, but he was willing to
bet that they were more than a match for him. Rimmer Dall
would have sent nothing less to deal with a Druid—even one
newly come to the position, uncertain of his own strength, of
the extent of his magic, and of the ways it might be made to
serve him. At least one of AUanon's charges to the Ohmsfords
104

The Talismans of Shannara                         105

had been carried out, and it posed a threat that the Shadowen
could not afford to ignore.

Yet the purpose of the charges remained a mystery that
Walker could not solve. Standing atop Paranor's walls, watch-
ing the Four Horsemen circle below, he pondered endlessly
why the charges had been given. What was it that the Sword
of Shannara was supposed to accomplish? What purpose
would it serve to have the Elves brought back into the world
of men? What was the reason for returning Paranor and the
Druids? Or one Druid at least, he mused darkly. One Druid,
made over out of bits and pieces of others. He was an amal-
gam of those who had come and gone, of their memories, of
their strengths and weaknesses, of their lore and history, of
their magic's secrets. He was an infant in his life as a Druid,
and he did not yet know how he was supposed to act. Each
day he opened new doors on what others before him had
known and passed on, knowledge that revealed itself in unex-
pected glimpses, light coming from the darkened comers of his
mind as if let in through shuttered windows thrown wide. He
did not understand it all, sometimes doubted it, often ques-
tioned its worth. But the flow was relentless, and he was
forced to measure and weigh each new revelation, knowing it
must have had worth once, accepting that it might again.

But what role was he supposed to play in the struggle to put
an end to the Shadowen? He had become the Druid that
Allanon had sought, and he had made himself master of
Paranor. Yet what was he supposed to do with this? Surely he
had magic now that might be used against the Shadowen—just
as the Druids had used magic before to give aid to the Races.
He possessed knowledge as well, perhaps more knowledge
than any man alive, and the Druids had used this as a weapon,
too. But it seemed ,to Walker that his newfound power lacked
any discernible focus, that he needed first to understand the na-
ture of his enemy before he could settle on a way to defeat it.

Meanwhile, here he was, trapped within his tower fortress
where he could not help anyone.

"They do not try to enter," Cogline observed at one point af-
ter three days of vigilance atop the castle walls. "Why do you
think mat is? "

106                         The Talismans of Shannam

Walker shook his head. "Perhaps they do not need to. As
long as we remain locked within, their purpose is served."

The old man rubbed his whiskered chin. He had grown
older since his release from the half life to which the magic of
the Druid Histories had consigned him. He was lined and wrin-
kled anew, more stooped than before, slower in his walk and
speech, frail beyond what his years allowed. Walker did not
like what he saw, but said nothing. The old man had given
much for him, and what he had given had clearly taken its toll.
But he did not complain or choose to talk of it, so there was
no reason for Walker to do so either.

"It may be that they are afraid of the Druid magic," Walker
continued after a moment, his good hand lifting to rest on the
battlement stone. "Paranor has always been protected from
those that would enter uninvited. The Shadowen may know of
this and choose to stay without because of it."

"Or perhaps they wait until they have tested the nature and
extent of that magic," Cogline said softly. "They wait to dis-
cover how dangerous you are." He looked at Walker without
seeing him, eyes focused somewhere beyond. "Or until they
simply grow tired of waiting," he whispered.

Walker considered ways in which he might defeat these
Shadowen, turning those ways over and over in his mind like
artifacts hiding clues to the past. The Black Elfstone was an
obvious choice, secreted now in a vault deep within the cata-
combs of the Keep. But the Elfstone would exact its own price
if called upon, and it was not a price that Walker was willing
to pay. There was no reason to think that the Elfstone would
not work against the Four Horsemen, draining their magic
away until nothing remained but ashes. But the nature of the
Elfstone required that the stolen magic be transferred into the
holder, and Walker had no wish to have the Shadowen magic
made part of him.

There was also the Stiehl, the strange killing blade taken
from the assassin Pe Ell at Eldwist, the weapon that could kill
anything. But Walker did not relish the prospect of using an
assassin's weapon, especially one with the history of the Stiehl,
and thought that if weapons were required, there were plenty
at hand that could be used against the Shadowen.

What he needed most, he knew, was a plan. He had three

The Talismans of Shannam                        107

choices. He could remain safely within Paranor's walls, hoping
to wait the Shadowen out; he could go out and face them; or
he could try to slip past them without being seen. The first of-
fered only the faintest possibility of success, and besides, time
was not something of which he had an abundance in any case.
The second seemed incontestably foolhardy.

That left the third.

Five days after the Pour Horsemen laid siege to Paranor,
Walker Boh decided to attempt an escape.

Underground.

He told Cogline of his plan at dinner that night—a dinner
comprising some few small stores left over from three centu-
ries gone and frozen in time with the castle, sorely depleted
stores that reinforced the importance of breaking the siege.
There were tunnels beneath the castle that opened into the for-
ests beyond, concealments known only to Druids past and now
to him. He would slip through such a tunnel that night and
emerge behind where the Horsemen patrolled the walls. He
would be clear of them and gone before they knew he had es-
caped.

Cogline frowned and looked doubtful. It seemed entirely too
easy to him. Surely the Shadowen would have thought of such
a possibility.

But Walker had made up his mind. Five days of standing
about was long enough. Something had to be tried, and this
was the best he could come up with. Cogline and Rumor
would remain within the Keep. If the Horsemen attempted an
assault before Walker returned, they should slip out the same
way he had gone. Cogline reluctantly agreed, bothered by
something he refused to discuss, so agitated that Walker came
close to pressing for an explanation. But the old man's enig-
matic behavior was nothing new, so in the end Walker let the
matter drop.

He waited for midnight, watching from the walls until late
to make certain that the Shadowen kept to their rounds. They
did, spectral shapes in the dark below, circling ceaselessly. The
fog that had blanketed the valley for the better part of four
days had lifted that dawn, and now with the coming of night
Walker Boh saw something new in the valley. Far west, where

108                         The Talismans of Shannara

the Dragon's Teeth turned north into the Streleheim, there were
watch fires at the mouth of the Kennon Pass. An army was
camped there, blocking all passage. The Federation, Walker
thought, staring out across the trees of the forest below, across
the hills beyond, to the light. Perhaps their presence in the pass
was unrelated to that of the Shadowen at Paranor, but Walker
didn't think so. Knowingly or not, the Federation served the
Shadowen cause—a tool for Rimmer Dall and others in the
Coalition Council hierarchy—and it was safe to assume that
the soldiers in the Kennon had something to do with the Four
Horsemen.

Not that it mattered. Walker Boh wasn't worried for a mo-
ment that Federation soldiers would prove any hindrance to
him.

When midnight came, he left the castle walls and went
down through the Keep. He wore clothes as black as night,
loose-fitting and serviceable, and carried no weapons. He left
Cogline and Rumor peering after him as he entered the fire pit.
His memories were Allanon's and those of Druids gone before,
and he found he knew his way as well as if the Keep had al-
ways been his home. Doors hidden within the castle stone
opened at his touch, and passageways were as familiar as the
haunts of Hearthstone in the days before the dreams of
Allanon. He found the tunnels that ran beneath the rock on
which Paranor rested and worked his way down into the earth.
All about him he could hear the steady thrum of the fires con-
tained in the furnaces beneath the Keep, throbbing steadily
within their core of rock deep below the castle walls, the only
sound within the darkness and silence.

It took him over an hour to make his way through. There
were numerous passageways beneath the castle, all intertwined
and leading from a single door that only he could open. He
chose the one that led west, seeking to exit within the shel-
tering trees of the forests that lay between the Horsemen and
the Kennon Pass, certain that once free of the Shadowen he
could slip past the Federation soldiers easily. When he reached
the concealed opening, he paused to listen. There was no
sound above him. There was no movement. Still, he felt un-
easy, as if sensing that despite appearances all was not well.
He went out from the tunnel into the black of the forest, ris-

The Talismans of Shannara 109

ing from the earth like a shadow within a covering of brush
and rocks. Through gaps in the canopy of limbs overhead he
could see the stars and a hint of the waning moon. It was silent
within the trees, as if nothing lived there. He searched for a
hint of the presence of the gray wolves and did not find it. He
listened for the small sounds of insects and birds, and they
were missing. He sniffed the air and smelled an odd mustiness.

He breathed deeply and stepped out into the open.

He heard, rather than saw, the sweep of the scythe arcing to-
ward him, and flung himself aside just before it struck. Death
grunted with the effort of the swing, a cloaked black shape to
one side. Walker rolled to his feet, seeing another shape mate-
rialize to his right. War, all in armor, blade edges and spikes
glinting wickedly, hurled a mace that thudded into the tree next
to him and caused the trunk to split apart. Walker whirled
away, careening wildly past the skeletal arms of Famine, white
bones reaching, clutching. They were all there, all of them, he
realized in despair. Somehow they had found him out.

He darted away, hearing the buzz and hiss of Pestilence,
feeling dry heat and smelling sickness close beside. He leaped
a small ravine, his fear giving him unexpected strength, a fiery
determination building within him. The Horsemen came after,
dismounted now in their effort to trap him, bits of night broken
free like the edges of a shattered blade. He heard their move-
ment as he might the rustle of leaves in a slight wind, small
whispers. There was nothing else—no footsteps, no breathing,
no scrape of weapons or bone.

Walker raced through the trees, no longer sure in which di-
rection he was running, seeking only to elude his pursuers. He
was suddenly lost in the darkness of the forest corridors, flee-
ing to no purpose but to escape, any advantage of surprise lost.
The Shadowen came on, a swift and certain pursuit He was
aware of their movements out of the comer of his eye. They
had him flushed now, and they were hunting him as dogs
would a fox.

No!

He whirled then and brought his magic to bear, throwing up
a wall of fire between himself and his pursuers, sending the
flames back into their faces like white-hot spikes. War and
Pestilence shrank away, slowed, but Famine and Death came

110 The Talismans of Shannara

on, unaffected. Of course. Walker thought as he ran anew.
Famine and Death. Fire would not harm them.

He crossed a stream and swerved right toward the rise of
Paranor, towers and walls sharp-edged against the night. He
had been running that way without knowing it, and now saw
it as his only chance of escape. If he could gain the castle be-
fore they caught him ...

Cogline! Was the old man watching?

Something rose out of the night before him, serpentine and
slick with moisture. Claws reached for him and teeth gleamed.
It was one of the Shadowen mounts, set there to cut him off.
He slipped beneath its grasp, a bit of night that could not be
held, the magic making him as swift and ephemeral as the
wind. The serpent thing hissed and slashed wildly, sending
gouts of earth flying. Walker Boh was behind it by then, racing
away with the quickness of thought. Ahead the castle of the
Druids loomed—his sanctuary, his haven from these things—

A black motion to his left sent him skidding away as Fam-
ine lashed out with a sword carved of bone, a dull white
gleaming that tore at the edges of his clothing. Walker lost his
footing and went down, tumbling along a slope, rolling wildly
through brush and long grass and into a slick of standing wa-
ter. Something rushed past, just missing him with a click of
jaws. Another of the serpents. Walker came to his feet, flinging
fire and sound in all directions in a desperate effort to shield
himself. He had the satisfaction of hearing something shriek in
pain, of hearing something else grunt as if clubbed, and then
he was moving again. Trees rose off to one side, and he dis-
appeared into them, searching out the concealment of the deep
shadows. His breathing was ragged and uneven, and his body
ached. To his dismay, he found himself moving away from the
castle again, turned aside from the safety he had hoped to gain.

A shadow flitted off to his left, swift and silent, a black
cloak and a glint of an iron blade. Death. Walker was tiring,
worn from his flight, from being forced to change direction so
often. The Shadowen had hemmed him in and were closing.
He did not think he could reach the castle before they caught
up to him. He sought to change directions back again, but saw
movement between himself and the Keep and heard a hiss of
anticipation and the sudden rustic of scales through the grasses

The Talismans of Shannara 111

and brush. Walker could barely keep his panic in check, feel-
ing it as a growing tightness in his throat. He had been too
quick to assume, too sure of himself. He should have known
it would not be this easy. He should have anticipated better.

Branches slapped at his face and arms as he forced his way
into a stretch of deep woods. Behind, the serpent closed. It
seemed as if he could feel its breath on his neck, the touch of
claws and teeth on his body. He increased his pace, broke free
of the underbrush into a clearing, and found Death waiting,
cloaked and hooded, scythe lifted. The Shadowen struck at
him, missed as he veered sideways, swung a second time, and
Walker caught hold of the scythe to deflect it. Instantly a cold
numbed his hand and arm, hollow and bone-chilling, and he
jerked away in pain, thrusting the scythe and its wielder aside
as he did so. Something else moved in from the right, but he
was running again, throwing himself back into the forest, slip-
ping past rows of dark trunks as if turned substanceless, all the
while feeling the numbness settle deeper.

So cold!

His strength was failing now, and he was no closer to safety
than before. Think, he admonished himself furiously. Think!
Shadows moved all about, the skeletal shape of Famine, the
hideous buzz of Pestilence, the rumble of War in his
unbreachable armor, the silent rush of Death, and with them
the serpents they commanded.

Then suddenly a memory triggered, and Walker Boh grasped
for the thread of hope it offered. There was a trapdoor hidden
in the earth just ahead and beneath it a tunnel leading back into
Paranor. The trapdoor was Allanon's memory, come alive in
the terror and anguish of the moment, recalled just in time.
There, left! Walker swerved, lurching ahead, hand and arm
feeling as dead as the one he had lost. Don't think about it! He
threw himself into'a covering of brush, whipping past leafy
barriers, down a ravine, and across a narrows.

There!

His hand dropped to the earth, clawing for the hidden door
with nerveless fingers. It was here, he thought, here in this
patch of ground. Sounds approached from behind, closing. He
found an iron ring, grasped it, and heaved upward. The door
came away with a thud, falling back. Walker tumbled through

222                         The Talismans of Sfwnnara

the opening and down the stairs beyond, then scrambled back
to his feet. There were shadows at the entry, coming through.
He raised his damaged hand and arm, fighting through the
numbness and chill, and called for the magic. Pire exploded up
the stairs and filled the opening. The shadows disappeared in
a ball of light. There was a rending of earth and stone, and the
entire entrance collapsed.

Walker lurched away into the tunnel, choking and coughing
from me dust and smoke. Twice he glanced back to make cer-
tain that nothing followed.

But he was alone.

He was besieged by doubts and fears as he made his way
back to the Keep through the tunnels, assailed by demons that
bore the faces of his enemies. It seemed as if he could hear his
Shadowen pursuers even here, come down into the earth to fin-
ish what they had started. Death, War, Pestilence, and
Famine—what was rock and earth to them? Could they not
penetrate anywhere? What was to keep them out?

But they did not come, for, notwithstanding the forms and
identities they had assumed, they were not invincible and not
truly the incarnations they pretended to be. He had heard them
cry out in pain; he had felt their substance. The numbness in
his hand and arm was beginning to recede, and he welcomed
the tingling gratefully, feeling anew the pain of loss of his
other limb, wishing he could live that part of his life over
again.

He wondered how much more of himself he would be
forced to cede before this struggle was over. Wasn't he lucky
just to be alive? How narrow his escape from the Shadowen
had been this time!

And then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he hadn't
really escaped anything. Perhaps he had been allowed to es-
cape. Perhaps the Horsemen had only been toying with him.
Hadn't they had enough chances to kill him if they wanted to?
It seemed on reflection that they might have been trying to
scare him rather than kill him, to instill enough fear in him that
he would be unable to function at all once he was back within
the Druid's Keep.

But he discarded the idea almost immediately. It was ridic-

The Talismans of Shannara 113

ulous to think that they wouldn't have killed him if they could.
They had simply tried and failed. He had possessed enough
skill and magic to save himself even in the confusion of an
ambush, and he would take what comfort he could from that.

Aching and worn, he reentered Paranor's walls and made his
way back into the Keep. Cogline would be waiting. He would
have to confess his failure to the old man. The thought trou-
bled him, and he was aware that it was his preconception of
the invincibility of the Druids that stood in the way of accept-
ance. But he could not afford pride. He was a novice still. He
was just beginning to learn.

Slowly the fears and doubts dropped away, and the demons
disappeared. There would be another day, he promised—
another time and place in which to deal with the Horsemen.

When it came, he would be ready.

XI

CgnPorgan Leah explained his plan to rescue Padishar
f I • Creel to Damson Rhee and Chandos during dinner.
I^AJi He pulled them aside where they would not be over-
heard, huddling on the open bluff about their food and drink,
listening to the night sounds and watching the stars brighten in
the darkening sky while they talked. He first had Damson re-
late again the particulars of her own escape from the city, let-
ting her tell the story as she chose, glancing back and forth
between the giri and the fierce-looking free-bom. When she
had finished, he set his empty plate aside—he had consumed
everything while she talked—and leaned forward intently.

"They will expect a rescue attempt," he advised softly, glan-
cing at each in turn. "They know we won't just give up on
him. They know how important he is to us. But they will not
expect us to come at them the same way. They will expect a
different approach this time—a major effort involving a large
number of men maybe, a diversion of some sort perhaps lead-
ing to an all-out assault. They will expect us to try to catch
them off guard. So we have to give them something other than
what they're looking for before they realize what it is they're
seeing."

Chandos snorted. "Are you making any sense, High-
lander? "

Morgan permitted himself a quick grin. "Above all else, we
have to get in and out again quick. The longer this takes, the
more dangerous it becomes. Bear with me, Chandos. I just
want you to understand the reasoning behind what I'm about
114

The Talismans of Shannara                          115

to suggest. We have to think the way they do in order to an-
ticipate their plan to trap us and find a way to avoid it."

"You're sure there will be a trap, then? " the big man asked,
rubbing his bearded chin. "Why won't they just dispose of
Padishar and be done with it? Or why not do to him what they
did to Hirehone? " He glanced quickly at Damson, who was
tight-lipped.

Morgan clasped a hand on the other's broad shoulder. "I
can't be sure of anything. But think about it for a moment. If
they dispose of Padishar, they lose any chance of getting then-
hands on the rest of us. And they want us all, Chandos. They
want the free-bom wiped out." He faced Damson. "Eventually,
they will use Padishar the same way they used Hirehone. But
they won't do that right away. First of all, they know we will
be looking for it. If Padishar comes back, what's the first thing
we'll ask ourselves? Is it really Padishar—or is it another of
the Shadowen? Second, they know we found a way to discover
the truth about Teel. And they know we might do it again with
Padishar. Third, and most important, we have the use of magic
and they want it. Rimmer Dall has been chasing Par Ohmsford
from the beginning and it must have something to do with his
magic. Same with Walker Boh. And the same with me."

He leaned forward. "They'll try to use Padishar to bring us
to them because they know we won't attempt a rescue without
bringing the magic along, that we won't challenge theirs with-
out being able to call on ours. They want that magic—just like
they want all the magic—and this is their best chance to get
it."

Chandos frowned. "So you figure it's the Shadowen that
we'll really be up against? "

Morgan nodded. "It's been the Shadowen right from the be-
ginning. Teel, Hirehone, the Creepers, Rimmer Dall, the
Gnawl, that little girl Par encountered on Toffer Ridge—
everywhere we've gone, the Shadowen have been there wait-
ing. They control the Federation and the Coalition Council as
well; they have to. Of course it's the Shadowen we'll be up
against."

"Tell us your plan," Damson urged quietly.

Morgan leaned back again, folding his arms comfortably.
"We go back into Tyrsis through the tunnels—the same way

126                          The Talismans of Shannara

Damson escaped. We dress ourselves in Federation uniforms,
just as Padishar did at the Pit. We go up into the city, to the
watchtower or prisons or wherever they have Padishar. We en-
ter in broad daylight and set him free. We go in one way and
out another. We do it all in a matter of a few minutes."

Chandos and Damson both stared at him. "That's it? That's
the whole plan? " Chandos demanded.

"Wait a minute," Damson interrupted. "Morgan, how do we
get back into the tunnels? I can't remember the way."

"No, you can't," Morgan agreed. "But the Mole can." He
took a deep breath. "This plan depends mostly on him. And
you persuading him to help." He paused, studying her green
eyes. "You will have to go back into me city and find him,
then come down through the catacombs to lead us in. You will
have to find out where Padishar is being held so that we can
go right to him. The Mole knows all the secret passageways,
all the tunnels that He beneath the city of Tyrsis. He can find
a way for us to go. If we just appear at their door, they won't
have time to stop us. It's the best chance we have—do what
they expect us to do, but not in the way they're anticipating."

Chandos shook his head. "I don't know, Highlander. They
know about Damson; they'll be looking for her."

Morgan nodded. "But she's the only one the Mole will trust.
She has to go in first, through the gates. I'll go with her." He
looked at her. "What do you think, Damson Rhee? "

"I think I can do it," she declared quietly. "And the Mole
will help—if they haven't caught up with him yet." She
frowned doubtfully. "They have to be hunting for him down in
those same tunnels we'll be coming through."

"But he knows them better than the soldiers do," Morgan
said. "They've been trying to catch him for weeks now and
haven't been able to do so. We just need another few days."
He looked at the girl and the big man in turn. "It is the best
chance we're going to get. We have to try."

Chandos shook his head once more. "How many of us will
this take? "

'Two dozen, no more."

Chandos stared at him, wide-eyed. 'Two dozen! Highlander,
mere's five thousand Federation soldiers quartered in Tyrsis,

The Talismans of Shannara 117

and who knows how many Shadowen! Two dozen men won't
stand a chance!"

"We'll stand a better chance than two hundred—or two
thousand, if we had that many to muster, which we don't, do
we? " The big man's jaw tightened defensively. "Chandos, the
smaller the company, the better the chance of hiding it. They'll
be looking for something larger; they'll expect it. But two
dozen men? We can be on top of them before they know who
we are. We can disguise two dozen among five thousand a lot
more easily than two hundred. Two dozen is all we need if we
get close enough."

"He's right," Damson said suddenly. "A large force would
be heard in the tunnels. There would be nowhere for them to
hide in the city. We can slip two dozen in and hide them until
the attempt." She looked directly at Morgan. "What I don't
know is whether two dozen will be enough to free Padishar
when the time comes."

Morgan met her gaze. "Because of the Shadowen? "

"Yes, because of the Shadowen. We don't have Par with us
this time to keep them at bay."

"No," Morgan agreed, "you have me instead." He reached
back over his shoulder, drew out the Sword of Leah, brought
it around in front of him, and jammed it dramatically into the
earth. It rested there, quivering slightly, polished surface
smooth and silver in the starlight. He looked at them. "And I
have this."

"Your talisman," Chandos muttered in surprise. "I thought it
was broken."

"It was healed when I went north," Morgan replied softly,
seeing Quickening's face appear and then fade in his mind. "I
have the magic back again. It will be enough to withstand the
Shadowen."

Damson glanced from one face to the other, confused. Per-
haps Par hadn't told her about the Sword of Leah. Perhaps he
hadn't had time in the struggle to escape Tyrsis and reach the
free-bom. And no one knew about Quickening save for Walker
Boh.

Morgan did not care to explain, and he did not try. "Can
you find the men? " he asked Chandos instead.

The black eyes fixed him. "I can, Highlander. Twenty times

118                          The Talismans of Shannara

that for Padishar Creel." He paused. "But you're asking them
to place a lot of faith in you."

Morgan jerked his sword free of the earth and slid it back
into its sheath. In the distance, along the bluff edge, free-bom
patrolled in the darkness. Behind, back against the trees, cook-
ing fires burned low, and the clank and rattle of cookware was
beginning to diminish as the meal ended and thoughts turned
to sleep. Pipes were lit, small bits of light against the black,
fireflies that wavered in the concealment of the trees. The
sound of voices was low and easy.

Morgan looked at the big man. "If there were a better
choice, Chandos, I would take it gladly." He held the other's
dark gaze. "What's it to be, yes or no? "

Chandos looked at Damson, his gold earring a small glitter
as his head turned. "What do you say? "

The girl brushed back her fiery hair, the look in her eyes a
determined one, edged with flashes of anger and hope. "I say
we have to try something or Padishar is lost." Her face tight-
ened. "If it was us instead of him, wouldn't he come? "

Chandos rubbed at the scarred remains of his ear. "In your
case, he already did, didn't he? " He shook his head. "Pools to
the end, we are," he muttered to no one in particular. "All of
us." He looked back at Morgan. "All right, Highlander. Two
dozen men, myself included. I'll pick them tonight,"

He rose abruptly. "You'll want to leave right away, I expect.
First light, or as soon thereafter as we can put together supplies
for the trip." He gave Morgan a wry look. "We don't have to
live off the land by any chance, do we, Highlander? "

Morgan and Damson stood up with him. Morgan extended
his hand to the free-bom. "Thank you, Chandos."

The big man laughed. "For what? For agreeing to a mad-
man's scheme? " He clasped Morgan's hand nevertheless. "Tell
you what. If this works, it'll be me thanking you a dozen times
over."

Muttering, he trudged off toward the cooking fires, carrying
his empty plate, shaggy head lowered into his barrel chest.
Morgan watched him go, thinking momentarily of times gone
by and of places and companions left behind. The thoughts
were haunting and filled with regrets for what might have
been, and they left him feeling empty and alone.

The Talismans of Shannara                          119

He felt Damson's shoulder brush up against his arm and
turned to face her. The emerald eyes were thoughtful. "He may
be right about you," she observed quietly. "You may be a mad-
man."

He shrugged. "You backed me up."

"I want Padishar free. You seem to be the only one with a
plan." She arched one eyebrow. 'Tell me the truth—is there
any more to this scheme than what you've revealed? "

He smiled. "Not much. I hope to be able to improvise as I
go along."

She didn't say anything, just studied him a moment, then
took his arm and steered him out along the bluff face. They
walked without saying anything for a long time, crossing from
the edge of the trees to the cliffs and back again, breathing the
scent of wildflowers and grasses on the wind that skipped
down off the ridges of the peaks beyond. The wind was warm
and soothing, like silk against Morgan's skin. He lifted his face
to it. It made him want to close his eyes and disappear into it.

"Tell me about your sword," she said suddenly, her voice
very quiet. Her gaze was steady despite the sudden shifting of
his eyes away from her. 'Tell me how it was healed—and why
you hurt so much, Morgan. Because you do in some way,
don't you? I can see it in your eyes. Tell me. I want to hear."

He believed her, and he discovered all at once that he did
want to talk about it after all. He let himself be pulled down
onto a flat-surfaced rock. Sitting next to her in the darkness,
both of them facing out toward the cliffs, he began to speak.

"There was a girl named Quickening," he said, the words
thick and unwieldy sounding as he spoke them. He paused and
took a deep, steadying breath. "I loved her very much."

He hoped she didn't see the tears that came to his eyes.

He spent the night rolled into a blanket at the edge of the
trees, body wedged within the roots of an ancient elm, head
cradled by his rolled-up travel cloak. The makeshift bedding
proved less than satisfactory, and he woke stiff and sore. As he
shook the leaves and dust out of the cloak he realized that he
had not seen Matty Roh since the night before, that he hadn't
actually seen her even at dinner, although he had been pretty
preoccupied with his plan for rescuing Padishar—his great and

320 The Talismans of Shannara

wonderful plan that on reflection in the pale first light of dawn
appeared pretty makeshift and decidedly lacking in common
sense. Last night it had seemed pretty good. This morning it
just looked desperate.

But he was committed to it now. Chandos would have al-
ready begun preparations for the journey back to Tyrsis. There
was nothing to be gained by second-guessing.

He stretched and headed for the little stream that ran down
out of the rocks behind him some distance back in the trees.
The cold water would help to unclog his brain, chase the sleep
from his eyes. He had talked with Damson Rhee until well af-
ter midnight. He had told her everything about Quickening and
the journey north to Eldwist. She had listened without saying
much, and somehow it had brought them closer together. He
found himself liking her more, found himself trusting her. The
suspicions that had been there earlier had faded. He began to
understand why Par Ohmsford and Padishar Creel had gone
back for her after the Federation had taken her prisoner. He
thought that he would have done the same.

Nevertheless, there was something she wasn't telling him
about her relationship with the Valeman and the leader of the
free-bom. It was neither a deception nor a lie; it was simply an
omission. She had been quick enough to acknowledge that she
was in love with Par, but there was something else, something
that predated her feelings for the Valeman, that formed the
backbone for everything that had led to her own involvement
in trying to recover the Sword of Shannara from the Pit. Mor-
gan wasn't sure what it was, but it was there in the fabric of
her tale, in the way she spoke of the two men, in the strength
of her conviction that she must help them. Once or twice Mor-
gan had almost been able to put his finger on what it was that
she was keeping to herself, but each time the truth skittered
just out of reach.

In any case, he felt better for having told someone about
Quickening, for having given some release to the feelings he
had kept bottled up inside since his return. He'd slept well af-
ter that, a dreamless rest cradled in the crook of that old tree,
able to let go a little of the pain that had dogged him for so
many weeks.

He heard the sound of the stream ahead, a small rippling

The Talismans of Shannara                         121

against the silence. He crossed a clearing, pushed through a
screen of brush, and found himself staring at Matty Roh.

She sat across from him at the edge of the stream, her pants
rolled up and her bare feet dangling in the water. The moment
he appeared she jerked away, reaching for her boots. Her feet
came out of the water in a flash of white skin, disappearing
into the shadow of her body almost immediately. But for just
an instant he had a clear view of them, hideously scarred, the
toes missing or so badly deformed that they were almost un-
recognizable. Her black hair shivered in the light with the ur-
gency of her movements as she turned her face away from
him.

"Don't look at me," she whispered harshly.

Embarrassed, he turned away at once. "I'm sorry," he apol-
ogized. "I didn't know you were here."

He hesitated, then started away, following the stream toward
the rocks, the picture of her feet uncomfortably clear in his
mind.

"You don't have to leave," she called after him, and he
stopped. "I ... I just need a minute."

He waited, looking out into the trees, hearing voices now
from just beyond where he stood, a snatch of laughter here, a
quick murmur there.

"All right," she said, and he turned back again. She was
standing by the stream with her pants rolled down and her
boots on. "I'm sorry I snapped at you like that."

He shrugged and walked over to her. "Well, I didn't mean
to surprise you. I'm still a little bit asleep, I guess."

"It wasn't your fault." She looked embarrassed as well.

He knelt by the stream and splashed water on his face and
hands, used soap to wash himself, and rubbed himself dry
again on a soft cloth. He could have used a bath, but didn't
want to take the time. He was conscious of the girl watching
him as he worked, a silent shadow at his side.

He finished and rocked back on his heels, breathing deeply
the morning air. He could smell wildflowers and grasses.

"You're leaving for Tyrsis to rescue Padishar," she said sud-
denly. "I want to go with you."

He looked up at her in surprise. "How did you know about
the rescue? "

122                          The Talismans of Shamara

She shrugged. "Doing what I've trained myself to do—
keeping my eyes and ears open. Can I come? "

He stood up and faced her. Her eyes were level with his. He
was surprised all over again at how tall she was. "Why would
you want to do that? "

"Because I'm tired of standing about, of doing nothing more
than listening in on other people's conversations." Her gaze
was steady and determined. "Remember our conversation on
the trail? I said I was waiting for something to happen? Well,
it has. I want to go with you."

He wasn't sure he understood and didn't know what to say
in any case. It was bad enough that Damson Rhee had to go
back with them. But Matty Roh as well? On a journey as dan-
gerous as this one would undoubtedly be?

She stepped back a pace, measuring him. "I would hate to
think that you were stupid enough to be worried about me,"
she said bluntly. "The fact of the matter is I can take care of
myself a lot better than you can. I've been doing it for a much
longer time. You might remember how things went back at the
Whistledown when you tried to grab me."

"That doesn't count!" he snapped defensively. "I wasn't
ready—"

"No, you weren't," she cut him short. "And that is the dif-
ference between us, Highlander. You aren't trained to be ready,
and I am." She stepped close again. "I'll tell you something
else. I'm a better swordsman than anyone this side of Padishar
Creel—and maybe as good as he is. If you don't believe me,
ask Chandos."

He stared at her, at the piercing cobalt eyes, at the thin line
of her lips, at the slender shoulders squared and set, everything
thrust forward combatively, daring him to challenge her.

"I believe you," he said, and meant it.

"Besides," she said, not relaxing herself an inch, "you need
me to make your plan work."

"How do you know about—"

"You're the wrong one to go into Tyrsis with Damson," she
interrupted, ignoring his unfinished question. "It should be
me."

"... the plan? " he finished, trailing off. He put his hands on
his hips, frustrated. "Why should it be you? "

The Talismans of Shannara                         123

"Because I won't be noticed and you will. You're too obvi-
ous, Highlander. You look exactly like what you are! Anyway,
your face is known to the Federation and mine isn't. And if
anything goes wrong, you don't know your way around Tyrsis,
and I do. I've been there many times. Most important of all,
they won't be looking for two women. We'll walk right past
them, and they won't give us a second glance."

She squared up to him again. "Tell me I'm wrong," she
challenged.

He smiled in spite of himself. "I guess I can't do that." He
looked away into the trees, hoping the answer to her demand
lay there. It didn't. He looked back again. "Why don't you ask
Chandos? He's in charge, not me."

Her expression did not change. "I don't think so. At least
not in this case." She paused, waiting. "Well? Can I go? "

He sighed, suddenly weary. Maybe she was right. Maybe
having her along would be a good idea. She certainly gave a
convincing argument. Besides, hadn't he just finished telling
himself that his plan needed help? Perhaps Matty Roh was a
little of what was needed.

"All right," he agreed. "You can come."

"Thanks." She turned away and started back toward the
camp, her cloak slung over one shoulder.

"But Chandos has to agree, too!" he called after her, still
looking for a way out.

"He already has!" she shouted back in reply. "He said to ask
you."

She gave him a quick smile over her shoulder as she disap-
peared into the trees.

Chandos was terse and withdrawn at breakfast, and Morgan
left him alone, choosing to sit instead with Damson Rhee. The
long table they occupied was crowded and the men were bois-
terous, so the Highlander and the girl didn't say much to each
other, concentrating on their food and the conversation around
them. Matty Roh appeared briefly, passing next to Morgan
without looking at him, on her way to someplace else. She
paused long enough to say something to Chandos, which
caused him to scowl deeply. Morgan didn't hear what she said
but had no trouble imagining what it might be.

124                         The Talismans of Shannara

When the meal was concluded Chandos pushed to his feet,
bellowed at everyone still seated to get to work, and called
Damson and Morgan aside. He took them out of the trees and
onto the open bluff once more, waiting until they were out of
earshot to speak. Dark-visaged and gruff, he announced that
during the night word had arrived through the free-born net-
work that the Elves had returned to the Westland. This news
was several days old and not entirely reliable, and he wanted
to know what Morgan and the girl thought.

"I think it's possible," Morgan said at once. "Returning the
Elves to the Westland was one of the charges given to the
Ohmsfords."

"If Paranor is back, the Elves could be back as well," agreed
Damson.

"And that would mean that all the charges have been ful-
filled," Morgan added, growing excited now. "Chandos, we
have to know if it's true."

The big man's scowl returned. "You'll want another expedi-
tion, I suppose—as if one wasn't enough!" He sighed wearily.
"All right, I'll send someone to check it out, a messenger to let
them know they have friends in Callahom. If they're there,
we'll find them."

He went on to add that he had chosen the men for the jour-
ney to Tyrsis and that supplies and weapons were being
assembled as they spoke. Everything should be in place by
midmoming, and as soon as it was they would depart.

As he turned to leave, Morgan asked impulsively, "Chandos,
what's your opinion of Many Roh? "

"My opinion?" The big man laughed. "I think she gets
pretty much anything she wants." He started away again, then
called back, "I also think you'd better watch your step with
her, Highlander."

He went on, disappearing into the trees, yelling orders as he
went.

Damson looked at Morgan. "What was that all about? "

Morgan told her about his meeting with Matty at Varfleet
and their journey to Firerim Reach. He told her about the girl's
insistence that she be included in their effort to rescue
Padishar. He asked Damson if she knew anything about Matty
Roh. Damson did not. She had never met her before.

The Talismans of Shannara 125

"But Matty's right about two women attracting less atten-
tion," she declared. "And if she was able to persuade both you
and Chandos that she should go on this journey, I'd say you'd
both better watch out for her."

Morgan left to put together his pack for the trek south,
strapped on his weapons, and went back out on the bluff.
Within an hour the company that Chandos had chosen was as-
sembled and ready to leave. It was a hard and capable-looking
bunch, some of them men who had fought side by side with
Padishar against the Creeper at the Jut. A few recognized Mor-
gan and nodded companionably. Sending one man on ahead to
scout for any trouble, Chandos led the rest, Morgan and Dam-
son and Matty Roh with them, down off Firerim Reach toward
the plains beyond.

They walked all day, descending out of the Dragon's Teeth
to the Rabb, then turning south to cross the river and continue
on toward Varfleet. They traveled quickly, steadily through the
heat, the sky clear and cloudless, the sun burning down in a
steady glare, causing the air above the dusty grasslands to
shimmer like water. They rested at midday and ate, rested
again at midaftemoon, and by nightfall had reached the flats
that led up into the Valley of Shale. A watch was set, dinner
was eaten, and the company retired to sleep. Morgan had
walked with Damson during the day, and bedded down close
to her that night. While she probably neither needed nor
wanted it, he had assumed a protective attitude toward her, de-
termined that if he could not do anything for Par or Coil just
at the moment, at least he could look after her.

Many Roh had kept to herself most of the day, walking
apart from everyone, eating alone when they rested, choosing
to keep her own company. No one seemed all that surprised
that she was along; no one seemed to question why she was
there. Several, times Morgan thought to speak with her, but
each time he saw the set of her face and the deliberate distance
she created between herself and others, and decided not to.

At midnight, restless from dreams and the anticipation of
what lay ahead, he awoke and walked down to the edge of the
grove of trees in which they had sheltered to look up at the sky
and out across the plains. She appeared suddenly at his elbow.
Silent as a ghost, she stood next to him as if she might have

126                          The Talismans of Shannara

been expected all along. Together, they stared out across the
empty stretch of the Rabb, studying the outline of the land in
the pale starlight, breathing the lingering swelter of the day in
the cooling night.

"The country I was born in looked like this," she said after
a time, her voice distant. "Rat, empty grasslands. A little wa-
ter, a lot of heat. Seasons that could be harsh and beautiful at
the same time." She shook her head. "Not like the Highlands,
I expect."

He didn't say anything, just nodded. A stray bit of wind ruf-
fled her black hair. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled,
its cry fading unanswered into silence.

"You don't know what to make of me, do you? "

He shrugged. "I suppose I don't. You're a pretty confusing
person."

Her smile in response was there and gone in an instant. Her
delicate features were shadowed and gave her a gaunt look in
the dim light. She seemed to be working something through.

"When I was five years old," she said after a moment, "just
before I reached my sixth birthday, not long after my sister
died, I was out playing in a field near the house with my older
brother. It was a pasture, left fallow that year. There were milk
cows in it, grazing. I remember seeing one of the cows lying
on its side down in a depression. It had a funny look about it,
and I walked down to see what was wrong. The cow was look-
ing at me, its eyes wide and staring, very frightened. It didn't
seem to be able to cry out. It was dying, half in and half out
of some sort of muddy sinkhole that I had never seen there be-
fore. Its body was being eaten away."

She folded her arms across her chest as if she was cold. "I
don't know why, but I wanted a closer look. I walked right up
to it, didn't stop until I was no more than several yards away.
I should have called for my brother, but I was little and I
didn't think to do so. I looked at the cow, wondering what had
happened. And suddenly I felt this burning on the soles of my
feet. I looked down and saw that I was standing in some of the
same mud that the cow had gotten into. The mud was streaked
with greenish lines and bubbling. It had eaten right through my
shoes. I turned and ran, crying now, calling out for help. I ran
as fast as I could, but the pain was faster. It went all through

The Talismans of Shannara 127

my feet. I remember looking down and seeing that some of my
toes were gone."

She shivered at the memory. "My mother washed me as best
she could, but it was too late. Half my toes were gone, and my
feet were scarred and burned as if they had been set on fire. I
developed a fever. I was in bed for two weeks. They thought
I was going to die. But I didn't; I lived. They died instead. All
of them."

Her smile was bitter and ironic. "I just thought you should
know after this morning. I don't like people to see what hap-
pened to me." She looked at him briefly, then turned away
again. "But I wanted you to understand."

She stood with him a moment longer, then said good-night
and disappeared back into the trees. He stared after her for a
long time, thinking about what she had said. When he returned
to the campsite and rolled himself back into his blanket, he
could not sleep. He could not stop thinking about Many Roh.

They set out again at dawn, shadows in the faint gray light
that seeped out of the east. The day was overcast, and by mid-
day it had begun to rain. The company trudged on through the
forested hill country north of Varfleet and the Mermidon, fol-
lowing the line of the Dragon's Teeth west. Twice the scout
came back to warn of Federation patrols and they were forced
to take cover until the patrols had passed. The land was gray
and shone damply through the rain, and they encountered no
one else. Morgan walked with Matty Roh, moving up next to
her unbidden, staying with her through the day. She said noth-
ing to discourage him and did not move away. She spoke little,
but she seemed comfortable with his presence. When they
stopped to eat lunch, she shared with him the small bit of fruit
she was carrying.

By nightfall, they had crossed the Mermidon and come in
sight of Tyrsis. The city glowed bleakly from the bluff heights
as they stared up at it from across the approaching plains. Rain
continued to fall, steady and unrelenting, turning the dusty
earth to mud. Damson and Matty Roh would not attempt to en-
ter the city until morning, when they could mingle with the
usual tradesmen come up for the day from the surrounding vil-
lages. Chandos sent the scout on ahead to see if he could leam
anything useful from travelers departing the city. The rest of

128                         The Talismans of Shannara

the company bedded down in a grove of old maples, finding to
their displeasure that dry spaces were few and far between.

It was nearing midnight when the scout returned. Morgan
was still awake, huddled with Chandos and Matty Roh, all of
them listening as Damson described what she knew of the tun-
nels beneath Tyrsis and the Federation prisons. The scout bent
to whisper something to Chandos, furtive and quick. Chandos
turned ashen. He dismissed the scout and turned to the High-
lander and the girls.

The Federation had announced its intention to execute
Padishar Creel. The execution would be public. It would take
place at noon on the day after tomorrow.

Chandos got up and walked away, shaking his head. Morgan
sat with Damson and Matty Roh in stunned silence. He had
guessed wrong. The Federation had decided to rid itself of
Padishar once and for all. The leader of the free-bom had less
than two days to live.

Morgan's eyes met Damson's, then Matty's. They were all
thinking the same thing. Whatever rescue plan they tried, they
had better get it right the first time.

XII

Wind blew across Wren Elessedil's face, cooling it
against the heat of the midday sun. Her short cropped
hair whipped from side to side with its passing, and
the whistling rush past her ears drowned out all other sounds.
There was a cadence to it that lulled and soothed despite its
thrust, that wrapped about in the manner of a warm cloak on
a cold night. She smiled at the feeling, closed her eyes, and
gave herself over to its embrace.

Wren was seated astride the giant Roc Spirit, flying high
over the Westland forests south and east of Arborion, ap-
proaching the Mermidon where it brushed the vast swamp they
called the Shroudslip and edged down into the plains of the
Tirfmg. Tiger Ty sat in front of her, straddling Spirit's neck
where it joined the shoulders, just forward of the great wings.
Both Wing Rider and Elf Queen were strapped tightly to the
bird's harness, securely fastened against the possibility of a
fall The sky was bright and cloudless, the sun's light bathing
the land from horizon to horizon in melted gold. Below, where
the earth stretched away in a patchwork maze of green and
brown, it was hot and humid in the long, slow days of late
summer, and everything seemed to stand still. But here, high
above the heat, where the wind blew steady and cool, Wren
soared through space and time unchecked, and there was
within her that sense of escape that flight inevitably generated.

Her eyes opened and there was bitterness in her smile. Cer-
tainly she had spent enough time seeking escape in one form
or another to recognize the feeling, she thought.

It was ten days now since her return to the Pour Lands. The

129

130                         The Talismans of Shannara

nightmare of Morrowindl was behind her and beginning to
fade into the recesses of her memory. Her sleep was still
haunted by dreams of what had been—by the monsters that
had pursued the little company down Killeshan's ruptured
mountain slopes to the beaches, by the faces of those who had
died in the attempt, by the fear and anguish she had felt, and
by the terrible sense of loss that she did not think would ever
leave her. She still woke from those dreams, shaking and cold
in spite of the summer heat, leaving her bed to walk alone
through the palace halls, a driven spirit. Even now
Morrowindl, gone back into the ocean in that fiery conflagra-
tion, whispered to her from out of the past, from out of its wa-
tery grave, its voice a constant reminder of how she had gotten
to where she was and what it had cost her.

But there was little time to dwell on what had been, for the
demands of the present overshadowed everything. She was
Queen of the Elves, entrusted with the safety and welfare of
her people. It was the charge that Ellenroh had given her; it
was the charge she had accepted. But not all those for whom
she had been given responsibility believed in her. It was not
easy convincing the Elves that she was the one who should
lead them. After the first rush of euphoria over finding them-
selves free of Morrowindl and returned once again to the West-
land faded, they began to question. Who was this barely grown
girl who had declared herself their queen—this girl who was
not even a pure-blooded Elf, but a mix of Elf and Man? Who
had decided that she should lead them, should govern them,
should make decisions that would affect their lives? It was
claimed that she was the granddaughter of Ellenroh, the daugh-
ter of Alleyne, a child of the Elessedils and the last of them
left to rule. But she was a stranger, too, come out of nowhere,
unknown and untested. Who was she, that she should be
queen?

Eton Shart and Barsimmon Oridio were among those who
continued to doubt—her first minister and the general of her
armies, men she could not afford to lose. They did not say so
to her face or even publicly, but their aloofness was obvious.
They had served Ellenroh long and faithfully, and they had not
expected to lose her. Worse, they had not expected to find
someone they barely knew assuming her place. Certainly not

The Talismans of Shannara 131

an outsider, and a girl at that. Wren understood their reticence;

she also understood that she could not permit it to continue un-
resolved.

Triss and the Home Guard were her real support. Triss had
come with her out of Morrowindl, had seen her struggle with
the power of the Elfstones, with the demons that pursued them,
and with the responsibility she had been given. He accepted
her as queen because he had been there when Ellenroh had
named her and had exacted his pledge of loyalty. Triss had
declared her queen to the High Council, to the army, and espe-
cially to the Home Guard, who were charged with her protec-
tion. The Home Guard, unlike the other branches of the Elven
government, had accepted her instantly and without reserva-
tion. Having lost Ellenroh, they were now fiercely committed
to her. Nothing would harm this queen, they swore. This queen
would have their full protection. It was the kind of support she
desperately needed, and Triss, as captain of the Home Guard,
made certain that she had it.

Still, Home Guard support alone would not be enough in the
long run. She needed to win over both the High Council and
the army if she was to be accepted as queen. That meant she
needed to win over Eton Shart and Barsimmon Oridio, and she
did not know how to do that. Despite her efforts to convince
them of the merits of accepting her, they remained distant and
aloof, polite but decidedly cool. Time was running out. Ten
days the Elves had been back in the Westland, and by now the
Federation and the Shadowen knew. For more than a century
the Federation had claimed that the Elves were the source of
the land's sickening, and here at last was an opportunity to put
things right. No matter that it was the wrong set of Elves, she
mused; the Federation was hardly likely to worry about mak-
ing any distinction between good and bad. Eradicate them all
and the problem was solved.

Which was why she was flying south with Tiger Ty. The ef-
fort to begin that eradication was already under way.

Tiger Ty touched Spirit lightly along the neck, and the Roc
responded by swinging downward toward a bluff that faced out
across the river. The bird descended easily, gracefully, and in
moments they were settled on a grassy bank at the edge of a
forest of broad-leaved trees. Wren disengaged herself from the

132 The Talismans of Shannara

straps and climbed down, stretching her cramped muscles. She
was still not used to riding the giant Rocs, though she had
done so several rimes now since her return. The Wing Riders
had begun to come back into the Westland as well, resettling
themselves in the old Wing Hove south of the Irrybis. Wren
had gone to speak to them, asking for their support, telling
them of the danger they all faced if the Shadowen weren't
stopped. Tiger Ty, a respected member of the community, had
spoken in her behalf, adding his own rough assessment of her
character. A girl who's got more sand than a dozen of us, he'd
said. A girl with sharp edges, but quick-thinking and smart. A
girl who's got use of the magic, but uses it with caution and
respect. The Land Elves—and the Wing Riders—could do
worse.

She smiled at the memory. The Wing Riders had agreed to
help. Almost thirty of them were already settled at Arborlon,
made a part of her personal command.

"Something to eat? " Tiger Ty asked, strolling up to her in
that rolling gait he used, bowlegged and spindly. He was as
grizzled and nut-brown as ever, but no longer as gruff. When
he spoke to her these days there was something new in his
voice—something that almost suggested deference.

She nodded, then seated herself on the grass across from
him. She accepted a hunk of cheese, an apple, and a cup of ale
poured from a stoppered skin. She crossed her legs and was
taking a bite of the cheese when she felt a stirring against her
breast. A furry face poked out of her tunic, and Faun appeared,
sniffing the air tentatively.

"Ha! The Squeak doesn't miss a thing, does she? " Tiger Ty
laughed, cut off a bite of his cheese, and passed it to the little
creature. Faun took it from him cautiously, slipped clear of
Wren's clothing, plopped down on the grass, and began to eat.

"She likes you," Wren observed.

Tiger Ty snorted. "Shows you Tree Squeaks don't have the
sense of tree stumps!"

They ate in silence, finished, and sat back contentedly, star-
ing out from the bluff across the river to where the plains of
the Tirfing stretched away in an unbroken wave of dusty
grasses.

"How much farther? " Wren asked after a moment.

The Talismans of Shannara                         133

Tiger Ty shrugged. "Another hour at most. They were trav-
eling pretty fast when I spotted them."

A Federation army, sighted by the patrolling Wing Rider,
had brought Wren out of Arborlon in spite of the objections of
Triss and the Home Guard. It was necessary, she felt, to have
a close look at the enemy before she brought her plan of action
before the High Council and its skeptics.

She took a final drink from her cup, finishing the last of the
ale. If things had been difficult up to now, she had a feeling
that they were about to get a whole lot worse.

They climbed back aboard Spirit, fastened themselves in
place, and lifted off into the dazzling blue. Faun was inside her
tunic, snuggled down comfortably against her body. Spirit
gained height, then settled into a flat glide that swept them
down the snaking length of the Mermidon to where it bypassed
the Shroudslip. There they left the river and began to follow
the line of the Irrybis where it bordered the Tirfing east. Time
slipped quickly past, and it seemed only moments later that Ti-
ger Ty lifted one arm to point south.

A huge column of dust rose into the swelter of summer heat
that hung over the plains. Tiger Ty glanced back at her and she
nodded.

The Federation army.

They continued due south, following a line parallel to the
army, keeping in the shadow of the cliffs. Tiger Ty would cir-
cle back around and come in from behind the army with the
sun at his back. That way they would not be seen. As yet, no
one knew anything about the Wing Riders. Wren had decided
it would be better if things remained that way.

Swiftly they sped south, and when the column of dust was
well behind them they banked left across the plains. They con-
tinued to circle until the sun was directly behind them, then
swung back toward the dust. They rose higher than before, try-
ing to place as much glare as possible at their backs in case
anyone was scanning the sky.

Minutes later, the Federation army came in sight.

It was a huge, sprawling, dark stain against the sun-scorched
grasslands, three companies deep, column after column of
black-and-red-garbed soldiers and horsemen, great iron-and-
wood fighting machines, siege equipment, wagons and sup-

234                         The Talismans of Shannara

plies. The army seemed to stretch on forever, the dust of its
wake obscuring everything for miles. Wren felt her heart sink
at the size of the enemy. The Elves could barely muster a tenth
of the fighting men the Federation had assembled, and it was
reported that there were another five thousand soldiers garri-
soned in Tyrsis. If they were forced to confront this army head
on, the Elves would be annihilated.

Which was the general idea, of course, she thought discon-
solately.

She counted lines and columns and companies carefully as
Tiger Ty took Spirit close to the back of the army and then
banked the Roc sharply away again, heading south once more,
still within the protective glare of the sun. There had been no
shouts or pointed arms from below. Apparently they had not
been seen.

It took them most of the remainder of the day to make the
return flight, and Wren used the time to think about what she
would say to the High Council that night. She found herself
thinking that it would be nice if she could just keep on flying,
traveling to a place so far away that the Federation would
never find her. But there was no such place, of course. For
even if the Federation couldn't reach her, the Shadowen could.
They had proved that on Morrowindl. The Shadowen sickness
was everywhere, and no one would be safe again until a cure
was found.

It was nearing sunset when Arborlon, the home city of the
Elves, came in sight again, a shading of wood colors, metal
stays, and spots of bright clothing amid the green. Spirit swung
wide above the Rill Song, the river's blue waters turned
diamond-tipped in the fading light, and settled gently down
onto the grassy bluffs of the Carolan. Wren was barely out of
her restraining straps and on the ground again before the Home
Guard, Triss in the lead, were hurrying down from the city
proper to make certain she was safe. She gave them a reassur-
ing wave and a welcoming smile, then bent quickly to Tiger
Ty.

"Not a word of what we saw," she whispered. "Not yet."

The Wing Rider's fierce black eyes locked on her. "Until
you meet with the High Council? "

She nodded. "Until."

The Talismans of Shannara                         135

"They won't like what you have to tell them—not that that's
anything new. Wooden-headed mules!"

She smiled, quick and furtive. "You know me. I just keep
chipping away."

The rough face grimaced. "Do you meet with them to-
night? "

"Probably within the hour."

"Mind if I sit in? Help do a little of that chipping? I pride
myself on my woodcutting."

The look she gave him was filled with gratitude. "Thanks,
Tiger Ty. The Wing Riders should be represented in this, too.
You can most certainly sit in."

She turned away then as Triss and the others of the Home
Guard reached her, relief reflected in their hard faces.

"My lady, you are well?" Triss asked quietly, his usual
greeting. He was still scraped and bruised from their battle
with the Wisteron on Morrowindl. His broken left arm was
splinted and cradled in a cloth sling. But there was strength
again in his lean face, and confidence and determination mir-
rored in his eyes. He had managed to put Morrowindl's ordeal
behind him better than she.

"Fine," she answered, her usual reply. "I want you to call
together the members of the High Council, Triss. All of them,
within the hour."

"Yes, my lady," he acknowledged, and turned away, disap-
pearing across the bluff.

Wren gave a short wave to Tiger Ty, then started after Triss,
angling toward the Gardens of Life and the Elessedil palace.
Lights were coming on in the treelanes and streets of the city
as the shadows deepened, and the air was filled with the tan-
talizing aroma of cooking. She reached inside her tunic and
brought Faun out to sit on her shoulder as she walked. She
breathed the forest air, reaching out beyond the food smells for
the tree and grass scents that lay beyond. A breeze wafted up
from the river, cool and soothing in the dying heat of the day.

Home Guard fanned out around her. They would stay with
her now everywhere she went, disappearing completely with
the darkness, invisible protectors against any threat. She
smiled. They worried so for her safety, and yet she was better
able than they to protect against danger, better trained and bet-

136

The Talismans of Shannara

ter equipped. They thought themselves necessary, and she did
not do anything to discourage that belief. But she always knew
where they were, could always sense them out there watching
over her, even in the deepest night. She had been trained to be
aware of such things since she was a child. Her teacher had
been the best.

Garth. The memories rushed through her, and she forced
them away. Garth was gone.

She reached the entrance to the Gardens of Life. The Black
Watch stood at attention as she approached, protectors of the
Ellcrys, the tree of the Forbidding. Their eyes followed her as
she passed, though she did not acknowledge them. She went
into the Gardens, into their seclusion, listening to the chirps
and clicks of insects come awake in the growing darkness,
smelling the flowers and grasses more strongly here, the rich
scent of black earth. She climbed the hill to where the Ellcrys
stood and stopped in front of her. She did this every night, a
ritual of sorts. At times she would do nothing but stand there,
looking and thinking. At times she would reach out and touch
the tree, as if to let it know that she was there. Coming to the
Ellcrys seemed to renew her own strength, to give her a fresh
determination to carry through with her life. The kinship she
felt with the tree, with the woman it had been, with the
strength of commitment embodied in the tale of how it had
come into being, was sustaining. From flesh and blood to
leaves and limbs, from woman to tree, from mortal life to life
everlasting.

On her shoulder Faun rubbed against her neck as if to reas-
sure her that everything was all right.

A cure for the Races, she mused, changing subjects if not
moods, thinking again of the army that approached, of the
Shadowen threat she must find a way to end. It would take
more than the Elves to accomplish this, she knew. Allanon had
told the Ohmsfords as much when he had sent them to fulfill
their separate charges—Par to find the Sword of Shannara,
Walker Boh to find the Druids and Paranor, and Wren to find
the Elves. Had Par and Walker succeeded as she had? Were all
the charges now fulfilled? She knew that she had to find out.
Somehow she had to make contact with the others who had
gathered at the Hadeshom. On the one hand she must dis-

The Talismans of Shannara 137

cover what had become of them and on the other apprise them
of what had happened to her. They must be told the truth of
the Shadowen, that the Shadowen were Elves who had recov-
ered the old magic of faerie and become subverted by it in the
same way as the Warlock Lord and his Skull Bearers nearly
five hundred years earlier. How they had recovered this magic
and how it sustained them remained a mystery. But the knowl-
edge she held must be passed on to the others. She felt it in-
stinctively. Until that was done, any cure for the Shadowen
sickness would remain out of reach.

What to do? Already some among the Elves had gone out
from Arborlon into the far reaches of the Westland to establish
new homes. Farmers had begun to settle in the Sarandanon, the
fertile valley that had served as the breadbasket of the Elven
nation for centuries. Trappers and hunters had begun ranging
north to the Breakline and south to the Rock Spur. Craftsmen
were anxious to open new markets for their wares. Every-
where, there was a push to reclaim old homesteads and towns.
Most important of all. Healers and their acolytes had gone
forth to seek out those places in which the Westland's sickness
was worst in an attempt to stem its spread—carrying on an
Elven tradition that had lasted since the beginning of time. For
the Elves had always been healers, a people who believed that
they were one with the earth into which they were born, the
purveyors of the philosophy that something must be given
back to the world that sustained them. As with the Gnome
Healers at Storlock, who cared for the earth's people, the Elven
Healers were committed in turn to the people's earth.

But they and the farmers, trappers, hunters, traders, and oth-
ers were at risk in the Westland unless the Elven army pro-
tected them against the threat mounting from without. If the
Queen of the Elves could not find a way to keep the Federa-
tion at bay long enough to put an end to the Shadowen ...

She left the thought hanging, turning away from the Ellcrys
in disgust. So much was needed, and try as she might she
could not provide it alone.

The sky was streaked scarlet above the trees west, a vivid
smear against the mountainous horizon that had the look of
blood. Or at least that was the image that flashed in Wren
Elessedil's mind.

138 The Talismans of Shannara

Your memories never leave you, she thought—even those
you wish would, even those you wish had never been.

She walked down out of the Gardens, eyes on the ground in
front of her. She wondered about Stresa. It had been days since
she had seen the Splinterscat. Unlike Faun, Stresa was more
comfortable in the wild and preferred the woods to the city. He
had made his home somewhere close to Arborlon and would
appear unexpectedly from time to time, but consistently re-
fused to think about living with her in the Elessedil family
home. Stresa was content with his new country, happy in his
solitary life, and he had promised more than once that he
would be there if she ever needed him. The trouble was that
she needed him more than she cared to admit. But Stresa had
gone through a lot for her already and was happy now; she did
not have the right to place fresh demands on him just to as-
suage her own insecurity.

Still, she missed him greatly. Stresa, that strange and unpre-
dictable creature from the world that had cost the Elves so
much, would always be her friend.

It was dark now, the sun disappeared entirely beneath the
horizon west, the stars a scattering of pinprick lights, the moon
a fading crescent east above the treetops, the night's sounds
gentle and soothing and filled with the promise of sleep.
Would that it were so for her, she thought. Sleep would come
hard this night, harder than most, for she must meet with the
High Council and determine the fate of the Elves. And of her-
self, perhaps, as well.

She walked from the Gardens, passing the Black Watch
once more, listening to the barely discernible sounds of the
Home Guard shadowing her. Sometimes she found herself
wishing she were a Rover girl again and nothing more, her life
made simple anew, all of the constraints of her stewardship
lifted, her freedom restored. She would give up being queen.
She would give up the Elfstones, those three blue talismans
that nestled within the leather bag hung about her neck, the
symbol of the magic that had been bequeathed to her by her
mother, of the power she had been given to wield. She would
shed her life as if it were a season's skin grown old, and she
would become ...

What? What would she become, she wondered?

The Talismans of Shannara                         139

In truth, she no longer knew—maybe because it no longer
mattered.

When she walked into the chambers of the High Council
barely a quarter of an hour later, those she had summoned
were waiting, seated about the council table at which the queen
presided. She entered with Tiger Ty trailing (he had remained
outside until now, uncertain of his welcome in her absence)
and walked directly to her seat at the head of the table. Every-
one rose in deference, but she perfunctorily waved them back
into their seats.

The room was cavernous. High walls of stone and wood
supported a star-shaped ceiling formed of massive oak beams.
The High Council was dominated at the far end by a dais
which supported the throne of the Elven Kings and Queens and
which was flanked by the standards of the ruling Elven houses
and at its center by the ancient twenty-one-chair round table.
Benches forming gallery seats for public viewing when the full
Council was in session ran the length of either wall.

There were six members present this night besides herself,
the full complement of the High Council's inner circle. Triss
was there, as Captain of the Home Guard; Eton Shart as First
Minister; Barsimmon Oridio as General of the Elven Armies;

Perek Arundel as Minister of Trade; Jalen Ruhl as Minister of
Home Defense; and Fruaren Laurel as Minister of Healing.
Only Laurel was new, appointed on the Council's recommen-
dation when Wren told them she wanted a minister responsible
for overseeing efforts to heal the Elven Westland. Laurel was
cooperative and hardworking, a woman in her middle years
with a steady, likeable disposition; but like Wren she was un-
proven. She held a secondary position in the eyes of the re-
mainder of the Council. Wren liked her but wasn't sure she
could be counted on in a fight.

She would find out tonight.

She stood in front of her chair and faced the High Council.
"I asked Wing Rider Tiger Ty to sit in on this session of the
Council since the subject matter directly concerns his people."
She made it a statement of fact and did not ask approval. She
beckoned the gnarled Wing Rider forward from where he stood

140 The Talismans of Shannara

by the door. "Sit there, please," she said, indicating a vacant
seat by Fruaren Laurel.

Tiger Ty sat. The chamber went very still as those assem-
bled waited for Wren to speak. The doors leading in were
closed, sealed by the Home Guard on Wren's orders until such
time as she permitted them to be opened again. Torches burned
in brackets affixed to the stone of the walls and in free-
standing stanchions at the front and back of the room. Smoke
rose toward the ceiling and dispersed through air loops high
overhead. The smoke left a faint coppery taste to the chamber
air.

Wren straightened. She had not bothered to change her
clothes, deciding she would not make the concession to the
dictates of formality. They would have to accept her as she
was. She had left Paun in her chambers. She would have
wished for Cogline or Walker Boh or any of those who had
stood with her once and were now dead or scattered, but wish-
ing for help from any quarter was pointless. If she was to suc-
ceed this night in what she intended to do, she would have to
do it on her own.

"Ministers, Council Members, my friends," she began, look-
ing from face to face, her voice measured and calm. "We have
all come a very long way from where we were only weeks
ago. We have seen a great many changes take place in the life
of the Elven people. None of us could have foreseen what
would happen; maybe some of us wish things had turned out
differently. But here we are, and there is no going back.
Morrowindl is behind us forever, and the Four Lands are be-
fore us. When we agreed to come back, we knew what would
be waiting for us—a struggle with the Federation, with the
Shadowen, with Elven magic hideously subverted, with our
past brought forward to become our future. We knew what
would be waiting, and now we must face it."

She paused, her gaze steady. "Yesterday the Wing Riders
spotted a Federation army coming up from the deep Southland.
Today, with Tiger Ty, I flew south to have a look for myself.
We found the army within the Tirfing, a day's march above the
Myrian. The army is ten times ours and travels with siege and
war machines and supplies to sustain it well into another
month. It comes north and west. It comes in search of us. If I

The Talismans of Shannara                         141

were to guess, I would say it would reach us in another ten
days."

She stopped, waiting for a response. Her eyes traveled from
face to face.

'Ten times ours? " Barsimmon Oridio repeated doubtfully.
"How accurate is your estimation, my lady? "

Wren had been anticipating this. She gave him a count, col-
umn by column, company by company, machines and wagons,
foot soldiers and horsemen, leaving nothing out. When she was
finished, the general of her armies was pale.

"An army of that size will wipe us out," said Eton Shart
quietly. As always, he was composed, his hands folded on the
table before him, his expression unreadable.

"If we engage it," Jalen Ruhl amended. The minister of de-
fense was slight and stoop-shouldered, his voice a deep rumble
in his narrow chest. "The Westland is a big place."

"Are you suggesting we hide? " Barsimmon Oridio de-
manded incredulously.

"Hiding won't work," Eton Shart interjected shortly. "We
can't leave the city or we give up the Ellcrys. If the Ellcrys is
destroyed, the Forbidding comes down. Better we all perish
than that happen."

There was a long pause as the ministers glanced at each
other doubtfully.

"A concession of some sort, perhaps? " Perek Arundel sug-
gested, ever the compromiser. He was handsome in a soft way,
rather vain, but shrewd and quick-thinking. He looked about.
"There must be a way to make peace with the Coalition Coun-
cil."

Again Eton Shart shook his head. "It was tried before. The
Coalition Council is a puppet of the Shadowen. Any compro-
mise will involve occupation of the Westland and agreement to
serve the Federation. I don't think we came all the way back
from Morrowindl to embrace a lifetime of that."

He looked at Wren. "What are your thoughts, my lady? I am
certain you have assessed the situation on your own."

Again she was ready. "It seems our choices are these. Either
we fortify Arborlon and await the Federation army here or we
take our army out to meet them."

"Go out to meet them? " Barsimmon Oridio was aghast. His

142 The Talismans of Shannara

heavy frame shifted combatively, and his aged face furrowed.
"You have said yourself they have ten times our strength.
What point would there be in forcing a battle? "

"It would give us the advantage of not letting them dictate
time and place and circumstance," she replied. She was still
standing, keeping her vantage point so that she could continue
to look down at them and they up at her. "And I said nothing
about forcing a battle."

Again there was silence. Barsimmon Oridio flushed. "But
you said that—"

"She said we could go out and meet them," Eton Shart in-
terrupted. He was sitting forward now, interested. "She did not
say anything about fighting them." His gaze stayed on Wren.
"But what would we do once we were out there, my lady? "

"Harass them. Draw them off. Hit and run. Whatever it takes
to delay them. Fight them if we get a chance to hurt them badly,
but avoid a direct confrontation where we would lose."

"Delay them," the first minister repeated thoughtfully. "But
sooner or later they will catch up to us—or reach Arborlon.
Then what? "

"We would be better off spending the time setting traps, for-
tifying the city, and gathering in supplies," Perek Arundel of-
fered. "We withstood the demons when the Ellcrys failed two
hundred years ago. We can withstand the Federation as well."

Barsimmon Oridio grunted and shook his head. "Study your
history, Perek. The gates to the city were taken and we were
overrun. If the young girl Chosen hadn't transformed into the
Ellcrys anew, it would have been over for us." He swung his
heavy head away. "Besides, we had allies in that fight—not
many, but a few, some Dwarves and the Legion Free Corps."

"Perhaps we shall have allies again," Wren declared sud-
denly, bringing all eyes back to her. "There are free-bom in the
mountains north of Callahom, a sizable number, the Dwarf Re-
sistance in the Eastland, and the Troll nations north. Some of
them might be persuaded to help us."

"Not likely," the general of her armies said gruffly, inci-
sively, declaring the matter at an end. "Why should they? "

Wren had brought the discussion to where she wanted it; she
had the Council listening to her, looking for an answer to what
seemed an unsolvable dilemma.

The Talismans of Shannara                         143

She straightened. "Because we'll give them a reason. Bar."
She used his nickname easily, familiarly, the way Ellenroh had.
"Because we'll give them something they didn't have before.
Unity. The Races united against their enemies in a common
cause. A chance to destroy the Shadowen."

Eton Shart smiled faintly. "Words, my lady. What do they
mean? "

She faced him. He was her biggest hurdle in this business.
She had to have his support. "I'll tell you what they mean,
Eton. They mean that for the first time in three centuries we
have a chance to win." She paused for emphasis. "Do you re-
member what brought me in search of the Elves, First Minis-
ter? Let me tell the story once again."

And she did, all of it, from the journey to the Hadeshom
and the Shade of Allanon to the search for Morrowindl and
Arborlon. She repeated Allanon's charges to the Ohmsfords.
She had shown no one the Elfstones save Triss, but she
brought them out now as she finished her tale, dumped them
in her hand, and held them out to be seen.

"This is my legacy," she said, shifting the hand with the
Elfstones from face to face. "I did not want it, did not ask for
it, and more than once have wished it gone. But I promised my
grandmother I would use it on behalf of the Elves and I will.
Magic to combat magic. The Shadowen must deal with me and
with the others the shade of Allanon has called upon—my kin-
dred in some instances, but whoever is destined to wield the
Sword of Shannara and the Druid power. I think all the talis-
mans have been brought back, not just the Elfstones—all the
magics that the Shadowen fear. If we can combine their power
and unite the men and women of the free-bom and the Resist-
ance and perhaps even the Trolls of the Northland, we have the
chance we need to win this fight."

Eton Shart shook his head. "There are a great many condi-
tions attached to all of this, my lady."

"Life is filled with conditions. First Minister," she replied.
"Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is assured. Especially for us.
But remember this. The Shadowen come from us, and their
magic is ours. We created them. We gave them life through our
misguided efforts to recapture something that was best left in
the past. Like it or not, they are our responsibility. Ellenroh

144                         The Talismans of Shannara

knew this when she decided we must come back into the Four
Lands. We are here. First Minister, to set things right. We are
here to put an end to what we started."

"And you will lead us in this, of course? "

He put just enough emphasis on the question to convey his
own doubts that she possessed the strength and ability to do so.
Wren fought down her anger.

"I am Queen," she pointed out quietly.

Eton Shart nodded. "But you are very young, my lady. And
you have not ruled long. You must expect some hesitation
from those of us who have helped govern longer."

"What I expect is your support. First Minister."

"Unconditional support for anyone would be foolish."

"A reluctance to acknowledge that there may be wisdom in
youth would be foolish as well. Get to the point."

Eton Shart's bland face tightened. There was an uncomfort-
able shifting about the table. No one was looking at him. He
was as alone in this as Wren.

"I am not questioning you ..." he began.

"Yes, you are. First Minister," she snapped.

"You must remember that I was not there when you were
named Queen, my lady, and I—"

"Stop right there!" She was furious now, and she did not
bother to hide it. "You are right, Eton Shart. You were not
there. You were not there to see Ellenroh Elessedil die. Or
Gavilan. Or the Owl. Or Eowen Cerise. You were not there to
see Garth give his life for ours in our fight against the
Wisteron. You did not have to help him die. First Minister, as
I did, because to let him live would have condemned him to
become one of the Shadowen!"

She steadied herself with an effort. "I gave up everything to
save the Elves—my past, my freedom, my friends, everything.
I do not begrudge that. I did it because my grandmother asked
it of me, and I loved her. I did it because the Elves are my
people, and while I have been gone from them a long time I
am still one of them. One of you. First Minister. I am finished
explaining myself. I have nothing to answer for to you or any-
one. Either I am Queen or I am not. Ellenroh believed me so.
That was enough for me; it ought to be enough for you. This
debate ends here."

The Talismans of Shannara                         145

She let her gaze rest heavily on Eton Shart. "We must be
friends and allies. First Minister, if we are to have any chance
against the Federation and the Shadowen. There must be trust
between us, not doubt. It will not always be easy, but we must
work to understand each other. We must support and encour-
age, not belittle and deride. There is no room in our lives for
anything less. Though we might wish it otherwise, we must ac-
cept what fate has decreed for us."

She took a deep breath, looking away to the others. "As
Ellenroh once did, I ask for your support. I think we must go
out to meet the Federation army and deal with it as we deter-
mine best. I think we shall discover that there are others who
will help us. Hiding will gain us nothing. Isolating ourselves is
exactly what the Federation hopes for. We must not give them
the satisfaction of finding us frightened and alone. We are the
oldest people on the earth, and we must act the part. We must
provide leadership for the people of the other, younger Races.
We must give them hope."

She looked at them. "Who stands with me? "

Triss rose at once. Tiger Ty rose with him, looking decid-
edly awkward. Then, to her pleasant surprise, Fruaren Laurel,
who had not said a word the entire time, stood up as well.

She waited. Four stood, four remained seated. Of the four
who stood, only three were members of the High Council. Ti-
ger Ty was only an emissary of his people. If nothing changed,
Wren lacked the support she needed.

She turned her gaze on Eton Shart, then held out her hand
to him, a gesture at once conciliatory and challenging. He
stared at her in surprise, eyes questioning. He hesitated mo-
mentarily, undecided, then reached out to accept her hand and
rose. "My lady," he acknowledged, and bowed. "As you say,
we must stand together."

Barsimmon Oridio rose, too.' "Better a gamecock than a
plucked chicken," he grumbled. He shook his head, then
looked at Wren with something akin to admiration in his aging
eyes. "Your grandmother would have advised us in the same
way, my lady."

Jalen Ruhl and Perek Arundel stood up reluctantly, casting
helpless glances at each other as they did so. They were not
persuaded, but they did not care to stand alone against her.




146                         The Talismans of Shannara

Wren gave them a gracious nod. She would take what she
could get.

'Thank you," she said quietly. She squeezed Eton Shart's
hand and released it. "Thank you all. Let us remember in the
days that come what we have committed to this night. Let us
remember to let our belief and trust in each other sustain us."

She looked about the table, at each face, at the way their
eyes were fixed on her. For that moment, at least, she had
bound them to her, and she was indeed their queen.

XIII

Walker Boh deliberated for two days before he again
tried to escape the Shadowen siege of Paranor.

Perhaps he wouldn't have gone even then, but he
found himself slipping into a dangerous state of mind. The
more he thought about various ways of breaking free, the more
it seemed he needed to consider further. Each plan had its
flaws, and each flaw became magnified as it was held up this
way and that for examination. Nothing he conceived seemed
exactly right, and the harder he worked at discovering a fool-
proof method of gaining his escape, the more he began to
doubt himself. Finally it became apparent that if he allowed
himself to go on, he would lose all confidence and in the end
be unable to act at all.

It was all part of a game that the Shadowen were playing
with him, he was afraid.

His first encounter with the Four Horsemen had left him
physically battered, but those injuries were not the ones that
troubled him. It was the psychological damage that refused to
mend, that lingered within like a fever. Walker Boh had always
been in control of his life,, able to manipulate events around
him and to keep intrusions at bay. He had accomplished this
mostly by isolating himself within the familiar confines of
Darklin Reach, where the dangers to be faced and problems to
be solved were familiar and within the purview of his enor-
mous capabilities. He had command of magic, intelligence
coupled with extraordinary insight, and other assorted abilities
that ranged from the intuitive to the acquired—all of which

147

148                          The Talismans of Shannara

were far superior to those of anyone against whom he chose to
direct them.

But that was changed. He had crossed out of Darklin Reach
and come into the outside world. This was his home now, the
cottage at Hearthstone reduced to ashes, the life he had known
gone into another time. He had traveled a road that had altered
his existence as surely as dying. He had taken up Allanon's
charge and followed it through to its conclusion. He had recov-
ered the Black Elfstone and brought back Paranor. He had be-
come the first of the new Druids. He was someone entirely
different than the person he had been only weeks ago. That
change had given him new insight, strength, knowledge, and
power. But it had also exposed him to new responsibilities, ex-
pectations, challenges, and enemies. It remained to be decided
if the former would be sufficient to overcome the latter. For
the moment at least, the matter was unresolved. Walker Boh
might fall and be lost forever—or he might find a way to
climb back to safety. He was a man hanging from a precipice.

The Shadowen knew this. They had come for him as soon
as they had discovered that Paranor was returned. Walker was
still a child in his role as Druid, and now was the time when
he would be most vulnerable. Besiege him, frustrate him, dis-
tract his development, kill him if possible, but cripple him at
all costs—that was the plan.

And the plan was working. Walker had come back into
Paranor, after his first aborted attempt at escape, aware of sev-
eral very unpleasant truths. First, he did not possess sufficient
power to break free in a head-to-head confrontation. The Four
Horsemen were his equal and more, their magic a match for
his own. Second, he could not slip past them undetected.
Third, and worst of all, their experience was superior to his
own—and they did not fear him. They had come looking for
him. They had done so openly, without subterfuge. They had
challenged him, daring him to come out and fight them. They
circled Paranor in open disdain of what he might do. He was
a prisoner in his own castle, reduced to trying to come up with
a plan that would let him be free, and the Four Horsemen were
betting he couldn't do it. It was possible, he was forced to ad-
mit, that they were right.

"You are working too hard at this," Cogline advised him fi-

The Talismans of Shannara 149

nally, finding him back on the walls, staring down at the
wraiths circling below. He looked gaunt and pale, ragged and
worn. "Look at you. Walker. You barely sleep. You take no no-
tice of your appearance—you have not bathed since your re-
turn. You do not eat."

A frail hand rubbed at the whiskers of the old man's chin.
"Think, Walker. This is what they want. They are afraid of
you! If they weren't, they would simply force the gates and
finish this business. But that won't be necessary if you can be
made to doubt yourself, to panic, to forgo the caution and re-
solve that got you this far. If that happens, they will have won.
Sooner or later, they think, you will do something foolish, and
then they will have you."

It was the most that Cogline had said to him since his re-
turn. Walker stared at him, at the ancient, weather-beaten face,
at the stick-thin body, at the arms and legs jutting from his
robes like poles. Cogline had welcomed him back with reassur-
ances, but mostly he had seemed removed and distant—just as
he had for those few days before Walker had first tried to go
out. Something was happening with Cogline, some secret con-
flict, but Walker had been too preoccupied with his own prob-
lems then, as he was now, to take time to decipher what it was.

Nevertheless, he let the old man lead him down from the
parapets to the inner shell of the castle and a hot meal. He ate
without enthusiasm, drank a little ale, and decided that a bath
was a good idea after all. He sat in the steaming water, letting
it cleanse him inside and out, feeling the heat soothe and relax
his body and mind. Rumor kept him company, curled up
against the side of the tub as if to share its warmth. While
Walker dried himself and dressed again, he pondered the enor-
mous calm of the moor cat, the facade that all cats assumed as
they regarded the world about them, considering it in their own
impenetrable way. A little of that calm would be useful, he
thought.

Then his thoughts shifted abruptly.

What was wrong with Cogline?

He left his own troubles behind with the bathwater and went
out to find the old man. He came on him in the library, reading
once more the Druid Histories. Cogline looked up as he en-

150 The Talismans of Shannara

tered, startled by his appearance or by something it sug-
gested—Walker could not tell which.

Walker sat beside him on a carved, cushioned bench. "Old
man, what is it that bothers you? " he asked quietly. He
reached out to place a reassuring hand on the other's thin
shoulder. "I see the worry in your eyes. Tell me."

Cogline shrugged in an exaggerated manner. "I worry for
you. Walker. I know how strange everything seems to you
since ... well, since all this began. It cannot be easy. I keep
thinking there must be something I can do to help."

Walker looked away. Since the Black Elfstone, he thought.
Since Allanon made himself a part of me, come in through the
magic left to keep Paranor safe until the Druids' return.
Strange is hardly the word/or it.

"You need not worry for me," he replied, his smile ironic.
At least not about that. The warring within of the past and the
present had faded as the two assimilated, and the lives and
knowledge of the Druids had become his own. He thought of
the way the magic had churned through him, burning away de-
fenses until there had been nothing left for him to do but to ac-
cept it as his own.

"Walker." Cogline was staring at him, focused now. "I do
not think Allanon would have put you through this if he did
not believe that it would leave you with sufficient power to
stand against the Shadowen."

"You have more faith than I."

Cogline nodded solemnly. "I always have. Walker. Didn't
you know that? But my faith will be yours as well one day. It
simply takes time. I have been given that time and used it to
learn. I have been alive a long time now. Walker. A long time.
Faith is a part of what gives me the strength to go on."

Walker took his hand away. "I had faith in myself. I had it
when I knew who and what I was. But that has changed, old
man. I am someone and something else entirely, and I am be-
ing asked to place my faith in a stranger. It is hard for me to
do that."

"Yes," Cogline agreed. "But it will happen—if you give it
time."

"If I have the time to give," Walker Boh finished.

He went out again. Rumor trailed, a black shadow slipping

The Talismans of Shannara                          151

from lamplight to lamplight in the gloom, head swaying rhyth-
mically, tail switching. Walker was aware of him without
thinking of him, his thoughts turned again to the Shadowen
without.

There must be a way ...

Strength alone was not enough. The power of the Druid
magic was impressive, but it had never been enough by itself
even for those Druids come and gone. Knowledge was neces-
sary as well. Cleverness. Resolve. Unpredictability. This last
most of all, perhaps—an intangible that was the special prov-
ince of survivors. Did he have it? he wondered suddenly. What
did he have besides what the Druid magic had given him that
he could call upon? He had made much out of the fact that
nothing done to him by the Druids would change who he was.
But was that so? If so, then what part of himself could he call
upon now to enable him to believe in himself once again?

And wasn't that the key to everything? That he believe in
himself enough that he should not despair?

He went back up to the battlements. Rumor trailing. The
night was clear and bright with stars, and the air smelled clean
and fresh. He breathed it deeply as he walked atop the walls,
not looking down at what waited there, letting his thoughts slip
free as he went, unburdened. He found himself thinking about
Quickening, the daughter of the King of the Silver River, the
elemental who had given everything to restore life to a land of
stone, to give the earth a chance to heal. He pictured her face
and listened in his memory to her voice. He felt the slight
weight of her that last time as he carried her to the edge of
Eldwist, the sense of sureness that had emanated from her, the
sense of power. Dying, she was fulfilling her promise. It was
what she had wanted. But she had bequeathed some part of her
life to him, a sense of purpose and need, a resolve that he
would do in life what she could only do in death.

He stopped, staring out at the night. How far he had trav-
eled, he thought in genuine amazement. How long a journey it
had been. All to reach this point, to arrive at this place and
time.

He paused in his meandering, faced inward to the castle
spires, to the walls and towers that loomed over him, rising
darkly into the night. Was this where his life was supposed to

152 The Talismans of Shannara

end? he wondered suddenly. Was this where the journey finally
stopped?

It had been a pointless struggle if that was so.
He turned and looked down over the wall. One of the
Horsemen was passing directly below, a faint luminescence
against the dark. Death, he thought, but it was hard to tell. It
made no difference in any case. Names notwithstanding, iden-
tities assumed aside, they were all Death in one form or an-
other. Shadowen killers lacking use and purpose beyond their
ability to destroy. Why had they allowed themselves to become
so? What choice had made them thus?

He watched that rider fade and waited for the next. All night
they would patrol and at dawn assemble once more before the
gates to issue their challenge anew ...
He caught himself. All together, before the gates.
A glimmer of hope flickered in his mind. What if he were
to answer that challenge?

His face grim-set, he wheeled from the wall and went down
the battlements in search of Cogline.

Dawn arrived with a silvering of the eastern skies that hinted
of mist and heat. The air was still and sultry even this early, a
remnant of yesterday's swelter, a promise that this summer did
not intend to give way easily to autumn. Birds sounded their
calls in snappish, weary tones, as if unwilling to herald the
morning's start.

The Four Horsemen were assembled before the gates, lined
up in the grayness on their nightmare mounts. The serpents
clawed distractedly at the earth as their riders sat mutely before
Paranor's high walls, specters without voice, lives without bal-
ance. As the light crested the tips of the Dragon's Teeth, War
urged his monstrous carrier forward, lifted his armored hand,
and struck the gate with a hollow thud. The sound lingered in
the silence that followed, an echo that disappeared into the
trees and the gloom. The gate shuddered and went still.

War started to turn away.

Walker Boh was waiting. He was already outside the walls,
come through a hidden door in a tower barely fifty feet
away. He was cloaked by his magic in a spell of invisibility,
shrouded in the touch and look and smell of ancient stone so

The Talismans of Shannara 153

that he appeared just another part of Paranor. They had not
been looking for him. Even if they had, he believed he would
not have been discovered.

He brought up his good arm, the magic already summoned,
gathered within until it was white-hot, and he sent it hurtling
toward the Shadowen.

The magic exploded into War and cut the unsuspecting
wraith entirely in half. The serpent mount bolted. War's legs
and lower torso still clinging to it, and disappeared.

Walker struck again. The magic hammered into the remain-
ing three, catching them bunched tightly together and entirely
unprepared. Fire exploded everywhere, engulfing them. The
serpents reared and clawed in fury, wheeling about in an effort
to escape. Walker sent the fire in front of their eyes so that
they could not see and into their nostrils so that they could not
smell, so that it clogged their senses and drove them mad. The
Shadowen slammed up against one another, blinded and con-
fused.

I've got them! Walker thought in elation.

His strength was draining from him fast, but he did not re-
lent. He dropped the spell of invisibility, saving as much of
himself as he could, and pressed the attack further, willing the
magic into fire, willing the fire to consume. One of the Horse-
men broke free, steaming and spitting like embers kicked by a
boot. It was Pestilence, the strange body come apart into a
buzzing swarm of darkness, all of its shape and definition lost.
Famine had gone down, horse and rider writhing on the earth
in a desperate effort to extinguish the flames that were con-
suming them. Death spun out of control, wheeling in a frenzy.

Then the impossible happened. Through smoke and flame,
come back from where it had fled stricken and ruined. War re-
appeared atop its serpent mount.

But War had become whole again.

Walker stared in disbelief. He had severed the Horseman at
the midpoint of its body, seen the top half fall away, and now
War was back together, looking as if nothing had been done to
it at all.

It charged Walker, closing the distance between them,
armored body leaning forward eagerly, metal gleaming in the
faint dawn light. Walker could hear the thunder of the clawed

154 The Talismans of Shannara

feet, the rasp of breathing, the shriek of armor, and the whistle
of air giving way before its coming.

It wasn 't possible!

Instinctively Walker shifted the magic to meet the attack,
gathering it in one final burst. It caught the Horseman and its
mount in a whirlwind of fire and spun them away, sweeping
them off the pathway circling the castle and down into the
trees where they disappeared with a crash.

But there was no time to follow up the attack. The remain-
ing Horsemen had recovered themselves. Death pivoted toward
him, gray-cloaked and hooded, gleaming scythe lowered. Pes-
tilence followed, hissing like a sackful of snakes, its body tak-
ing shape as it came. Walker cut Death's serpent's legs from
beneath it and sent both tumbling in a heap. By then Pestilence
was almost on top of him. He jumped aside, cat quick. But the
Horseman's outstretched fingers grazed him as it passed.

Instantly a wave of nausea swept through Walker. He
dropped to his knees, weakened and dazed. Just a touch had
been all! He swung about to track Pestilence and sent a new
lance of fire into the Shadowen's dark back. Pestilence broke
apart in a swarm of black flies.

Everything seemed to slow down for Walker Boh. He
watched Famine approach in a heavy, sluggish, lurching rush.
He tried to respond, but his strength seemed to have deserted
him. He was aware of the day beginning, of new light bright-
ening the eastern horizon, diffusing in thick, syrupy streamers
across the trailing robes of departing night. He could feel the
air, could taste and smell it, the scents of fresh leaves and
grasses mingling with dust and heat. Paranor was a monstrous
stone shadow at his elbow, close enough to touch and yet im-
possibly far.

He should not have dropped his cloak of invisibility. He had
lost any advantage he had possessed.

He sent fire lancing into Famine and turned its attack aside,
the Horseman's skeletal body hunching and breaking apart
from the blow.

Dead, but not really. Walker thought, feeling himself turning
feverish and hot.

The horsemen swarmed back from all directions, serpents
rising up and converging on him. Why wouldn't they die?

The Talismans of Shannara                         155

How could they keep coming? The questions rolled thickly off
his tongue, and he was aware suddenly that he was speaking
them aloud, that a sort of delirium was settling in. He was im-
possibly weak as he stumbled back toward the wall, mustering
his strength to face the renewed rush. His plan was falling
apart. He had misjudged something. What was it?

He lifted his arm and sent the fire sweeping in all directions,
scattering it into his attackers in a desperate effort to keep
them at bay. But his strength was depleted now, expended in
his initial attack, siphoned away by Pestilence. The magic
barely slowed the Shadowen, who broke through its screen and
came on. War threw a jagged-edged mace at him, and he
watched it hurtle toward him, unable to act. At the last mo-
ment he summoned magic enough to deflect it, but still the
iron struck him a glancing blow, spinning him backward into
Paranor's stone with such force that the breath was knocked
from him.

The blow saved his life.

As he clawed at the stone of Paranor's wall to keep himself
from falling, he found the seam of the hidden door. For an in-
stant his head cleared, and he remembered that he had left
himself a way to escape if things went wrong. He had forgot-
ten it in the rage of battle, in the grip of the fever and delirium.
He still had a chance. The Four Horsemen were bearing down
on him, closing impossibly fast. The fingers of his hand raced
along the hidden door's seam, numb and bloodied. If only he
had two hands, two arms! If only he was whole! The thought
was there and gone in an instant, the despair that summoned it
banished by his fury.

There was a shriek of metal and claws.

His fingers closed on the release.

The door swung inward, carrying him with it, a shapeless
bundle of robes. As it did, he threw back into the space it left
shards of fire as sharp as razors. He heard them tear into his
pursuers, thought that perhaps he heard the Shadowen scream
somewhere inside his mind.

Then he was in musty, cool darkness, the sound and fury
shut away with the closing of the door, the battle over.

156                         The Talismans of Shannara

Cogline found him in the passageway beneath the castle's
ramparts, curled in a ball, so exhausted he could not bring
himself to move. With considerable effort, the old man brought
Walker to his bed and laid him in it. He undressed him,
sponged him with cool, clean water, gave him medicines, and
wrapped him in blankets to sleep. He spoke words to Walker,
but Walker could not seem to decipher them. Walker replied,
but what he said was unclear. He knew that he was alive, that
he had survived to fight another day, and that was all that mat-
tered.

Shivering, aching, bone-weary from his struggle, he let him-
self be settled in and left in darkness to rest. He was conscious
of Rumor curling up beside him, keeping watch against what-
ever might threaten, ready to summon Cogline if need required
it. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, thinking that
the sickness would pass, that he would be well again when he
woke. Determined that he would be.

His eyes closed, but as they did so his mind locked tightly
on a final, healing thought.

The battle had been lost this day. The Four Horsemen had
broken him again. But he had learned something from his
defeat—something that ultimately would prove their undoing.

He took a long slow breath and let it out again. Sleep swept
through his body in warm, relaxing waves.

The next time he faced the Shadowen, he promised himself
before drifting off, sheathing his oath in layers of iron resolve,
he would put an end to them.

XIV

While Walker Boh was fighting to break free of the
Four Horsemen at Paranor, Wren Elessedil was con-
vincing the Elven High Council to engage the Feder-
ation army marching north to destroy them, and Morgan Lean
was leading Damson and a small company of free-born to res-
cue Padishar Creel at Tyrsis, Par Ohmsford was tracking his
brother. Coll.

It was an arduous, painstaking effort. When Damson and he
had separated, he had begun his search immediately, aware that
Coil was only minutes ahead of him, thinking that if he was
quick enough, he would surely catch up to him. Sunrise had
broken, the darkness that might have hampered his efforts fad-
ing to scattered shadows and patches of mist that lingered in
the trees. Coil was fleeing in mindless disregard of everything
but the vision shown him by the Sword of Shannara. He was
confused and terrified; his pain had been palpable. In such a
state, how much effort would he make to conceal his flight?
How far could he run before exhaustion overtook him?

The answer was not the one Par had anticipated. Although
he was able to follow his brother's tracks easily enough, the
trail clear amid a wreckage of brush and grasses, he found
himself unable to gain ground. Despite everything—or perhaps
because of it—Coil seemed to have discovered within himself
unexpected strength. He was running from Par, not just has-
tening away, and he was not pausing to rest. Nor was he run-
ning in a straight line. He was charging all over the place,
starting out in one direction and then within moments revers-
ing himself, not for any discernible reason, but seemingly out

157

158                          The Talismans of Shannara

of whim. It was as if he had gone mad, as if demons pursued
him, shut inside his head so that he could not determine from
where they came.

And, indeed. Par thought as he followed after, it must seem
so to Coll.

By nightfall, he was exhausted. His face and arms were
streaked with dust and sweat, his hair was matted in clumps,
and his clothes were filthy. Having discarded everything else to
lighten his load and give him more speed, he was carrying
only the Sword of Shannara, a blanket, and a water skin. Nev-
ertheless, he could still barely walk. He wondered how Coil
had managed to stay ahead of him. His fear should have ex-
hausted him hours ago. The Mirrorshroud and its Shadowen
magic must be driving his brother like a whip would an ani-
mal. The thought made Par despair. If Coil did not slow, if he
did not regain even some small measure of his judgment, the
exertion would kill him. Or if the exertion didn't, then some
mistake brought on by careless disregard for personal safety
would. There were dangers in this country that could kill a
man even when he was employing a healthy measure of cau-
tion and common sense. At the moment, it seemed. Coil
Ohmsford was possessed of neither.

When he stopped finally. Par found himself just west of
where the Mermidon divided, one tributary running east to-
ward the Rabb, the other turning south toward Varfleet and the
Runne. Follow the second branch far enough and you would
reach the Rainbow Lake. You would also reach Southwatch.
That was the direction that Coil had been traveling when it had
grown too dark to follow his trail farther. The more Par con-
sidered the matter, the more it seemed that his brother had
been following that path all along—albeit in a meandering
way. Back to Southwatch and the Shadowen. It made sense, if
the magic of the cloak was subverting Coll.

Par wrapped up in his blanket and propped himself against
the rough surface of an old shagbark hickory to think things
through. The Sword of Shannara lay on the ground next to
him, and his fingers traced the outline of the carved hilt with
its raised hand and burning torch. If the Shadowen magic was
controlling his brother. Coil might not have any idea at all
what he was doing. He might have come looking for Par with-

The Talismans of Shannara 159

out knowing why; he might be fleeing now in the same con-
dition. Except that the Sword had shown Coil the same vision
it had shown Par, so that meant Coil had seen the truth about
himself. Par had felt a bonding in those moments; Coil had
been joined to him long enough for both to see. Had that
changed things in any way? Having seen the truth about him-
self, was he trying to shake free of the Shadowen magic?

Par closed his eyes tightly against the strain of his weari-
ness. He needed to sleep but was unwilling to do so until he
had figured out what was happening. Damson had warned him
that the pursuit was probably some sort of trap. Coil did not
just happen on them. He had been sent by the Shadowen.
Why? To hurt him or to kill him? Par wasn't sure. How had
Coil managed to find him? How long had he been searching?
The questions buzzed through his mind like angry hornets, in-
trusive and demanding, stingers poised. Think! Perhaps the
magic of the cloak had let Coil find him—had driven Coil to
find him. The magic had infected his brother, had turned him
into the Shadowen thing, all the while Coil believing it was
helping him escape his captors, fooled into donning it so that
it could begin its work, tricked ...

Par took a deep breath. He could barely breathe at all, pic-
turing Coil as one of them, one of the things in the Pit, the
things that were living even when they were already dead.

He drank some water because water was all he had. How
long had it been since he had eaten? he wondered. Tomorrow
he would have to forage or hunt. He needed to regain his
strength. No food and little rest would eventually catch up to
him. He could not afford to be foolish if he was to be of any
use to his brother.

He forced his thoughts back to Coil, wrapping the blanket
closer in the gathering night. It was cool in the trees by the
river, the summer heat banished to other realms. If Coil had
not come to kill him, why had he come? Not for any good rea-
son surely. Coil was not Coil now.

Par blinked. To steal the Sword of Shannara perhaps?

The idea was intriguing, but it made no sense. Why would
Rimmer Dall hand the Sword over to Par only to dispatch Coil
later to steal it back? Unless Coil was someone else's tool. But
that made even less sense. There was only one enemy here, de-

160                         The Talismans of Shannara

spite all of the First Seeker's protestations. Rimmer Dall had
gone to a great deal of trouble to make Par think he had killed
his brother. The Shadowen had sent Coil for a reason, but it
was not to steal back the Sword of Shannara.

Par let himself consider for a moment how odd it was that
the Sword had finally revealed itself to him. He had tried ev-
erything to trigger the magic, and until then nothing had
worked. He had always believed that it really was the talisman,
that it was not a fake, even though Rimmer Dall had given it
to him willingly. He had sensed its power, even when it did
not respond to him. But the doubts had persisted, and more
than once he had despaired. Now suddenly, unexpectedly, the
magic had been brought to life, all because of his struggle with
Coll.

And Par didn't have a clue as to why.

He slid down the tree trunk until he was resting on his back,
staring up through the leafy boughs of the hickory at the clear,
starlit sky. He just needed to get comfortable, he told him-
self. Just needed to ease a little of the aching of his body. He
could think better if he did that. He knew he could.

He fell asleep telling himself so.

When he woke it was dawn, and Coil was staring down at
him. His brother was crouched atop a mound of rocks not
twenty feet off, twisted and hunched like a scavenger. He was
wrapped in the Mirrorshroud, the folds glimmering wickedly in
the faint silver light as if dew were woven through the fabric.
Coil's face was haggard and drawn, and his eyes, always so
calm and steady, were darting about with fear and loathing.

Par was so startled that he couldn't bring himself to move.
It had never occurred to him that his brother might circle
back—would even have the presence of mind to do so. Why
had he come? To attack him anew, to try to kill him perhaps?
He stared at Coil, into his stricken face and sunken eyes. No,
Coil was there for something else. He looked as if he wished
to approach, as if he wanted to speak, as if he was seeking
something from Par. And maybe he is. Par thought suddenly.
The Sword of Shannara had given Coil his first glimpse of
truth since he had donned the Mirrorshroud. Perhaps he
wanted more.

The Talismans of Shannara                         161

He lifted slowly and started to hold out his hand.

Instantly Coil was gone, leaping from the rock into the shad-
ows beyond and bounding away into the trees.

"Coil!" Par screamed after him. The echo faded and died.
The sound of Coil's running disappeared into silence, lost as
the distance between them widened anew.

Par foraged for berries and roots, convinced as he ate a mea-
ger breakfast that if he didn't find real food by nightfall he
would be in serious trouble. He ate quickly, thinking of Coil all
the while. There had been such terror in his brother's eyes—
and such fury. At Par, at himself, at the truth? There was no
way to know. But Coil was aware of him still, was actively
seeking him out, and there was still a chance to catch up with

him.

What would he do, though, when he did? Par hadn't thought
that far ahead. Use the Sword of Shannara again, he answered
himself, almost without thinking. The Sword was Coil's best
hope for getting free of the Mirrorshroud. If Coil could be
made to see the nature of the magic that possessed him, per-
haps a way could be found to throw the cloak and its magic
off. Perhaps Par could manage to tear it off him if nothing else.
But the Sword was the key. Coil hadn't recognized anything
until the Sword's magic engaged him, but the truth had shown
in his eyes then. Par would use the talisman again, he told
himself. And this time he wouldn't stop until Coil was free.

He picked up his blanket and set out again. The day was
sultry and still, the heat growing quickly to a sticky swelter
that left Par's clothing damp with sweat. He picked up Coil's
trail and followed it to the Mermidon and across, heading
north, then back again south. This time his brother continued
in a direct line for several hours, traveling the east bank into
the Runne Mountains. He passed Varfleet across the river, see-
ing trawlers and ferries maneuvering sluggishly on the broad
expanse, thinking that it would be good to have a boat, think-
ing a second later that a boat was useless while he was track-
ing prints on dry land. He remembered when Coil and he had
fled Varfleet weeks earlier and come south down the
Mermidon, the beginning of everything. He remembered how
close they had been then, despite their arguments over the di-

162                         The Talismans of Shannara

rection of their lives and the purpose of Par's magic. It all
seemed to have happened a very long time ago.

Toward midaftemoon he came upon a small landing with a
fishing dock and trading post several miles downriver of
Varfleet. The post was ramshackle and cluttered, its tenants a
taciturn, recalcitrant bunch with scarred, callused working
hands and sun-browned faces. He was able to trade his ring for
fishing line and hooks, flint, b'read, cheese, and smoked fish.
He carried everything just beyond sight of the landing, plopped
down, and ate half of the foodstuffs without stopping for
breath. When he was finished, he resumed his trek south, feel-
ing decidely better about himself. The line and hooks would
allow him to fish, and the flint would give him a fire. He was
beginning to realize that catching up to Coil would take a lot
longer than he had expected.

He found himself thinking again about why Coil had come
in search of him—or more accurately, why he had been sent.
If it wasn't to kill him or to steal the Sword, that didn't leave
much. Perhaps Coil's coming was intended to provoke some
sort of response from him. Damson's warning whispered once
again—the chase was probably a Shadowen trap. But how
could the Shadowen know their meeting would trigger the
magic of the Sword of Shannara and reveal the truth about
who Coil was, that Par would be able to see him as anything
but a Shadowen? Coil might have been sent as a lure to draw
Par after—that certainly seemed like Rimmer Dall—but again,
how could the Shadowen know that Par would discover his
brother's identity?

Unless he wasn't supposed to find out ...

Par stopped abruptly. He was passing beneath a huge old
oak. It was shady there and cool. He could feel a breeze waft
in off the Mermidon. He could hear the sound of the river's
sluggish flow. He could smell the water and the woods.

... until it was too late.

He felt his throat tighten. What if he had this whole business
backward? What if Coil wasn't supposed to kill him? What if
he was supposed to kill Coil?

Why?

Because ...

He struggled with the answer. It was almost there, just on

The Talismans of Shannara                         163

the edge of his reasoning. A whisper of words, straining to be
recognized, to be understood.

He could not quite reach them.

He started off again, frustrated. He was on the right track,
even if he didn't have all the particulars straight yet. It was
Coil out there, leading him on, fleeing without knowing why,
coming back at night to make certain Par was following. It
was the Sword of Shannara Par carried, and its magic that had
told him the truth. It was the Shadowen who had orchestrated
this whole business, who were playing with them as if they
were children set at a game, made to perform for the enjoy-
ment of others.

It has to do with the magic of the wishsong. Par thought
suddenly. It has to do with that.

It would come to him, he knew. He just needed to keep
thinking about it. He just needed to keep reasoning it through.

He had not found Coil by sunset of the second day, and he
made camp in a rock-sheltered niche that protected his back
while allowing him to see whatever approached from the front.
He did not build a fire. A fire would obscure his night vision
when it grew dark. He ate a little more of his provisions,
wrapped himself in his blanket, and settled back against the
rocks to wait.

The night deepened and the stars came out. Par watched the
shadows define and take shape in the pale light. He listened to
the sluggish flow of the river against the rocks and the cries of
the night birds circling its waters. He breathed the cooling,
damp air, and allowed himself to wonder for the first time in
two days about Damson Rhee. It was strange being without her
after the time they hid together in Tyrsis, the two of them
fighting to stay free. He worried for her, but reassured himself
by deciding that she was probably better off than he was. By
now she would have reached the free-born and be engaged in
an effort to rescue Padishar. By now she was safe.

Or as safe as either of them could be until this business was
finished.

Thoughts of Damson, Padishar, Morgan Leah, Wren, and
Walker Boh crowded into his mind, fragments of his memories
of those who had been lost along the way. It sometimes
seemed to him that he was destined to lose everyone So much

164 The Talismans of Shannara

effort expended and so little gained—the weight of it bore
down on him.

He drew his knees up to his chest protectively, tightening
himself into a ball. The Sword of Shannara pressed against his
back; he had forgotten to unstrap it. The Sword, his charge
from Allanon, his chance for life, his sole hope for someday
getting free of the Shadowen—a. lot had been given up for it.
He wondered anew what purpose the talisman was supposed to
serve. Surely something wondrous, for magic like this was cre-
ated for nothing less. But how was he supposed to discover
that purpose—especially here, lost somewhere in the Runne,
chasing after poor Coil? He should be searching for Walker
Boh and for Wren, the others who had been given charges by
Allanon.

But that was wrong, of course. He should be doing exactly
what he was; he should be searching for his brother so that he
could help him. If he lost Coil, who had stood by him through
so much, who had given up everything, lost him after losing
him once already, after having found him again ...

He shook his head. He would not lose Coll. He would not
allow that to happen.

The minutes slipped away, and Par Ohmsford continued to
wait. Coil would come. He was certain of it. He would come
as he had the night before. Perhaps he would only sit and stare
at Par, but at least he would be there, nearby.

He reached into his tunic and brought out the broken half of
Skree that Damson had given to him. He had wrapped it tight
with a leather cord and hung it about his neck. If Damson was
close, the Skree was supposed to brighten. He inspected it
thoughtfully. The metal reflected dully in the pale starlight, but
did not glow. Damson was far away.

He looked at the Skree a moment longer, then slipped it
back into his tunic. Another bit of magic to keep him safe, he
thought ruefully. The wishsong, the Sword of Sharmara, and
the Skree. He was well equipped with talismans. He was
awash in them.

But his bitterness served no purpose, so he tried to brush it
away. He took off the Sword and set it on the ground beside
him. Somewhere out on the Mermidon a fish splashed. From

The Talismans of Shannara                         165

the trees behind him came the Sow hoot of an owl, sudden and
compelling.

A heritage of magic, he thought, unable to help himself, the
darkness of his mood inexorable, and all it does is make me
wonder if Rimmer Dall is right—if I am indeed a Shadowen.

The thought lingered as he stared out into the night.

The thing that was a mix of Shadowen and Coil Ohmsford
stared out from its concealment in the trees some fifty feet
from where the one who tracked it sat waiting for it to appear.

But I will not, no, it thought to itself. / will stay here, safe
within the dark, where I belong, where the shadows protect me
from ...

What? It could not remember. This other creature? The
strange weapon it carried? No, something else. The cloak it
wore? It fingered the material uncertainly, feeling something
unpleasant stir at the tips of its fingers as it did so, aware again
of the vision it had witnessed when it had struggled with the
other, the one who was ... who was ... It could not remem-
ber. Someone it had known. Once, long ago. Confusion beset
it; the confusion never left, it seemed.

The Shadowen/Coll thing shifted silently, eyes never leaving
the figure wedged into the rocks.

It thinks it can see me from there, but it is wrong. It can see
nothing 1 do not wish it to see—not while I wear the cloak, not
while I have the magic. I come to it when I wish, and I go
away -when I choose. It cannot see me. It cannot catch me. It
hunts me, but I take it where I wish. I take it south, south to,
to ...

But it wasn't sure, the confusion clouding its thoughts again,
distracting it. It could think better if it took off the cloak, it
sometimes seemed. But no, that would be foolish. The cloak
protected it, the Mirrorshroud, given to it by—no, stolen, taken
from—no, tricked away by someone ... dangerous ...

The thoughts came and went, fragmented and fleeting. They
spun like eddies in a river, touching down against silt and rock
for just an instant before moving on.

Tears of frustration came to its eyes, and it brought one
soiled hand up to brush them away. Sometimes it remembered
things from before, from when it did not wear the cloak, from

166 The Talismans of Shannara

when it was someone else. The memories made it sad, and it
seemed that something bad had been done to it to cause the
memories to make it feel that way.

/ saw, for a moment, in the light in my mind, in that vision,
I saw something about myself, about who I was, am, could be.
I want to see it again!

It fled now from the thing it had hunted once, frightened of
it without knowing why. The cloak reassured, but even the
cloak did not seem enough to protect it against this other. And
flight from its pursuer always seemed to bring it back around
to where that pursuer waited, a circle of running it could not
understand. If it ran from its pursuer, why did the running
bring it back again? Sometimes the cloak soothed and shel-
tered against the pursuer and the memories, but sometimes it
felt as if the cloak were fire against its skin, burning away its
identity, making it into something terrible.

Take off the cloak!

No, foolish, foolish! The cloak protects!

And so the battle raged within the tormented thing that was
both Coil and Shadowen, driving it this way and that, wearing
it down and building it up again, pulling and pushing both at
once until there was nothing of reason and peace left within it.

Help me, it pleaded silently. Please, help me.

But it did not know who it was asking for help or what form
that help should take. It stared down through the darkness at
the one who tracked it, thinking that its hunter would sleep
soon. What should it do then? Should it go down there, creep-
ing, creeping, silent as clouds drifting in the sky, and touch it,
touch ...

The thought would not complete. The cloak seemed to fold
more tightly about it, distracting it. Yes, creep down perhaps,
show its hunter that it was not afraid (but it was!), that it could
do as it wished in the night, in its cloak, in the safety of the
magic ...

Help me.

It choked on the words, trying to shriek them aloud, unable
to do so. It closed its eyes against the pain and forced itself to
think.

Take something from it, something it needs, that it treasures.
Take something that will make it ... hurt as I do. Reason

The Talismans of Shannara                         167

jarred loose a familiar memory. / know this one, know from
when, when we were, we were . . . brothers! This one can help,
can find a way ...

But the Coll/Shadowen thing was not certain of this, and the
thought faded away with the others, lost in the teeming frag-
ments that jostled and fought for consideration in the confused
mind. It was both drawn to and repelled by the one it watched,
and the conflict would not resolve itself no matter how much
effort was expended.

Tears came again, unbidden, unwanted. The soiled, scraped
hands knotted and tightened. The ravaged face fought to shape
itself into something recognizable. For a second Coil was
back, recovered out of the web of dark magic that imprisoned
him.

Need to act, to do something that will let the other know!

Need to take something away!

I must!

Par was asleep when he felt the tearing at his neck. He
jerked and thrashed wildly in an effort to stop it, not knowing
what it was or who was causing it. Something was choking
him, closing off his throat so that he could not breathe. There
was a weight atop him, climbing on him, wrapping about.

A Shadowen!

Yet the wishsong had not warned him, so it could not be
that. He summoned the magic now, desperate to save himself.
He felt it build with agonizing slowness. Something was
breathing on his face and neck. There was a flash of teeth, and
he felt coarse hair rub against his skin. His hand reached out
to brace himself so that he might shove upward against his at-
tacker. His hand brushed the handle of the Sword of Shannara,
and the metal burned him like fire.

Then the pressure on his throat abruptly released, the weight
on his body lifted, and through a haze of colored light and
gloom he saw a crumpled, hunched form race away into the
night.

Coil! It had been Coil!

He came to his feet, bewildered and frightened, fighting for
air and balance. What was going on? Had Coil been sent to
kill him after all? Had he tried to choke him to death? He

168                         The Talismans of Shannara

watched the dark form disappear into the shadows, lost in the
rocks and trees almost instantly. There was no mistake. It had
been Coll. He was certain of it.

But what was his brother trying to do?

He thought suddenly of the Sword, glanced hurriedly down,
and found it lying untouched next to where he stood. Not the
Sword, he thought. What then?

He groped at his neck, aware suddenly of new pain. His
hand came away wet with blood. He felt again. He found a
collar of bruised, torn flesh. He touched it gingerly, question-
ingly.

And then he realized that the Skree was gone.

His brother had stolen it. He must have seen Par hold it up
while he was hiding out there in the dark. He must have come
down after Par had fallen asleep, crept up on him, pinned him
to the ground, yanked at the leather cord about his neck so that
he choked, bitten it through when nothing else worked, and
carried off Damson's talisman.

Why?

So that Par would follow him, of course. So that Par would
have to give chase.

The Valeman stood staring after his brother, after the thing
his brother had become, stunned. In the silence of his mind it
seemed he could hear the other cry out to him.

Help me, Coil was saying.

Help me.

XV

When it grew light enough to see. Par went after his
brother. Sunrise was early, the day clear and bright,
and the trail Coil left easy to follow once again. Par
redoubled his efforts, pushing himself harder than before, de-
termined that this time Coil would not get away. They were
deep within the Runne Mountains by now, hemmed in by can-
yon walls as they followed the Mermidon south, and there was
little room for deviation. Nevertheless, Coil continued to wan-
der away from the riverbank as if searching for a way out.
Sometimes he would get almost half a mile before the moun-
tains blocked his path. Once he was able to climb to a low
ridge and follow it south for several miles before it dead-ended
at another cliff face and turned him aside. Each time Par was
forced to follow so as not to lose the trail, afraid that if he sim-
ply kept to the riverbank Coil would double back. The effort
of the pursuit drained him of his strength, and the muggy,
windless air made him light-headed. The day passed, sunset
came, and still he had not found Coll.

He fished for his dinner that night, using the hook and line
from the trading center, cooked and ate his catch, and left what
remained—a more than generous portion—on a flat rock several
dozen feet off from where he slept. He was awake most of the
night, hearing and seeing things that weren't there, dozing infre-
quently and fitfully. He did not see Coil once. When he woke,
he found the fish gone—but it might have been eaten by wild
animals. He didn't think so, but there was no way to be sure.

For the next three days he continued his pursuit, working his
way downriver, edging steadily closer to the Rainbow Lake

169

170 The Talismans of Shannara

and Southwatch. He began to worry that he was not going to
catch up to Coil until it was too late. Somehow his brother was
managing to keep just ahead of him, even with his diminished
capacity to reason, even in his half-Shadowen state. Coil was
not thinking clearly, not choosing the easiest or quickest paths,
not bothering to hide his tracks, not doing anything but some-
how managing to keep just out of reach. It was frustrating and
troubling at once. It seemed inevitable that he would find Coil
too late to help him—or perhaps even to help himself, if the
Shadowen discovered them. If Rimmer Dall found Coil first,
what was Par supposed to do then? Use the Sword of
Shannara? He had tried that once to no avail. Use the magic of
the wishsong? He had tried that as well and found it danger-
ously unpredictable. Still, he might have no choice. He would
have to use the wishsong if that was the only way he could
free his brother. The price he would have to pay was not a
consideration.

He thought often now of how the wishsong had evolved and
what it seemed to be doing to him when he summoned it. He
tried to think what he might do to protect himself, to keep the
magic under control, to prevent it from getting away from him
entirely. The power was building in a manner he could not
comprehend, evolving just as it had with Wil Ohmsford years
ago, manifesting itself in new and frightening ways that sug-
gested something fundamental was changing inside Par as
well. When he considered the extent of that evolution, he was
terrified. At one time it had been the magic of Jair Ohmsford,
a wishsong that could form images out of air, images that
seemed real but were only imaginings imprinted on the minds
of those who listened. Now it seemed more the magic of Jair's
sister, Brin, magic that could change things in truth, that could
alter them irrevocably. But with Par it could create as well. It
could make things out of nothing, like that fire sword in the
Pit, or the shards of metal and wind in the watchtower at
Tyrsis. Where had power like that come from? What could
have made the magic change so drastically?

What frightened him most, of course, was that the answer to
all of his questions about the source of his magic was the
same, a faint and insidiously confident whisper in his mind,
the words spoken to him by Rimmer Dall when he had faced

The Talismans of Shannara 171

the First Seeker in the vault that had housed the Sword of
Shannara.

You are a Shadowen, Par Ohmsford. You belong with us.

Six days into his pursuit, four after the theft of the Skree, the
afternoon heat so intense it seemed to color the air and bum
the lungs. Coil's trail turned sharply into the river and disap-
peared.

Par stopped at the water's edge, scanned the ground in dis-
belief, backtracked to make certain he had not been deceived,
and then sat down in a patch of shade beneath a spreading
poplar to gather his thoughts.

Coil had gone into the river.

He stared out across its waters, over the sluggish, broad sur-
face to the tree-lined bank beyond. The Mermidon turned out
of the Runne where they were now, closing on the Rainbow
Lake. The mountains continued south along the east bank, but
the west flattened out into hilly grasslands and scattered groves
of hardwoods. If Coil had been thinking clearly, he might have
chosen to cross where travel was easier. But Coil was in the
thrall of the Mirrorshroud. Par decided he couldn't be sure of
anything. In any event, if Coil had crossed, he must cross as
well.

He stripped off his clothing, used the fishing line and some
deadwood to create a makeshift raft, lashed his clothing, blan-
ket, pack, and the Sword of Shannara in place, and slipped into
the river. The water was cold and soothing. He pushed off into
the current, swimming with it at an angle toward the far shore.
He took his time and was across about a mile down. He
climbed out, dried himself, dressed, lashed the Sword and his
gear to his back, and set off to find Coil's trail again.

But the trail was nowhere to be found.

He searched upriver and down until it was dark and discov-
ered nothing. Coil had disappeared. Par sat in the dark staring
out at the river's flat, glittery surface and wondered if his
brother had drowned. Coil was a good swimmer under normal
circumstances, but maybe his strength had finally given out.
Par forced himself to eat, drank from his water skin, rolled
himself into his blanket, and tried to sleep. Sleep would not
come. Thoughts of Coil tugged and twisted at him, memories
of the past, the weight of all that had come about since the be-

172                          The Talismans of Shannara

ginning of the dreams. Par was assailed by conflicting emo-
tions. What was he supposed to do now? What if Coil was
really gone?

Sunrise was a deep red glow out of the east shadowed by a
gathering of clouds west. The clouds rolled across the hori-
zon, coming into Callahom like a wall. Daylight was pale and
thin, and the air turned dead still. Par rose and started out
again, heading south along the river, still searching for his
brother. He was tired and discouraged, and on the verge of
quitting. He kept wondering what he was doing, chasing after
a ghost, chasing after a Shadowen thing, being led on like a
dumb animal. How did he know it was really Coil? Maybe
Damson had been right. Couldn't the Shadowen have fooled
him in some way? What if Rimmer Dall had tampered with
the Sword, or changed its magic so that it deceived? Suppose
this was all some sort of elaborate trap. Was there any way to
tell?

He quit thinking altogether after a while because there were
no possibilities left that he hadn't considered and he was wear-
ing himself out to no good purpose. He simply kept walking,
following the river as it meandered south through the hill
country, scanning the ground mechanically, everything inside
beginning to shut down into a black silence.

To the west, the clouds began to darken as they neared, and
a sudden wind gusted ahead of them in warning. Birds flew
screaming into the mountains east, flashes of white disappear-
ing into the shadows.

Ahead, only miles downriver, Southwatch appeared, its
black obelisk etched against the skyline. Par watched it grow
steadily larger as he approached, a fortress standing firm in the
path of the coming storm. Par's eyes swept its walls and tow-
ers as he edged closer to stands of trees and rocks to gain
cover. Nothing showed itself. Nothing moved.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he came upon Coil's trail
again. He found it at the river's edge where his brother had
emerged after having been carried south for what must have
been at least seven or eight miles. He was certain it was Coil,
even before he found a bootprint that confirmed it. The trail set
off west into the hills and the coming storm.

The Talismans of Shannara 173

But the trail was hours old. Coil had come ashore yesterday
and set out at once. Par was at least a day behind.

Nevertheless, he began to track, grateful to have found any
trail at all, relieved to know that his brother was still alive. He
trudged inland from the river, the light failing rapidly now as
the storm neared, the air turning slick and damp, and the
grasses whipping wildly against his legs. Clouds roiled and
tumbled overhead, filling the skies to overflowing. Par glanced
back to where he had last seen Southwatch, but the Shadowen
tower had disappeared into the gloom.

Rain began to fall in scattered drops, cool on his heated
skin, then stinging as the wind gusted sharply and blew them
into his face.

Moments later he crested a rise and saw Coll.

His brother was sprawled motionless on a stretch of dusty
grass, facedown beneath a leafless, storm-ravaged oak that rose
out of the center of a shallow vale. At first glance he appeared
to be dead. Par started forward hurriedly, his heart sinking. No,
was all he could think. No. Then he saw Coil stir, saw his arm
move slightly, rearranging itself. A leg followed, drawing up,
then relaxing again. Coil wasn't dead; he was simply ex-
hausted. He had finally run himself out

Par came down off the rise into the teeth of a wind that
howled and bucked as it swept out of the enveloping black.
The sound of his approach was lost in its shriek. He bent his
head and pushed forward. Coil had gone still again. He did not
hear Par. Par would reach him before Coil knew he was there.

And then what? he wondered suddenly. What would he do
then?

He reached back over his shoulder deliberately and pulled
out the Sword of Shannara. Somehow he would find a way to
call forth the talisman's magic once more, to hold his brother
fast while it worked its way through him, forcing him to see
the truth, shredding the Shadowen cloak, freeing him for good.

At least, that's what he hoped would happen. He breathed in
the smell and taste of the storm. Well, he would have his
chance. Coil would not be as strong now as he was before.
And Par would not be the one caught off guard.

As he closed on Coil, coming underneath the ruined oak's
skeletal limbs, thunder—the storm's first—rumbled out of the

174 The Talismans of Shannara

black. Coil started at the sound, rolled onto his back, and
stared upward at his brother ten feet away.

Par stopped, uncertain. Coil looked at him from within the
shadows of the Mirrorshroud's velvet-black hood, his eyes
blank and uncomprehending. A hand lifted weakly to pull the
cloak closer about his hunched body. He whimpered and drew
his knees up.

Par held his breath and started forward again, a step, an-
other, the wind thrusting at him, billowing his clothes out from
his body, whipping his hair from side to side. He kept the
Sword of Shannara as still as he could against his body, unable
to hide it now, hoping to keep it from becoming Coil's point
of focus.

A jagged streak of lightning darted across the sky followed
by a deafening peal of thunder that reverberated from horizon
to horizon.

Coil came to his knees, eyes wide and frightened. For a sec-
ond his hands relaxed their grip on the cloak, letting it fall
away, and his face gained back a measure of its old look. Coil
Ohmsford was there again in that moment's time, staring out at
his brother as if he had never gone away. There was recogni-
tion in his face, a stunned, grateful relief that smoothed away
pain and despair. Par felt a surge of hope. He wanted to call
out to his brother, to assure him everything would be all right,
to tell him he was safe now.

But in the next instant Coil was gone. His face disappeared
back into the Shadowen thing that the Mirrorshroud had made,
and a twisted, cunning visage took its place. Teeth bared, and
his brother went into a crouch, snarling.

He's going to flee again! Par thought in anguish.

But instead Coil rushed him, bounding to his feet and clos-
ing the distance between them almost before Par could bring
up the Sword of Shannara in defense. Coil's hands closed over
Par's, grappling with the handle of the talisman, twisting at it
to wrest it free. Par hung on, lurching forward and back as he
fought with his brother for control of the blade. Rain poured
down on them, a torrent of such ferocity that Par was left al-
most blinded. Coil was right up against him, pressed so close
he could feel his brother's heartbeat. Their hands were locked

The Talismans of Shannara                         175

above their heads as they wrenched at the Sword, swinging it
this way and that, the metal glistening wetly.

Lightning struck north, a flash of intense light followed by
a huge clap of thunder. The ground shook.

Par tried to summon the magic of the Sword but couldn't. It
had come easily enough before—why wouldn't it come now?
He tried to fight past his brother's madness, past the fury of his
attack. He tried to block out his fear that nothing would help,
that the power was somehow lost again. Across the slick,
wind-swept grasses the Ohmsford brothers struggled, fighting
for possession of the Sword of Shannara, grunts and shouts
lost in the sound of the storm. Over and over Par sought un-
successfully to summon the magic. Despair washed through
him. He was losing this battle, too. Coil was bigger than he
was, and his size and weight were wearing Par down. Worse,
his brother seemed to be growing stronger as his own strength
failed. Coil was all over him, kicking and clawing, fighting as
if he had gone completely mad.

But Par would not give up. He clung desperately to the
Sword, determined not to lose it. He let his brother shove him
back, muscle him about, thrust him this way and that, hoping
the efforts would tire Coil, slow him down, weaken him
enough that Par could find a way to knock him unconscious.
If he could manage that, he might have a chance.

Lightning flashed again, quick and startling. In its momen-
tary glare Par caught a glimpse of shadowy forms gathering on
the rise above the vale, dozens of them, twisted and gnarled
and stooped, the gleam of their eyes like blood.

Then they were gone again, swallowed in the black storm
night. Distracted, Par blinked away the rain that ran into his
eyes, trying to peer past Coil's struggling form. What had he
just seen out there? Again the lightning flashed, just as Coil
thrust out wildly and toppled him to the sodden grass. He saw
nothing this time, fighting to keep the breath in his lungs as he
struck the ground. Coil threw himself on Par, howling. But Par
let his brother's momentum work against him, tumbling the
other over his head and twisting himself free.

He came to his feet, dazed and searching. The gloom was so
thick he could barely see the ravaged oak. The rise was invis-
ible.

176 The Talismans of Shannara

Coil came at him again, but mis time Par was ready. Break-
ing through the other's guard, he struck Coil sharply on the
head with the hilt of the Sword. Coil dropped to his knees,
stunned. He groped at the air in front of him, as if grasping for
something that only he could see. A trickle of red ran down his
face from where the blow had broken the skin, blood diffusing
and turning pink as it mingled with the rain. His features began
to change, losing their Shadowen cast, turning human again.
Par started to strike, trembling in despair and exhaustion, then
stopped as he saw the other's eyes fix on him in wonder.
It was his brother looking at him. It was Coll.
He dropped to his knees in the slick grass and mud, facing
Coll. His brother's lips were moving, the words he was speak-
ing lost in the howl of the wind and rain. He was shivering
with cold and something more. He began shaking his head
slowly beneath the glistening cover of the Mirrorshroud, twist-
ing within the dark folds as if it were the hardest thing he had
ever had to do. Coll. Par mouthed his name. Coil's hands came
up to grasp the folds of the Shadowen cloak, shook violently,
and then dropped away. Coll.

Desperate to help his brother before the chance was gone,
Par impulsively jammed the Sword of Shannara into the earth
before him and reached past it to take hold of Coil's hands.
Coil did not resist, his eyes empty and dull. Par guided Coil's
hands to the pommel of the Sword and fastened the chill, shak-
ing fingers in place, holding them there with his own. Please,
Coll. Please stay with me. Coil was staring at him, seeing him
now and at the same time seeing right through him. The Sword
of Shannara bound them, held them fast, fingers intertwined,
pressed against the raised torch carved into the handle and
against each other.

Par saw the distorted reflection of his face in the rain-
streaked surface of the blade. "Coil!" he screamed.

His brother's eyes snapped up. Please let the magic come,
Par begged. Please!

Coil's eyes were fixed on him, searching for more.
"Coil, listen to me! It's Par! It's your brother!"
Coil bunked. There was a hint of recognition. There was a
glint of light. Beneath his own hands. Par could feel Coil's
tighten on the Sword's hilt.

The Talismans of Shannara
Coil!

177

Light flared down the length of the Sword's smooth blade,
quick and blinding, a white fury that engulfed everything in a
moment's time. Fire followed, cool and brilliant as it burned
'    outward from the Sword and into Par's body. He felt it extend
and weave, drawing him out of himself and into the talisman,
there to find Coil waiting, there to join them as one. He felt
himself twist through the metal and out again to somewhere
far beyond. The world from which he had been drawn dis-
appeared—the damp and the mud, the dark and the sound.
There was whiteness and there was silence. There was nothing
else.
4      Just Coil and himself. Just the two of them.

Then he was aware of the shimmering black length of the
k   Mirrorshroud wrapping about his brother's head and body,
writhing like a snake. The cloak was alive, working itself this
way and that, twisting violently against the pull of something
invisible, something that was threatening to tear it apart.

Par could hear it hiss.

The Sword of Shannara. The magic of the Sword.

He let his thoughts flow deep into his brother's mind, down
into the darkness that had settled there and was now fighting
hard to remain. Listen to me, Coll. Listen to the truth. He
forced his brother's mind to open, casting aside the Shadowen
magic he found waiting there, heedless of his own safety,
oblivious to everything but the need to set his brother free. The
magic of the sword armored and sustained him. Listen to me.
His voice cracked like a whip in his brother's mind. He assem-
bled his words and gave them shape and form, images that
matched the intensity of the wishsong when it told the tales of
three hundred years gone. The truth of who and what Coil had
become released in a rush that could not be slowed or turned
aside, flooding inward. Coil saw how he had been subverted.
He saw what the cloak had done to him. He saw the way in
which he had been turned against his brother, sent to fulfill
some dark intent of which neither of them was aware. He saw
everything that had been so carefully hidden by the Shadowen
magic.

He saw as well what was needed in order that he should be
free of it.

178                         The Talismans of Shannara

The pain of those revelations was intense and penetrating.
Par could feel it reverberate through his brother, the waves
washing back upon himself. His brother's life was laid bare
before him, a stark and unrelenting series of truths that cut to
the bone. Par fought his panic and the pain and faced them un-
flinching, steady because his brother needed him to be so. He
could hear Coil's silent scream of anguish at what he was be-
ing shown. He could see that anguish reflected in Coil's eyes,
deep and harsh. He did not turn away. He did not soften. The
truth was the Sword of Shannara's white fire, burning and
cleansing, and it was their only hope.

Coil reared back and screamed then, the sound bringing
them out of the white silence and back into the black, howling
fury of the storm, kneeling together in the mud and wet grasses
beneath that ancient oak, beneath the dark, roiling clouds.
There was swirling, misty gloom all about, as if the last of the
daylight had been stripped away. Rain blew into their faces,
blinding them to everything but a shimmer of each other grasp-
ing as one the glittering length of the Sword. Lightning struck,
brilliant and searing, and then thunder sounded in a tremen-
dous blast.

Coil Ohmsford's hands wrenched free of the Sword, tearing
loose Par's as well. Coil rose, a stricken look on his face. But
it was his face Par saw, his brother's face, and nothing of the
Shadowen horror that had sought to claim it. Coil reached back
in a frenzy and tore loose the Mirrorshroud. He ripped it away
and threw it to the earth. The Mirrorshroud landed in a heap
amid the dampness and muck and at once began to steam. ,It
shuddered and twisted, then began to bubble. Green flames
sprang from its shimmering folds, burning wildly. The fire
spread, inexorable, consuming, and in seconds the Mirror-
shroud was turned to ash.

Par came wearily to his feet and faced his brother, seeing in
Coil's eyes what he had been searching for. Coil had come
back to him. The Sword of Shannara had shown him the truth
about the Mirrorshroud—that it was Shadowen-swom, that it
had been created to subvert him, that the only way he could
ever be free was to take off the cloak and throw it away. Coil
had done so. The Sword had given him the strength.

But even in that moment of supreme elation, when the

The Talismans of Shannara 179

struggle had been won and Coil had been returned to him. Par
felt something uneasy stir within. There should have been
more, a voice whispered. The magic should have done some-
thing more. Remember the tales of five hundred years gone?
Remember the first Ohmsford? Remember Shea? The magic
had done something different for Shea when he had summoned
it. It had shown him the truth about himself, revealed first all
that he had sought to hide away, to disguise, to forget, to pre-
tend did not exist. It had shown to Shea Ohmsford the truth
about himself, the harshest truth of all, in order that he might
be able to bear after any other truth that was required of him.

Why had nothing of this truth been shown to him? Why had
everything been of Coil alone?

Lightning flashed again, and Par's thoughts disintegrated in
the movement of the dark forms on the rise surrounding them,
forms so clearly revealed this time that there could be no mis-
taking what they were. Par turned, seeing them crouched and
waiting everywhere, twisted and dark, red eyes gleaming. He
felt Coil edge close, felt his brother take up a protective stance
at his back. Coil was seeing them now as well.

A strange mix of despair and fury washed through Par
Ohmsford. The Shadowen had found them.

Then Rimmer Dall descended from the ranks, the raw, harsh
features lifted into the rain, the eyes as hard as stone and as red
as blood. A dozen steps from them, he stopped. Without saying
a word, he lifted his gloved hand and beckoned. The gesture
said everything. They must come with him. They belonged to
him. They were his now.

Par heard the First Seeker's voice in his mind, heard it as
surely as if the other had spoken. He shook his head once. He
would not come. Neither he nor Coll. Not ever again.

"Par," he heard his brother speak his name softly. "I'm with
you."

There was a sudden rasp of the Sword of Shannara's blade
against the pull of the earth as Coil slowly drew it free. Par
turned slightly. Coil was holding the talisman in both hands,
facing out at the Shadowen.

Fiercely determined that nothing would separate them again,
Par Ohmsford summoned the magic of the wishsong. It re-
sponded instantly, anxious for its release, eager for its use.

180 The Talismans of Shannara

There was something terrifying about the voracious intensity of
its coming. Par shuddered at the feelings it sent through him, at
the hunger it unleashed inside. He must control it, he warned
himself, and despaired that he could do so.

Across the darkness that separated them. Par could see Rim-
mer Dall smile. All about the crest of the rise, he could see the
Shadowen begin to edge down, the, rasp of claws and teeth
sliding through the wind's quick howl, the glint of red eyes
turning the rain to steam. How many were there? Par won-
dered. Too many. Too many even for the wishsong's volatile
magic. He cast about desperately, looking for a place to break
through. They would have to run at some point. They would
have to try to reach the river or the woods, someplace they
would have a chance to hide.

As if such a place existed. As if there were any chance for
them at all.

The magic gathered at his fingertips in a white glow that
seethed with fury. Par felt Coil press up against him, and they
stood back to back against the closing circle.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the blackness,
booming into the wind's rush. In the distance, trees swayed,
and leaves torn from their limbs scattered like frightened
thoughts. Run, Par thought Run now, while you can.

And then a light flared at the base of the ancient oak, a
brightness sure and steady, seeming to grow out of the air. It
came forward into the gloom, swaying gently, barely more
than a candle's flicker through the curtain of the rain. The
movement of the Shadowen froze into stillness. The wind
faded to a dull rush. Par saw the smile on Rimmer Dall's face
disappear. His cold eyes shifted to where the light approached,
easing out of the murk to reveal the small, slender form that
directed it.

It was a boy carrying a lamp.

The boy came toward Par and Coil without slowing, the
lamp held forth to guide his way, eyes dark and intense, hair
damp against his forehead, features smooth and even and calm.
Par felt the magic of the wishsong begin to fade. He did not
feel threatened by this boy. He did not feel afraid. He glanced
hurriedly at Coil and saw wonder mirrored in his brother's
dark eyes.

The Talismans of Shannara 181

The boy reached them and stopped. He did not spare even
the slightest glance for the monsters that snarled balefully in
the gloom beyond the fringes of his lamp. His eyes remained
fixed on the brothers.

"You must come with me now, if you are to be made safe,"
he said quietly.

Rimmer Dall rose up like a dark spirit, throwing off the pro-
tection of his robes so that his arms were left free, the one with
the dark glove stretching out as if to tear away the light. "You
don't belong here!" he hissed in his stark, whispery voice.
"You have no power here!"

The boy turned slightly. "I have power wherever I choose.
I am the bearer of the light of the Word, now and always."

Rimmer Ball's eyes were on fire. "Your magic is old and
used up! Get away while you can!"

Par stared from one face to the other. What was going on?
Who was this boy?

"Par!" he heard Coil gasp.

And he saw me boy begin to change suddenly into an old
man, frail and bent with age, the lamp held away from him as
if to hold it closer would bum.

"And your magic," the old man whispered to Rimmer Dall,
"is stolen, and in the end it will betray you."

He shifted again toward Par and Coll. "Come away now.
Don't be frightened. There are small things that I can still do
for you, and this is one." The seamed face regarded them.
"Not frightened, are you? Of an old man? Of an old friend of
so many of your family? Do you know me? You do, don't
you? Of course. Of course you do." One hand reached out and
brushed theirs. It was the feel of old paper or dried leaves.
Something sparked within as he did so. "Speak my name," he
said.

And abruptly they knew. "You are the King of the Silver
River," they whispered together, and the lamplight reached out
to gather them in.

Instantly the Shadowen attacked. They came down off the
slope in a black tide, their shrieks and howls shattering the odd
calm that the King of the Silver River had brought with him.
They came in a gnashing of teeth and a tearing of claws, rend-
ing the air and earth in fury. Before them came Rimmer Dall,

182                         The Talismans of Shannara

transformed into something indescribable, a shadow so swift
that it cut through the space separating him from the Ohmsfords
in an instant's time. Iron bands wrapped about Par's throat and
Coil's chest, tightening and suffocating. There was a feeling of
being swallowed whole into the blackness it caused, of falling
away into a pit that was too deep to measure. For an instant
they were lost, and then the voice of the King of the Silver
River reached out to gather them in, cradling them like the
hands of a mother holding her child, freeing them from the iron
bands and carrying them up from the darkness.

Rimmer Dall's voice was the grate of iron on stone, and the
voice of the King of the Silver River disappeared. Again the
blackness closed and the bands took hold. Par struggled des-
perately to get free. He could feel the terrible sway of magics
wielded by the combatants, the strengths of the First Seeker
and the ancient spirit as they fought for control of Coil's life
and his. His brother had become separated from him somehow;

he could no longer feel him pressing close. For a moment he
could see Coil, could make out the other's familiar features,

and then even that was gone.

"Par, I have to tell you—" he heard his brother call out.
Inside, the magic of the wishsong was building, and his
brother's words disappeared in its rush.

The lamp of the King of the Silver River cut against the
Shadowen dark, forcing it away. Par reached toward the light,
stretching out his hands. But the darkness surged back again,
a shriek of desperation and anger. It scythed across the light

and shut Par away.

In terror Par released his magic. It roared out of him like
floodwaters in a spring storm, a torrent that could not be
slowed. Par felt the magic explode everywhere, white-hot and
fierce, burning everything. It swept about him in a fury, and
Par could do nothing to stop it.

He felt himself change, felt himself shift away from his body,
turn his face aside and mask who and what he was. The change
was terrifying and real; it was as if his skin was being shed.

He saw the lamp of the King of the Silver River disappear.
He saw the darkness close about.

Then his strength gave out, consciousness left him com-
pletely, and he saw nothing at all-

XVI

When Barsimmon Oridio advised Wren, following the
High Council's decision to engage the approaching
Federation force rather than wait for it in Arborlon,
that it would take at least a week to assemble and provision the
whole of their army, she determined to set forth with as many
men as he could have ready in two days to act as a vanguard.
Predictably, the old warrior balked, challenging the sense of
taking a small force against so many, questioning what would
happen if it was trapped and forced to fight. She listened pa-
tiently, then explained that the purpose of the vanguard was
not to engage the enemy, but to monitor it and perhaps to slow
it by letting it discover the presence of another army in the
field. There was no reason to worry, she assured. Bar could se-
lect the commander of the vanguard, and she would be bound
by his decisions. Bar fussed and fumed, but in the end he gave
in, satisfying himself with her promise that she would wait un-
til he arrived with the bulk of the army before attempting any
sort of offensive engagement.

Word went out to the Elves who had settled the surrounding
countryside of the approach of the Federation army and of the
danger that it posed. Those who wished could come to
Arborlon, which would serve as a defense for the Elven peo-
ple. Those who chose to remain where they were should be
prepared to flee if the Federation broke through. Wing Riders
were dispatched to the farthest points and to the Wing Hove.
Runners were used elsewhere. Families from the settlements
nearest the city began to drift in almost immediately. Wren set-
tled them in camps scattered across the bluff and away from

183

184                         The Talismans of Shannara

the defenses that were being built. There could be no closing
away of the city behind walls this time. The Elfitch had been
destroyed in the demon attack in Elventine Elessedil's time,
and the Keel had been left behind on Morrowindl. Bulwarks
would be constructed, but they would be neither tall nor high
nor unbroken. The cliffs of the Carolan and waters of the Rill
Song offered some natural protection against an attack from
the west, and there were high mountains north and south, but
the Federation was most likely to come at them from the east
through the Valley of Rheim. Whatever defenses were to be
employed would have to be settled there.

Wren spoke with her ministers and the commanders of her
army at length about what form those defenses might take.
There were heavy woods all the way east from the city to the
plains, much of them impassable for a force the size of the one
that approached. It was agreed that the Federation army would
seek to use its size to crush the Elves, and scattering itself
through the trees would not seem an attractive alternative to its
commanders. Therefore it would come through the Rhenn and
follow the main road west to the city, there to deploy. But even
that approach would not be easy. It had been many years since
the road had been used regularly—barely at all since the Elves
had disappeared from the Westland. Much of it had been re-
claimed by the forest. It was more trail than road these days.
It was narrow and winding and filled with places where a
small force could hold out for a time against a much larger
one. Fortifications would be built at as many of these places as
time allowed, using pitfalls and traps to hinder any advance.
Meanwhile, the main Elven army would attempt to slow the
Federation forces on the grasslands east, relying on its cavalry,
bowmen, and Wing Riders to offset the superior numbers of
Southland infantry. If that failed, a last stand would be made at

the Rhenn.

One team of builders was dispatched to begin work on the
defenses for the approach east while a second set about forti-
fying the Carolan. An attack from the west was unlikely, but
there was no point in leaving anything to chance.

Meanwhile, the enormous job of outfitting and provisioning
the Elven army commenced under the direction of Barsimmon
Oridio. Wren stayed out of the old soldier's way, content to

The Talismans of Shannara 185

have him busily engaged in something besides questioning her.
Out of everyone's hearing she quietly advised Triss that she
wanted a large contingent of Home Guard to go on her expe-
dition as well and Tiger Ty that she wanted a dozen Wing Rid-
ers. Both forces would be under her personal command. It was
fine to leave battlefield tactics to men like Bar, but a major
confrontation was the last thing she wanted. She had thought
the matter through very carefully. Harass, harry, and delay, she
had told the Council—that was what the Elves could reason-
ably hope to accomplish. Garth had taught her everything there
was to know about that kind of fighting. She had not said any-
thing to the Council, but the week required to assemble the
Elven army might prove too long a delay. The vanguard, in
truth, was simply a screen that would allow her to act more
quickly. The Federation army needed to be disrupted now, at
once. Unconventional tactics were called for, and the Home
Guard and Wing Riders were perfect for the job.

On the morning of the third day, she set out with a force that
consisted of a little more than a thousand men—eight hundred
infantry made up essentially of bowmen, three hundred cav-
alry, a hundred of the Home Guard under the command of
Triss, and the dozen Wing Riders she had requested of Tiger
Ty. The Wing Riders were directed by a seasoned veteran
named Erring Rift, but Tiger Ty was there as well, insisting
that no one but he should take the queen skyward should she
wish to do any further scouting. Barsimmon Oridio had ap-
pointed a lean, hard-faced veteran named Desidio, to lead the
expedition. Wren knew him to be reliable, tough, and smart. It
was a good choice. Desidio was experienced enough to do
what was needed and to not do anything more. That was fine
with Wren. The Home Guard were hers, and the Wing Riders
were independent and could follow who they chose. It would
make for a good balance.

That she was going at all was a point of some debate among
the ministers, but she had made it clear from the first night that
a Queen of the Elves must always lead if she expects anyone
to follow. She had intended from the beginning to go out with
the army, she reminded them, and there was no point in wait-
ing about to do it. She had spent a lifetime learning to survive,
and she possessed the power of the Elfstones to protect her.

186 The Talismans of Shannara

She had less reason than most to worry. She did not intend to
make excuses.

In the end she got her way because no one was prepared to
go up against her on the matter. Some, she thought rather un-
charitably, seeing the black looks on the faces of Jalen Ruhl
and Perek Arundel, might be hoping her rash insistence would
come back to haunt her.

She left Eton Shart in charge of the Council and the city.
The ministers would not cross him, and the Elves knew and re-
spected him. He would be able to guide them in whatever way
was necessary, and she had confidence that he would know
what to do. Her first minister might not yet be convinced that
she was the queen her people needed, but he had given his
pledge of support and she believed he would not break it. Of
the others she was less certain, though Fruaren Laurel seemed
committed to her now. But they would all toe the line for Eton
Shart.

Barsimmon Oridio was there to see her off, declaring that he
would follow within a few days, reminding her of her promise
to wait for him. She smiled and winked, and that unnerved him
enough that he stalked away. She was aware of Triss on one
side, stone-faced, and Desidio, eyeing her covertly from the
other. Tiger Ty had already set out, flying Spirit away at day-
break to scout the Federation's progress. The remainder of the
Wing Riders would leave at sunset to link up with them at
their campsite near the Rhenn. The Elven Hunters marched out
to the waves and cheers of the people of the city, young and
old come down to see them off, waving banners and ribbons
and calling out their wishes for success. Wren glanced about
doubtfully. It all felt very strange. Their departure was festive
and gay, and it forecast nothing of the injury and death that
was certain to follow.

They traveled swiftly that first day, strung out along the nar-
row roadway to avoid clogging, scouts dispersed into the trees
at regular intervals to warn of impending danger. They were in
their own country and so paid less heed to the precautions they
might otherwise have observed. Wren rode with Triss and the
Home Guard, screened front and back by Hunters, carefully
protected against anything that might threaten. It made her
smile to think how different things were from when she was a

The Talismans of Shannara                          187

simple Rover girl. Now and again she had to suppress an urge
to leap down off her horse and race away into the cool green
stillness of the trees, returning to the life from which she had
come, returning to its peace.

Faun had been left at home, closed within Wren's room on
the second floor of the Elessedil home. The Streleheim was no
place for a forest creature, she had reasoned. But the Tree
Squeak had a mind of its own and was not always persuaded
by what Wren believed was best. So by the time the vanguard
stopped to rest and water the horses at midday, there was Faun,
streaking from the foliage in a dark blur to throw herself on
her startled mistress. In seconds the little creature had bur-
rowed down into the folds of Wren's riding cloak and was
comfortably settled. Wren shrugged obligingly and accepted
what she could obviously not change.

The late summer heat was sticky and damp, and by day's
end men and horses alike were sweating freely. They camped
in a canopied stretch of oak and hickory several miles from the
Rhenn, close by a stream and pool so that they could wash and
drink, but back within the shade and concealment of the forest
Desidio sent a patrol of horsemen ahead into the pass to make
certain that all was well, then sat down with Wren and Triss to
discuss how they would proceed. Tiger Ty would bring news
of the Federation army's location when he returned, and pre-
suming the army was still proceeding northward through the
Tirfing, the Elves might then travel south across the open
plains, relying on scouts to prevent them from running into an
ambush, or might keep within the fringe of the trees where
they would not be so easily seen. Wren listened patiently,
glanced at Triss, then said she preferred that they travel in the
open so as to make better time. Once they had made contact
with the Federation, they could then use the forest in which to
hide while they decided what to do next. Desidio gave her a
sharp look at the words "decide what to do next," but then
nodded his agreement, rose, and walked away.

They had just finished eating dinner when Tiger Ty winged
down through the trees, dusty and hot and tired. He settled
Spirit a short distance down the trail, where the giant Roc was
less likely to disturb the horses, then strode determinedly back
toward the camp. Wren and Triss walked out to greet him and

188

The Talismans of Shannara

were joined by Desidio. The Wing Rider was brief and to the
point. The Federation army had reached the Mermidon and be-
gun crossing. By tomorrow sometime, they would have com-
pleted the task and be on their way north. They were making
very good time.

Wren accepted the news with a frown. She had hoped to
catch up to them on the far side of the river and keep them
there. That had been wishful thinking, it seemed. Events were
moving more quickly than she wanted them to.

She thanked Tiger Ty for the report and sent him off to get
something to eat.

"You are thinking that the Elven army is too far away,"
Desidio said quietly, his lean face pinched with thought.

She nodded. "They are still the best part of a week even
from here." Her green eyes fixed him. "I don't think we can
allow the Federation to get that close to Arbodon before we
try to stop them."

They stared at each other. "You heard the general," Desidio
said. "We're to wait for the main army." His face showed
nothing.

She shrugged. "I heard. But General Oridio isn't here. And
you are."

The dark eyebrows lifted inquiringly. "You have something
in mind, my lady? "

She held his gaze. "I might. Would you be willing to listen,
when it's time? "

Desidio rose. "You are the queen. I must always listen."

When he had departed, she gave Triss a doubtful smile. "He
knows what I am up to, don't you think? "

Triss eased his splinted arm away from his body and then let
it settle back again. In another day the splint would be gone.
Triss was impatient for that to happen. He considered her ques-
tion and shook his head. "I don't think anyone knows what
you are up to, my lady," he said softly. "That's why they are
frightened of you."

She accepted the observation without comment. Triss could
tell her anything. What they had shared coming out of
Morrowindl allowed for that. She looked off into the trees.
Dusk was spreading shadows in dark pools that ate up the

The Talismans of Shannara                         189

light. Sometimes, since Garth had died, she found herself won-
dering if they might be trying to swallow her as well.

Moments later the sound of horses' hoofs drew her attention
back toward the camp. The scouts dispatched to the Rhenn had
returned, and they had brought someone with them. They thun-
dered to a stop, sawing on the reins of their snorting, lathered
mounts. The horses had been ridden hard. Tnss rose quickly,
and Wren came up with him. The riders and their charge—one
man—had dismounted and were making their way through a
cluster of Elven Hunters to where Desidio waited, a gaunt
shadow against the firelight. There was an exchange of words,
and then Desidio and the unidentified man turned and came to-
ward her.

She got a closer look as the pair neared and saw that it
wasn't a man with Desidio after all. It was a boy.

"My lady," her commander said as he approached. "A mes-
senger from the free-bom."

The boy came into the light. He was blond and blue-eyed
and very fair-skinned beneath the browning from sun and
wind. He was small and quick-looking, compact without being
heavily muscled. He smiled and bowed rather awkwardly.

"I am Tib Ame," he announced. "I have been sent by
Padishar Creel and the free-bom to give greetings to the Elven
people and to offer support in the struggle against the Federa-
tion." His speech sounded very rehearsed.

"I am Wren Elessedil," she replied, and offered her hand.
He took it, held it uncertainly for a moment, and released it.
"How did you find us, Tib? "

He laughed. "You found me. I came west out of Callahom
in search of the Elves, but you made my job easy. Your scouts
were waiting at the mouth of the valley when I entered." He
glanced about. "It seems I have arrived just in time for some-
thing."

"What sort of help do the free-bom offer? " she asked, ig-
noring his observation. He was too quick by half.

"Me, for starters. I am to be your ready and willing servant,
your link to the others until they arrive. The free-bom assem-
ble in the Dragon's Teeth for a march west. They should be
here within the week. Five thousand or more with their allies,
my queen."

90                         The Talismans of Shannara

Wren saw Triss lift his eyebrows. "Five thousand strong? "
she repeated.

Tib shrugged. "So I was told. I'm just a messenger."

"And a rather young one at that," she observed.

His smile was quick and reassuring. "Oh, not so young as
I look. And I do not travel alone. I have Gloon for protection."

Wren smiled back. "Gloon.",

He nodded, then stuck his fingers in the comers of his
mouth and gave a shrill whistle that silenced everything about
them. Up came his right arm, and now Wren saw that he wore
a thick leather glove that ran to his elbow.

Then down out of the darkness hurtled a shadow that was
darker still, a whistle of sound and fury that sliced through the
air like black lightning. It landed on the boy's glove with an
audible thud, wings spread and cocked, feathers jutting out like
spikes. In spite of herself. Wren shrank away. It was a bird, but
a bird like no other she had ever seen. It was big, larger than
a hawk or even an owl, its feathers slate gray with red brows
and a crest that bristled menacingly. Its beak was yellow and
sharply hooked. Its claws were two sizes too large for the rest
of its body, and its body was squat and blocky, all sinew and
muscle beneath its feathers. It hunched its head down into its
shoulders like a fighter and stared at Wren through hard,
wicked eyes.

"What is that?" she asked the boy, wondering suddenly
where Faun was hiding—hoping she was hiding well.

"Gloon? He's a war shrike, a breed of hunting bird that
comes out of the Troll country. I found him as a baby and
raised him. Trained him to hunt." Tib seemed quite proud. "He
makes sure nothing happens to me."

Wren believed it. She didn't like the look of the bird one bit.
She forced her eyes away from it and fixed on the boy. "You
must eat and rest here for tonight, Tib," she offered. "But
shouldn't you go back in the morning and let the free-bom
know where we are? We need them to get here as quickly as
they can."

He shook his head. "They come already and nothing I can
do will move them along any quicker. When they get closer,
they will send a message—another bird. Then I will send

The Talismans of Shannara 191

Gloon." He smiled. 'They will find us, don't worry. But I am
to stay with you, my queen. I am to serve you here."

"You might serve best by going back," the implacable
Desidio observed.

Tib blinked and looked confused. "But ... but I don't want
to go back!" he blurted out impulsively. He suddenly seemed
as young as he looked. "I want to stay here. Something is go-
ing to happen, isn't it? I want to be part of it." He glanced
quickly at Wren. "You're Elves, my queen, and no one has
seen Elves before, ever! I ... I wasn't the first choice for this
journey. I had to argue a long time to win the job. Don't make
me leave right away. I can help in some way, I know I can.
Please, my queen? I've come a long way to find you. Let me
stay awhile."

"And Gloon as well, I suppose? " She smiled.

He smiled back instantaneously. "Oh, Gloon will stay hid-
den until he is called." He threw up his hand, and the war
shrike streaked upward and disappeared. Tib watched him go,
saying, "He looks after himself, mostly."

Wren glanced at Desidio, who shook his head doubtfully.
Tib didn't seem to see, his eyes still directed skyward.

'Tib, why don't you get something to eat and then go to
bed," Wren advised. "We'll talk about the rest of it in the
morning."

The boy looked at her, blinked, stifled a yawn, nodded, and
trotted off dutifully behind Desidio. Tiger Ty passed them
coming up from the cooking fire with a plate of food and cast
a sharp glance back at the boy on reaching Wren.

"Was that a war shrike I saw? " he growled. "Nasty bird,
those. Hard to believe that boy could train one. Most of them
would as soon take your head off as look at you."

"That dangerous? " Wren asked, interested.

"Killers," the Wing Rider answered. "Hunt anything, even a
moor cat. Don't know how to quit once they've started some-
thing. It's rumored that in the old days they were used to hunt
men—sent out like assassins. Smart and cruel." He shook his
head. "Nasty, like I said."

She glanced at Triss. "Maybe we don't want it around,
then."

Tiger Ty started away. "I wouldn't." He stretched. 'Time for

192 The Talismans of Shannara

sleep. The others flew in an hour ago, in case you didn't see.
We'll scout things out again tomorrow morning. Night."

He ambled off into the dark, gnarled, bowlegged, rocking
from side to side like some old piece of furniture that had been
jostled in passing. Wren and Triss watched him go without
comment. When he was gone, they looked at each other.
"I'm sending Tib back," she, said.
Triss nodded. Neither of them spoke after that.

Wren slept, curled into her light woolen blanket at the edge
of the firelight, dreaming of things that were forgotten as
quickly as they were gone. Twice she woke to the sounds of
the night, tiny chirpings and buzzings, small movements in
the brush, and the rustle of things unseen far overhead in the
branches of the trees. It was warm and the air was sdll, and
the combination did not make for a sound sleep. Home Guard
slept around her; Triss was less than a dozen feet away. At the
edges of her vision she saw others on patrol, vague shadows
against the darkness. Curled in the crook of her arm. Faun
stirred fitfully. The night edged away in a crawl, and she swam
listlessly through sleep and waking.

She was just settling in for yet another try, the deepest part
of the night reached, when a prickly face poked into view di-
rectly in front of her. She jumped in fright.

"Hssst! Easy, Wren Elessedil!" said a familiar voice.

Hurriedly she pushed herself up on one elbow. "Stresa!"

Faun squeaked in recognition, and the Splinterscat hissed it
into silence. Lumbering close, it sat back on its haunches and
regarded her with those strange blue eyes. "It didn't seem
phhttt a good idea to let you go off on your own."

She smiled in spite of herself. "You nearly scared me to
death! How did you get past the guards? "

The Splinterscat's tongue licked out, and she could have
sworn that it smiled. "Really, now. Elf girl. They are only men.
Sssstt! If you want to give me a challenge phffttt put me back
on Morrowindl." The eyes blinked, luminous. "On second
thought, don't. I like it here, in your world."

Wren hugged Faun into her body as the Tree Squeak tried to
squirm away. "I'm glad you're here," she told Stresa. "I worry
about you sometimes."

The Talismans of Shannara 193

"Worry about me. Phaagg! Whatever for? After Morro-
windl, nothing much frightens me. This is a good world you
live in. Wren of the Elves."

"But not so good where we're going. Do you know? "

"Hsssttt. I heard. More of the dark things, the same as
Morrowindl's. But how bad are these. Elf girl? Are they things
like the rrowwwil Wisteron? "

The Splinterscat's nose was damp and glistening in the star-
light. "No," she answered. "Not yet, at least. These are men,
but many more than we are and determined to destroy us."

Stresa thought about it for a moment. "Still, better than the
monsters."

"Yes, better." She breathed the hot night air in a sigh. "But
some of these men make monsters, too."

"So nothing changes, does it? " The Splinterscat ruffled its
quills and rose. "I'll be close to you hssttt but you won't see
me. If you need me, though phhfftt I'll be there."

"You could stay," she suggested.

Stresa spit. "I'm happier in the forest. Safer, too. Rowwill.
You'd be safer as well, but you won't go. I'll have to be your
eyes. Hssstt! What I see, you'll know about first." The tongue
licked out. "Watch yourself. Wren Elessedil. Don't forget the
lessons of Morrowindl."

She nodded. "I won't."

Stresa turned and started away. "Send the Squeak ssttt if you
need me," he whispered back, and then was gone.

She stared after him into the darkness for a time, Paun cra-
dled in her arms, small and warm. Finally she lay back again,
smiled, and closed her eyes. She felt better for knowing that
the Splinterscat was there for her.

In seconds she was asleep once more. She did not wake
again until morning.

XVII

> t daybreak, the vanguard of the Elven army prepared to
set out again. Wren summoned Tib Ame and advised
khim that she was sending him back to the free-bom to
make certain that they knew he had found them and to urge
them to come as quickly as possible. She assured him that it
was important that he go or she would have honored his re-
quest to stay. She told him he was welcome to return when the
message was delivered. Tib pouted a bit and expressed his dis-
appointment, but in the end he agreed that she was right and
promised to do his best to huny the free-bom to their aid.
Desidio gave him a pair of Elven Hunters to act as escorts and
protectors—despite his repeated protests that he needed no
one—and the trio set out through the valley to the Streleheim
Plains. Gloon did not make an appearance, and Wren was just
as glad.




It took the Elves the better part of two days to close the gap
between themselves and the Federation. They traveled swiftly
and steadily, using me open grasslands to speed their passage,
relying on the Wing Riders and the cavalry scouts to keep
from being discovered. The Wing Riders brought back regular
reports of the Southland army's progress, which had slowed.
One day had been used in crossing the Mermidon and a second
in repairs to equipment caused by water damage. The Federa-
tion had not traveled far beyond the north bank of the
Mermidon when, by midaftemoon of the second day, the Elves
found themselves within striking distance.

The Wing Riders brought word of the contact, two of them,
speeding out of the sun where it hung against the sky in a blaz-

194

The Talismans of Shannara                         195

ing white heat. The Elves were spread out along the edges of
the Westland forests not far from where the Mermidon bent
back upon itself coming out of the Pykon. When Wren was in-
formed that the approaching army was no more than five miles
distant and closing, she had Desidio order the Elves back into
the shelter of the trees to wait for nightfall. There, in the cool
of the shade, she called together the expedition's commanders.

"We have a choice to make," she informed them.

They were five in all, Triss, Desidio, Tiger Ty, Erring Rift,
and herself. Rift was a tall, stoop-shouldered Elf with a shaggy
black beard and thinning hair and eyes like chips of obsidian.
As the leader of the Wing Riders, his presence was essential.
Tiger Ty was there as a personal courtesy and because Wren
trusted his judgment. They were gathered in a loose circle
under an aging shagbark hickory, nudging at nut shells and
twigs with their boots as they listened to her speak.

"We've found them," she continued, "but that's not enough.
Now we have to decide what to do about it. I think we all re-
alize what sort of progress they are making. A massive army,
but moving at a decent rate of speed—much quicker than we
had anticipated. Five days, and they have already crossed the
Mermidon and gotten here. Our own army is at least a week
away from where we sit. The Federation is not going to wait
on us. Left alone, they will reach the Rhenn in that week's
time, and we will be making our first stand in the place where
we had hoped to make our last."

"The heat might slow them some on these open grasslands,"
Desidio observed.

"A fire would slow them worse," Rift suggested. He rubbed
at his beard. "Set properly, the wind would carry it right into
them."

"And right into the Westland forests as well," Triss finished.

"Or the wind could shift it into us," Wren shook her head.
'Too risky, except as a last resort. No, I think we have a better
choice."

"An engagement," Desidio declared quietly. "What you
have planned for all along, my lady. What I am forbidden by
order of the general to do."

Wren smiled and faced him squarely. "I told you there
would come a time when it was necessary for you to hear me




296 The Talismans of Shannara

out. The time is now. Commander. I know what your orders
are. I know what I promised General Oridio. I also know what
I didn't promise him."

She shifted her weight and leaned forward. "If we sit here
and do nothing, the Federation will reach the Rhenn before we
do and bottle us up. Arborlon will be finished. There will be
no time for anyone to come to our aid, free-born or otherwise.
We need to slow this army down, to give our own time to
come forward where it can be effective. Orders are orders,
Commander, but in the field events dictate how closely those
orders must be adhered to."

Desidio said nothing.

"We both promised that the vanguard would not be taken
into battle against the Federation army until General Oridio ar-
rived. Very well, we'll keep that promise. But nothing binds the
actions of the Home Guard, which I command, or the Wing
Riders, who arc free to act on their own. I think we should con-
sider ways in which they might be used against this enemy."

"A dozen Wing Riders and a hundred Home Guard? "
Desidio raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"More than enough for what I think she's got in mind," Ti-
ger Ty interjected defensively. "Let's hear her out."

Desidio nodded. Erring Rift was rubbing his chin harder,
eyes intent. Triss looked as if they were discussing the weather.

"We are too small to engage the Federation army openly,"
she said, her eyes sweeping their faces. "But we have speed
and quickness and surprise on our side, and these could be val-
uable weapons in a night attack designed to disrupt and con-
fuse. Wing Riders can strike from anywhere, and the Home
Guard are trained to be present without being seen. What if we
were to come at them in the dark, when they do not expect it?
What if we strike at them where they are vulnerable? "

Triss nodded. "Their wagons and supplies."

Erring Rift clapped his hands. "Their siege machines!"

"Set fire to them," Tiger Ty whispered eagerly. "Bum them
to the ground while they sleep!"

"More than that," Wren interjected quickly, drawing them
back to her. "Confuse them. Frighten them. At night, they can-
not see. Let's take advantage of that. Do all you've suggested,
but make them think there is an entire army out there doing it.

The Talismans of Shannara                          197

Come at them all at once from a dozen directions and be gone
again before they can determine what has happened. Leave
them with the impression that they are besieged on all sides.
They won't proceed so quickly after that. Even after they re-
pair the damage, they will be working harder at looking for us
and that will slow them down."

Erring Rift laughed. "Spoken like a true Rover girl!" he ex-
claimed enthusiastically, then added, rather quickly, "My lady."

"And what is to be my part in this? " Desidio asked quietly.
"And that of the vanguard? "

Wren might have been mistaken, but she thought she caught
a hint of anticipation in the other's voice, as if perhaps he was
actually hoping she had something in mind. She did not wish
to disappoint him.

"Supplies and siege machines will be kept to the army's
rear. The Wing Riders and Home Guard will come from that
direction. If you can see your way clear. Commander, a strike
by your archers and cavalry along the front and flank would
provide no small amount of additional confusion."

Desidio considered. "They may be more awake than you
think. They may be better prepared."

"Within the borders of their own protectorate? Without hav-
ing seen a single Elf during the entire course of their march
north? " She shook her head. "By now, they are wondering if
there is anyone at all to find."

"There may be Shadowen," Triss said quietly.

Wren nodded. "But the Shadowen will be disguised as men
and will not wish to reveal themselves to the army. Remember,
Triss—they manipulate by staying hidden. If they show them-
selves, they lose their anonymity and panic their army. I don't
think they will risk it. I don't think they will have time even
to think about it if we catch them off guard."

"We will only be able to do that once."

She smiled faintly. "So we had better make the most of it,
hadn't we? " She looked at Desidio. "Can you help us? "

He gave her a rueful look. "What you mean is, can I go
against my orders from General Oridio? " He sighed. "They are
explicit, but then there is a certain amount of independent think-
ing permitted a commander in the field. Besides, you are correct
in your assessment of how matters stand if we do nothing."

198                         The Talismans of Shannara

He looked to the others. "You are all committed to this? "
They nodded, each of them. He looked back again at Wren.
"Then I must do what I can to save you from yourselves, even
if it means taking the field. The general will not approve, but
he will accept the logic, I hope. He knows I have no authority
over the Wing Riders or the Home Guard and certainly none
over you, my lady." He paused, then added ruefully, "I confess
I am surprised at how easily I am persuaded by you."

"You are persuaded by reason. Commander," she corrected.
"There is a difference."

There was an exchange of looks. "Is the matter settled? " Ti-
ger Ty asked gruffly.

"Except for strategy," Wren replied. "I leave that to you.
But understand that I will be going with you. No, Tiger Ty, no
arguments. Look to Triss—he doesn't even bother trying any-
more."

The Wing Rider gave her a black look and bit back what-
ever objection he had been about to make.

"When do we do it, my lady? " Erring Rift asked. His black
eyes sparkled.

Wren came to her feet. 'Tonight, of course. As soon as they
are sleeping." She stepped around them and began walking
away. "I'm going to wash up and have something to eat. Let
me know when your plan is in place."

She smiled in satisfaction at the silence that followed after
her and did not look back.

The day closed with the western horizon colored red and pur-
ple and the clouds forming and reforming in a slowly changing
panorama. The heat lingered on as the sun disappeared and the
colors faded, a fetid dampness in the windless air that caused
clothes to stick and skin to itch. The Elves ate early and tried
to sleep, but even in the shade of the forests there was little
comfort to be found. As midnight approached, Desidio's Elven
Hunters were awakened, told to dress and arm, and taken from
the trees onto the grasslands, slipping silently toward the rise
north that overlooked the sleeping Federation army.

Wren went with them, anxious for a look at ground level be-
fore she took to the air with the Wing Riders. She went out with
a detachment of Home Guard, Desidio and Triss leading, all of

The Talismans of Shannara                          199

them dressed for concealment in green and brown forest colors
with high boots, belts, and gloves for protection against brush
and scrub. She was wearing a backpack to carry Faun (who
would not be left behind) and had strung a leather pouch about
her neck to keep the Elfstones close. A brace of long knives
were strapped about her waist and a dagger was in one boot.
Armed for anything, she thought. They rode a short distance
onto the plains, then dismounted and made their way on foot to
where the forward lines of Elven Hunters crouched in me dark.

Alone with Triss and Desidio, she crept forward to where
she could look down on the Federation encampment.

Their army was enormous. Even though she had seen it from
the air with Tiger Ty, she was not prepared for how huge it
looked now. It sprawled in a maze of hundreds of cooking fires
for as far as the eye could see, a wash of light that crowded out
the stars with its brilliance. Talk and laughter drifted off the
plains as clear as if the voices came from only yards away. Out-
lined against the sky by the firelight were the huge siege ma-
chines, great skeletal bulks of wooden bones and iron joints,
rising up like misshapen giants. Wagons huddled in clusters,
piled with stores and weapons, and the smell of oil and pitch
drifted on the wind. Even though it was by now after midnight,
there were many who still did not sleep, wandering from fire to
fire, spurred by the clink of glasses and tin cups, drawn by calls
and shouts and the promise of drink and companionship.

Wren glanced at Triss. The Federation was at ease with it-
self, satisfied that its size and strength would ward it from any
danger. She mouthed the word "guards" questioningly. Triss
shrugged, pointed left and then right, picking out the sentries
that the Federation commanders had placed. They were few
and widely scattered. She had been right in her assessment; the
Southlanders were not expecting trouble.

They slipped back down the rise until they were out of view
of the camp, then rose and retraced their steps through the
lines of bowmen and cavalry. When they were safely away, she
drew Triss and Desidio close.

"Get as close as you can. Commander," she whispered to
the latter. "Wait for the Wing Riders to strike at them from the
rear. Look for the fires, then attack. Archers followed by cav-
alry, as we planned, then quickly away. Take no chances. Don't

200 The Talismans of Shannara

let them see any more of you than necessary. We want them to
use their imaginations as to how many of us there are."

Desidio nodded. He knew his job better than she, but she
was the queen and he was not about to tell her so. She smiled
faintly, took his hand in her own to express her confidence,
then turned with Triss and crept away. Their escort was wait
ing, and they remounted and rode back into the forests.

The Wing Riders and the main body of the Home Guard
were waiting in a clearing. A dozen baskets had been woven
from branches and tied together with leather cords, each large
enough to hold a dozen men. The Elven Hunters climbed
aboard, armed with longbows and short swords, dark and silen'
forms in the night. Each basket would be carried by a Roc
onto the plains behind the Federation army. Wren hurried to
Tiger Ty, who was already seated atop Spirit, and pulled her-
self up behind him, securing the straps that would hold her in
place. Triss climbed into the basket set in front. Erring Rift
gave a low whistle, and one by one the Rocs rose skyward,
claws fastened to straps that held the baskets at four comers,
lifting them gently, carefully away from the earth, carrying
them up through the trees and into the darkened skies.

Wind rushed in cool waves across Wren Elessedil's face as
Spirit cleared the trees and swept east toward the plains. The
fires of the Federation army became visible almost immedi-
ately, and their sweep seemed even larger from here. Erring
Rift took the lead aboard his Roc Grayl, turning the formation
south along the line of the forests and as far away from the
light as he could manage. They flew silently down the tree
line, watching the fires widen and then shrink again as they
passed beyond their glow and back into the darkness. When
they were far enough down. Rift led them back again toward
the light, swinging wide onto the plains so that they would
come up from the center rear.

Wren clung to Tiger Ty with one hand to steady herself and
to maintain contact. The Wing Rider was solid and steady in
his seat, hunched over as he flew, face turned away. Neither of
them spoke.

When they were as close as they could safely manage with-
out being seen, the Rocs settled earthward. The baskets were
lowered, and the straps released. The Home Guard scattered

The Talismans of Shannara                         201

from the carriers and disappeared into the night. The Rocs rose
again. Wren still riding behind Tiger Ty, and swept wide in an
arc that carried them out and away. A few minutes for Triss to
dispose of the sentries, and then it would be time.

The Rocs swung back again, leveled out, and headed di-
rectly into the Federation camp, picking up speed as they went.
This was the most dangerous part—so dangerous that Tiger Ty
was forbidden to do more than to carry the Queen of the Elves
as an observer. Whatever else might happen, she was to come
away safe. They sped toward the Federation encampment, flat-
tening out some fifty feet above the ground as they passed
over the first of the fires.

Then down they went, dark arrows out of the night, all but
Spirit. Eleven strong, the Rocs hurtled into the Federation
camp, streaking toward the watch fires. At the last instant they
were spotted, and howls of surprise rose from the men be-
low. The warnings came too late. Wings extended, the Rocs
skimmed the watch fires, choosing those that were close to
dying, and snatched up bunches of the burning embers with
their hardened claws. Why bring fire for the burning when
there was fire already at hand? Erring Rift had argued. Away
flew the Rocs, wheeling right and left toward the siege ma-
chines. The Federation soldiers were turning out of their blan-
kets and bedding in swarms, trying to decipher from the
jumble of words being shouted at them by those already awake
what was happening. By now the Rocs had reached the siege
machines and supply wagons. Burning brands tumbled from
their claws onto the dry, seasoned wood. The wind fanned the
embers in falling, and the wood burst instantly into flames.
Some of the brands were dropped onto dusty canvas tarpaulins,
some onto the shingle-roofed cabins atop the giant scaling tow-
ers, some into the vats of pitch that served to coat the missiles
of the catapults.

Fire roared into the air from a dozen quarters, licking hun-
grily. Shouts turned to screams of fury and cries for water, but
the flames were everywhere at once. The Rocs swept down on
those who tried to smother the flames early, driving them away.

Then the Home Guard attacked from out of the night, long-
bows sending a hail of arrows into the milling Federation sol-
diers, dropping them as they struggled for their weapons,




202                         The Talismans of Shannara

killing them before they knew what was happening. Swords-
men appeared, materializing all along the encampment's edges,
cutting loose war horses and pack animals and driving them
into the night, spilling sacks of grain and overturning water
casks, and shredding whoever stood in their way.

The Federation army was in total disarray. Men charged
about wildly, striking out at anyone or anything they encoun-
tered, frequently themselves. Officers tried to restore order, but
no one was certain who was who, and the effort was swept
away in the tide of confusion.

Now Desidio's Elven Hunters struck from the front, bowmen
first, raining arrows into the camp, one volley after another.
Then the cavalry swept out of the night with a terrifying howl.
From high overhead Wren watched the Elven horses cut a
swath through the front ranks of the Federation, charging deep
into the camp and then out again, scattering watch fires and
men, sending soldiers and retainers fleeing into the darkness.

But the Federation army was huge, and the attacks barely
scratched its edges. Already ranks of men had formed at its
center, where calm still prevailed, and were beginning a slow,
steady march outward toward the source of the trouble. Hun-
dreds of foot soldiers armed with shields and short swords
trooped through the melee, shoving aside or trampling their
own men, seeking out the intruders. In moments they were at
the camp's perimeter, the light of burning wagons and siege
machines reflecting off their armored bodies like blood.

Wren searched the darkness to discover what had become of
her Elves. The Rocs were already winging south again, and Ti-
ger Ty had turned Spirit to follow. She scanned the camp over
her shoulder as they sped away into the dark, and there was no
sign of Desidio's Hunters or the Home Guard. The Federation
soldiers were advancing from out of the firelight, searching in
vain for an enemy that had already vanished. Behind, the entire
siege and pack train was in flames, pyramids of fire that
burned hundreds of feet into the night sky and gave off a heat
so intense that Wren could feel it even from where she flew.
The stench of ash and smoke was thick in her nostrils, and the
cries of the injured filled her ears. Men lay everywhere,
bloodied and still.

TTre Talismans of Shannara                          203

We have our victory, she thought, but felt the intensity of
her initial satisfaction diminish.

Away they flew, Spirit trailing the others momentarily before
catching up. Spread out, they descended to where the make-
shift baskets waited, found the Home Guard already in place,
snatched up the retaining straps, lifted the baskets into the air,
and sped away west toward the forests. It was all accomplished
in a few moments, and then they were passing over the trees,
far from the madness of the Federation camp, back into the
shelter from which they had come.

When they set down again within the forest. Wren sum-
moned her commanders to discover the extent of their own
losses. The Rocs had passed through the strike unscathed.
All of the Home Guard were safely returned save one. Only
three of the Elven Hunters had been lost, cavalry pulled from
their horses. There were a number of injuries, but only one
was serious. The attack had been a complete success.

Wren thanked Triss, Desidio, and Erring Rift, and ordered
the vanguard to pack up. They would slip north now before the
Federation could begin to search for them, choosing a new
spot within the Westland forests to hide. Come morning, they
would scout the damage to the enemy and decide what to do
next. Tonight had been a good beginning, but the end was still
far from sight.

Quickly the Elves prepared to move out. Whispers of satis-
faction and handclasps passed from man to man as they
worked. The Elves had fought their first battle in their homeland
in more than a hundred years and won. Morrowindl's long night
was finally behind them, and some small part of the rage and
frustration that they had lived with all their lives had been re-
leased. For many, there was a renewed sense of being set free.

Wren Elessedil understood. As Queen of the Elves that night
in more than name, as her grandmother's hope of what she
could be and Garth's promise of what she would be, something
in her had been set free as well. She could feel the way the
Elves looked at her. She could sense their respect. She be-
longed to them now. She was one of them.

Within an hour, all was ready. In stealth and silence, the
Elves of Morrowindl's past melted away into the night.

XVIII

W fter an hour's steady march, the Elves spent the remain-
f^\ der of that night in a forest just north of the Pykon that
• Awas backed up against the larger mass of Drey Wood
and faced south toward the plains on which the Federation
camp was settled. All night they could see the fires from the
burning siege machines and supply wagons lighting the hori-
zon in a bright glow, and in the still of their forest concealment
they could hear faint shouts and cries.

They slept fitfully and rose again at dawn to wash, eat, and
be dispatched to their duties. Desidio sent riders north to
Arborlon with news of the attack and Wren's personal request
to Barsimmon Oridio that the balance of the army proceed
south as soon as possible. Cavalry patrols were dispatched in
all directions with orders to make certain that no other South-
land force was in the field besides the one they knew about.
Special attention was to be given to the garrisons within the
cities of Callahom. Wing Riders flew south to assess the extent
of the damage inflicted in last night's strike, with a particular
eye toward determining how soon the column would be able to
move again. The day was clouded and gray, and the Rocs
would fly unseen against the dark backdrop of the Westland
mountains and forest. The remainder of the Elves, after seeing
to the care and feeding of their animals and the cleaning and
repair of their battle gear, were sent back to sleep until midday.

Wren spent the morning with her commanders—Desidio,
Triss, and Erring Rift. Tiger Ty had flown south, determined
that any assessment made of the condition of the Federation
army should be subject to his personal verification. Wren was

204

The Talismans of Shannam                         205

both tired and excited, flushed with energy and taut with fa-
tieue and she knew that she needed a few hours' sleep herself
before she would be clear-headed again. Nevertheless, she
wanted her commanders—and especially Desidio, now that she
had won him over—to start considering what their small force
should do next. To a great extent, that depended on what the
Federation did. Still, there were only so many possibilities, and
Wren wanted to steer the thinking regarding those possibilities
in the right direction. With luck the Southlanders would be un-
able to start moving again for several days, and that would
give the main body of the Elven army time to reach the Rhenn.
But if they did begin to move, it would be up to Wren and the
vanguard to find a way to slow them once more. Under no cir-
cumstances did she intend that they should do nothing. Stand-
ing fast was out of the question. They had won an important
victory over their larger foe with last night's strike, and she did
not intend to lose the advantage that victory had established.
The Federation would be looking over its collective shoulder
now; she wanted to keep it looking for as long as possible. It
was important that her commanders think the same way she
did.

She was satisfied she had accomplished this when they were
done conferring, and she went off to sleep. She slept until it
was nearing midday and woke to find Tiger Ty and the Wing
Rider patrol returned. The news they carried was good. The
Federation army was making no attempt to advance. All of its
siege equipment and most of its supplies had been reduced to
ashes. The camp was sitting exactly where they had left it last
night, and all of the army's efforts seemed to be directed to-
ward caring for the injured, burying the dead, and culling
through what remained of their stores. Scouts were patrolling
the perimeter and foraging parties were canvassing the coun-
tryside, but the main body of the army was still picking itself
up off the ground.

Still, Tiger Ty wasn't satisfied.

"It's one thing to find them regrouping today," he declared
to Wren, out of hearing of the others. "You expect them to sit
tight after an attack like that one. They suffered real damage,
and they need to lick their wounds a bit. But don't be fooled.
They'll be doing what we're doing—thinking about how to re-

206 The Talismans of Shannara

act to this. If they're still sitting there tomorrow, it'll be time
for a closer look. Because they'll be up to something by then.
You can depend on it."

Wren nodded, then led him off to join Triss for lunch. Triss,
apprised of Tiger Ty's thinking, agreed. This was a seasoned
army they faced, and its commanders would work hard at find-
ing a way to take back the,momentary advantage the Elves had
won.

They had just finished eating when an Elven patrol rode in
with a battered and disheveled Tib Ame in tow. The patrol had
been scouting the low end of the Streleheim toward Callahom
when they had come across the boy wandering the plains in
search of the Elves. Finding him alone and injured, they had
picked him up and brought him directly here.

Tib was cut and bruised about the face, and covered from
head to foot with dirt and dust. He was very distressed and
could barely speak at first. Wren brought him over to sit, and
cleaned off his face with a damp cloth. Triss and Tiger Ty
stood close to listen to what he had to say.

'Tell me what happened," she urged him after she had
calmed him down sufficiently to speak.

"I am sorry, my queen," he apologized, shamefaced now at
his loss of control. "I have been out there for a day and a night
with nothing to eat or drink and I haven't had any sleep."

"What happened to you? " she repeated.

"We were attacked, myself and the men you sent with me,
not far from the Dragon's Teeth. It was night when they came,
more than a dozen of them. We were camped, and they
charged out at us. The men you sent, they fought as hard as
they could. But they were killed. I would have been killed as
well, but for Gloon. He came to my aid, striking at my attack-
ers, and I ran away into the dark. I could hear Gloon's shriek,
the shouts of the men fighting him, and then nothing. I hid in
the darkness all night, then started back to find you. I was
afraid to go on without Gloon, afraid that there were other pa-
trols searching for me."

"The shrike is dead? " Tiger Ty asked abruptly.

Tib dissolved into tears. "I think so. I didn't see him again.
I whistled for him when it was light, but he didn't come." He
looked at Wren, stricken. "I'm sony I failed you, my lady. I

The Talismans of Shannara                           207
don't know how they found us so easily. It was as if they

knew!"
"Never mind, Tib," she comforted him, placing her hand on

his shoulder. "You did your best. I'm sorry about Gloon."

"I know," he murmured, composing himself once more.

"You'll stay here with us now," she told him. "We'll find
another way to get word to the free-born, or if not, we'll just
wait for them to find us."

She ordered food and drink for the boy, wrapped him in a
woolen blanket, then pulled Tiger Ty and Triss aside. They
stood beneath a towering oak with acorn shells carpeting the
forest floor and clouds screening away the skies overhead and
leaving the light faint and gray.

"What do you think? " she asked them.

Triss shook his head. "Those were experienced men that
went with the boy. They shouldn't have been caught unpre-
pared. I think they were either very unlucky or the boy is right
and someone was waiting for them."

"I'll tell you what I think," Tiger Ty said. "I think it's pretty
hard to kill a war shrike even when you can see it, let alone
when you can't."

She looked at him. "What does that mean? "

His frown deepened. "It means that there's something about
all this that bothers me. Don't you think this boy is an odd
choice for the job of carrying word to us about the free-born? "

She stared at him wordlessly for a moment, considering.
"He's young, yes. But he would be less likely to be noticed
because of it. And he seems confident enough about himself."
She paused. "You don't trust him. Tiger Ty? "

"I'm not saying that." The other's brows knitted fiercely. "I
just think we ought to be careful."

She nodded, knowing better than to dismiss Tiger Ty's sus-
picion out of hand. 'Triss? "

The Captain of the Home Guard was tugging at the bindings
on his broken arm. The sling had come off yesterday before
the attack, and all that remained was a pair of narrow splints
laced about his forearm.

He did not glance up as he tightened a loosening knot. "I
think Tiger Ty is right. It doesn't hurt to be careful."

She folded her arms. "All right. Assign someone to keep an

208                         The Talismans of Shannara

eye on him." She turned to Tiger Ty. "I have something impor-
tant I want you to do. I want you to pick up where Tib left off.
Take Spirit and fly east. See if you can find the free-born and
lead them here, just in case they're having trouble reaching us.
It may take you several days, and you'll have to track them
without much help from us. I don't have any idea where to tell
you to start, but if there are five thousand of them they
shouldn't be hard to find."

Tiger Ty frowned anew. "I don't like leaving you. Send
someone else."

She shook her head. "No, it has to be you. I can trust you
to make certain the search is successful. Don't worry about
me. Triss and the Home Guard will keep me safe. I'll be fine."

The gnarled Wing Rider shook his head. "I don't like it, but
I'll go if you tell me to."

On the chance that he might encounter Par or Coil
Ohmsford or Walker Boh or even Morgan Leah in his travels,
she gave him a brief description of each and a means by which
he could be certain who they were. When she had finished, she
gave him her hand and wished him well.

"Be careful, Wren of the Elves," he cautioned gruffly, keep-
ing her hand firmly tucked in his own for a moment. "The
dangers of this world are not so different from Morrowindl's."

She smiled, nodded, and he was gone. She watched him
gather a pack of stores and blankets together, strap them atop
Spirit, board, and wing off into the gray. She stared skyward
for a long time after he was lost from sight. The clouds were
turning darker. It would be raining by nightfall.

We'll need better shelter, she thought. We'll need to move.

"Call Desidio over," she ordered Triss.

A heavy enough rain would mire the whole of the grass-
lands on which the Federation camped. It was too much to
hope for, but she couldn't help herself.

Just give us a week, she begged, eyes fixed on the roiling
gray. Just a week.

The first drop of rain splashed on her face.

The Elven vanguard assembled, packed up, and moved back
into the heavy trees within Drey Wood, there to wait for the
storm to pass. It began to rain more heavily as the day edged

The Talismans of Shannara                          209

toward nightfall, and by dusk it was pouring. The Wing Riders
had tethered their Rocs apart from the horses, and the men had
stretched canvas sheets between trees to keep themselves and
their stores dry. The patrols had come in, returned from every-
where but Arborlon, with word that nothing was approaching
from any direction and there was no sign of any other Feder-
ation force.

They ate a hot meal, the smoke concealed by the downpour,
and retired to sleep. Wren was preoccupied with dozens of
possibilities of what might happen next and thought she would
be awake for hours, but she fell asleep almost instantly, her last
conscious thought of Triss and the two Home Guard who stood
watch close by.

It was still raining when she awoke, as steady as before. The
skies were clouded, and the earth was sodden and turning to
mud. It rained all that day and into the next. Scouts went forth
to check on the Federation army's progress and returned to ad-
vise that there was none. As Wren had hoped, the grasslands
were soggy and treacherous, and the Southland army had
pulled up its collective collar and was waiting out the storm.
She remembered Tiger Ty's admonition not to be fooled into
thinking that the Federation was doing nothing simply because
it was not moving, but the weather was so bad that the Wing
Riders did not wish to fly and there was litde to discover while
they were grounded.

Word arrived from Arborlon that the main body of the Elven
army was still several days from being ready to begin its
march south. Wren ground her teeth in frustration. The weather
wasn't helping the Elves either.

She spent some of her time with Tib, curious to know more
about him, wondering if there was any basis for Tiger Ty's sus-
picions. Tib was open and cheerful, except when Gloon was
mentioned. Encouraged by her attention, he was eager to talk
about himself. He told her he had grown up in Varfleet, subse-
quently lost his parents to the Federation prisons, had been re-
cruited by the free-born to help in the Resistance, and had
lived with the outlaws ever since. He carried messages mostly,
able to pass almost anywhere because he looked as if he
wasn't a danger to anyone. He laughed about that, and made
Wren laugh, too. He said he had traveled north once or twice

The Talismans of Shannara

to the outlaw strongholds in the Dragon's Teeth, but hadn't
gone there to live because he was too valuable in the cities. He
spoke glowingly of the free-born cause and of the need to free
the Borderlands from Federation rule. He did not speak of the
Shadowen or indicate that he knew anything about them. She
listened carefully to everything he said and heard nothing that
suggested Tib was anything other than what he claimed.

She asked Triss to speak with the boy as well so that he
might decide. Triss did, and his opinion was the same as her
own. Tib Ame seemed to be who and what he claimed. Wren
was persuaded. After that, she let the matter drop.

The rain ended on the third day, disappearing at midmoming
as clouds dispersed and skies cleared into bright sunlight. Wa-
ter dripped off leaves and puddled in hollows, and the air
turned steamy and damp. Desidio sent riders back to the plains,
and Erring Rift dispatched a pair of Wing Riders south. The
Elves moved out of the deep forest to the edge of the grass-
lands and settled down to wait.

The scouts and the Wing Riders returned at midday with
varying reports. The Elven Hunters had found nothing, but the
Wing Riders reported that the Federation camp was being
struck, and the army was preparing to move. As it was already
midday, it was uncertain as to what this meant since the army
could not hope to progress more than a few miles before dusk.
Wren listened to all the reports, had them repeated a second
dme, thought the matter through, then summoned Erring Rift.

"I want to go up for a look," she advised him. "Can you
choose someone to take me? "

The black-bearded Rift laughed. "And have to face Tiger Ty
if something goes wrong? Not a chance! I'll take you myself,
my queen. That way if anything bad happens at least I won't
be around to answer for it!"

She told Triss what she was about, declined his offer to ac-
company her, and moved to where Rift was strapping himself
onto Grayl. Tib caught up with her, wide-eyed and anxious,
and asked if he might go as well. She laughed and told him no,
but spurred by his mix of eagerness and disappointment prom-
ised that he might go another dme.

Minutes later she was winging her way southward atop
Grayl, peering down at the damp canopy of the forests below

The Talismans of Shannara 211

and the windswept carpet of the grasslands east. Mist rose off
the land in steamy waves, and the air shimmered like bright
cloth. Grayl sped quickly down the forest line past the Pykon
until they were within sight of the Federation army. Rift guided
the Roc close against the backdrop of trees and mountains,
keeping between the Southlanders and the glare of the midaf-
temoon sun.

Wren peered down at the sprawling camp. The report had
been right. The army was mobilizing, packing up goods, form-
ing up columns of men, and preparing to move out. Some sol-
diers were already under way, the lead-most divisions, and
they were heading north. Whatever else the Elf attack might
have done, it had not discouraged the army's original purpose.
The march to Arborlon was under way once more.

Grayl swept past, and as Rift was about to swing the giant
Roc back again. Wren caught his arm and gestured for them to
continue on. She was not sure what she was looking for, only
that she wanted to be certain she wasn't missing anything.
Were there riders coming up from the Southland cities, reports
being exchanged, reinforcements being sent? Tiger Ty's warn-
ing whispered in her ear.

They flew on, following the muddy ribbon of the Mermidon
where it flowed south out of the Pykon along the plains before
turning east above the Shroudslip toward Kern. The grasslands
stretched away south and east, empty and green and sweltering
in the summer heat. The wind blew across her face, whipping
at her eyes until they teared. Erring Rift hunched forward,
hands resting on Grayl's neck, as steady as stone, guiding by
touch.

Ahead, the Mermidon swung sharply east, narrowed, and
then widened again as it disappeared into the grasslands. The
river was sluggish and swollen by the rains, clogged with de-
bris from the mountains and woodlands, churning its way
steadily on through its worn channel.

On the river's far bank a glint of sunlight reflected off metal
as something moved. Wren blinked, then touched Rift's shoul-
der. The Wing Rider nodded. He had seen it, too. He slowed
Grayl's flight and guided the Roc closer to the concealment of
the trees by the northern edge of the Irrybis.

Another glint of light flashed sharply, and Wren peered

212                          The Talismans of Shannara

ahead carefully. There was something big down there. No, sev-
eral somethings, she corrected. All of them moving, lumbering
along like giant ants ...

And then she got a good look at them, hunched down at the
riverbank as they prepared to cross at a narrows, coming out of
the Tirfing on their way north.

Creepers.

Eight of them.

She took a quick breath, seeing clearly now the armored
bodies studded with spikes and cutting edges, the insect legs
and mandibles, the mix of flesh and iron formed of the
Shadowen magic.

She knew about Creepers.

Rift swung Grayl sharply back into the trees, away from the
view of the things on the riverbank, away from the revealing
sunlight. Wren glanced back over her shoulder to make certain
she had not made a mistake. Creepers, come out of the South-
land, sent to give aid to the Federation army that marched on
Arborion—it was the Shadowen answer to her disruption of
the Federation army's march. She remembered the history
Garth had taught her as a child, a history that the people of the
Pour Lands had whispered rather than told for more than fifty
years, tales of how the Dwarves had resisted the Federation ad-
vance into the Eastland until the Creepers had been sent to de-
stroy them.

Creepers. Sent now, it seemed, to destroy the Elves.

A pit opened in the center of her stomach, chill and dark.
Erring Rift was looking at her, waiting for her to tell him what
to do. She pointed back the way they had come. Rift nodded
and urged Grayl ahead. Wren stole a final look back and
watched the Creepers disappear into the heat.

Gone for the moment, she thought darkly.

But what would the Elves do when they reappeared?

XIX

Walker Boh blinked.

It was a crystalline clear day, the kind of day in
which the sunlight is so bright and the colors so bril-
liant that it almost hurts the eyes to look. The skies were
empty of clouds from horizon to horizon, a deep blue void that
stretched away forever. Out of that void and those skies blazed
the sun at midday, a white-hot glare that could only be seen by
squinting and quickly looking away again. It flooded down
upon the Four Lands, bringing out the colors of late summer
with startling clarity, even the dull browns of dried grasses and
dusty earth, but especially the greens of the forests and grass-
lands, the blues of the rivers and lakes, and the iron grays and
burnt coppers of the mountains and flats. The sun's heat rose
in waves in those quarters where winds did not cool, but even
there everything seemed etched and defined with a craftsman's
precision, and there was the sense that even a sharp cry might
shatter it all.

It was a day for living, where all the promises ever made
might find fulfillment and all the hopes and dreams conceived
might come to pass. It was a day for thinking about life, and
thoughts of death seemed oddly out of place.

Walker's smile was faint and bitter. He wished he could find
a way to make such thoughts disappear.

He stood alone outside Paranor's walls, just at their north-
west comer beneath a configuration in the parapets that jutted
out to form a shallow overhang, staring out across the sweep
of the land. He had been there since sunrise, having slipped
out through the north gates while the Four Horsemen were

213

214                         The Talismans of Shannara

gathered at the west sounding their daily challenge. Almost six
hours had passed, and the Shadowen hadn't discovered him.
He was cloaked once again in a spell of invisibility. The spell
had worked before, he had argued to Cogline while laying out
his plan. No reason it shouldn't work again.

So far, it had.

Sunlight washed the walls of the Dragon's Teeth, chasing
even the most persistent of shadows, stripping clean the flat,
barren surface of the rocks. He could see north above the
treeline to the empty stretches of the Streleheim. He could see
east to the Jannisson and south to the Kennon. Streams and
ponds were a glimmering of blue through the trees that circled
the Keep, and songbirds flew in brilliant bursts of color that
surprised and delighted.

Walker Boh breathed deeply the midday air. Anything was
possible on a day like this one. Anything.

He was dressed in loose-fitting gray robes cinched about his
waist, the hood pulled down so that his black hair hung loose
to his shoulders. He was bearded, but trimmed and combed.
Nothing of this was visible, of course. To anyone passing, and
particularly to the Shadowen, he was just another part of the
wall. Rest and nourishment had restored his strength. The
wounds he had suffered three days earlier were mostly healed,
if not forgotten. He did not give thought to what had befallen
him then except in passing. He was focused on what was to
happen now, this day, this hour.

It was the tenth day of the Shadowen siege. It was the day
he meant for that siege to end.

He glanced back over his shoulder along the castle wall as
another of the Four Horsemen circled into view. It was Fam-
ine, edging around the turn that would take it along the north
wall, skeletal frame hunched over its serpent mount, looking
neither left nor right as it proceeded, lost in its own peculiar
form of madness. Gray as ashes and ephemeral as smoke, it
slouched along the pathway. It passed within several feet of
Walker Boh and did not look up.

Today, the newest of the Druids thought to himself.

He looked out again across the valley, thinking of other
times and places, of the history that had preceded him, of all
the Druids who had come to Paranor and made it their home.

The Talismans of Shannara                         215

Once there had been hundreds, but they had all died save one
when the Warlock Lord had trapped them there a thousand
years ago. Bremen alone had survived to carry on, a solitary
bearer of hope for the Races and wielder of the Druid magic.
Then Bremen had passed away, and Allanon had come. Now
Allanon was gone, and there was only Walker Boh.

The empty sleeve of his missing arm was drawn back and
pinned against his body. He reached across to test the fitting,
to touch experimentally his shoulder and the scarred flesh that
ended only inches below. He could barely remember any more
what it had been like to have two arms. It seemed odd to him
that it should be so difficult. But much had happened to him
in the weeks since his encounter with the Asphinx, and it
might be argued that he could not be expected to remember
anything of his old life, so completely had he changed. Even
the anger and mistrust he had felt for the Druids had dissi-
pated, useless now to one who had become their successor.
The Druids he had despised belonged to the past. Gone, too,
was the fury he had borne for the Grimpond, relegated to that
same past. The Grimpond had tried its best to destroy him and
failed. It would not have another chance. The Grimpond was
a shadow in a shadowland. It could never come out, and
Walker would never go back to see it. The past had carried
away Pe Ell and the Stone King as well. Walker had found the
strength to survive all of the enemies that had been set against
him, and now they were memories that barely mattered in the
scheme of his life's present demands.

Walker breathed the air, closed his eyes, and drifted away
into a place deep inside him. War was passing now, all sharp
edges and spikes, glinting armored plates and black breathing
holes. Walker ignored the Shadowen. Settling into the silence
and the calm that lay within, he played out once more what
was to happen. Step by step, he went over the plan he had
formed while he lay healing, taking himself through the events
he would precipitate and the consequences he would control.
There would be nothing left to chance this time. There would
be no testing, no halfway measures, no quarter given. He
would succeed, or he would ...

He almost smiled.

Or he would not.

216                         The Talismans of Shannara

He opened his eyes and glanced skyward. The midday was
past now, edging on toward afternoon. But the light was not
yet at its brightest and the heat not yet at its greatest, and so
he would wait a little longer still. Light and heat would serve
him better than it would the Shadowen, and that was why he
was out there at midday. Before, he had thought to slip away
in darkness. But darkness, was the ally of the Horsemen, for
they were creatures bom of it and took their strength there-
from. Walker, with his Druid magic, would find his strength in
brightness.

It was to be a testing of strengths, after all, that would de-
termine who lived and died this day.

Strengths of all kinds.

He remembered his last conversation with Cogline. It was
nearing dawn and he was preparing to go out. There was
movement on the steps leading down through the gate towers
to the entry court where he was positioned, and Cogline ap-
peared. His stick-thin body slipped from the stairwall shadows
in a soft flutter of robes and labored breathing. The seamed,
whiskered face glanced at Walker briefly from beneath the
edges of his frayed cowl, then looked away again. He ap-
proached and stopped, turning toward the door that led out.

"Are you ready? " he asked.

Walker nodded. They had discussed it all—or as much of it
as Walker was willing to discuss. There was nothing more to
say.

The old man's hands rested on the stone bulwarks that
shielded and supported the iron-bound entry, so thin that they
seemed almost transparent. "Let me come with you," he said
quietly.

Walker shook his head. "We have discussed this already."

"Change your mind. Walker. Let me come. You will have
need of me."

He sounded so sure. Walker recalled thinking. "No. You and
Rumor will wait here. Stay by the door—let me back in if this
fails."

Cogline's jaw tightened. "If this fails, you won't need me to
let you back in."

True, Walker thought. But that didn't change things. He
wasn't going to let the old man and the moor cat go out there

The Talismans of Shannara                          217

with him. He wasn't going to be responsible for their lives as
well. It would be enough that he would have to worry about
keeping himself whole.

"You think I can't look after myself," the old man said, as
if reading his thoughts. "You forget I took care of myself for
years before you came along—before there were any Druids. I
took care of you as well, once."

Walker nodded. "I know that."

The old man fidgeted. "Could be I was meant to take care
of you again, you know. Could be you'll have need of me out
there." He turned his face within the cowl to look at Walker.
"I'm an old man. Walker. I've lived a long time—lived a full
life. It doesn't matter so much what happens to me anymore."

"It matters to me."

"It shouldn't. It shouldn't matter a whit." Cogline was em-
phatic. "Why should it matter? Since when did you like me all
that much anyway? I was the one who dragged you into this
business. I was the one who persuaded you to visit the
Hadeshom, then to read the Druid History. Have you forgot-
ten? "

Walker shook his head. "No, I haven't forgotten any of it.
But it was me who made the choices that mattered—not you.
We've talked all this out, too. You were as much a pawn of the
Druids as I was. Everything was decided three hundred years
ago when Allanon bestowed the blood trust on Brin Ohmsford.
You are not to blame for any of it."

Cogline's eyes turned filmy and distant. "I am to blame for
everything that has happened in my life and yours as well,
Walker Boh. I chose early on to take up the Druid way and
chose after to discard it. I chose the old sciences to learn, to
recover in small part. I made myself a creature of both worlds,
Druid and Man, taking what I needed, keeping what I coveted,
stealing from both. I am the link between the past and the pres-
ent, the new and the old, and Allanon was able to use me as
such. How much of what I am has made your own
transformation possible. Walker? How far would you have
gone without me there to prod you on? Do you think for a mo-
ment that I wasn't aware of that? Or that Allanon was blind to
it? No, I cannot be absolved from my blame. You cannot ab-
solve me by taking it upon yourself."

218                         The Talismans of Shannara

Walker remembered the vehemency in the other's voice, the
hard edge it had revealed, the insistence it had conveyed.
"Then I shall not attempt to absolve you, old man," he replied.
"But neither shall I absolve myself. You did not make the
choices for me; nor did you hinder me in making them. Yes,
there were compelling reasons to choose as I did, but those
reasons were not suggested by you before I had considered
them myself. Besides, I could claim as you do, if I wished.
Without me, what part would you have had in all of this?
Would you have been more than a messenger to Par and Wren
if you had not been tied to me as well? I don't think that you
can say so."

The old man's face was lowered into shadow by then, see-
ing the other's inflexibility, hearing his resolve.

"You will help me best by waiting here," Walker finished,
reaching out to touch the other's arm. "Always before, you
have understood the importance of knowing when to act and
when not to. Do so again for me now."

It had ended there, Cogline standing with him until the
sound of the Shadowen challenge had reverberated through
Paranor's stone walls and Walker had gone out into the
gloomy dawn to meet it.

Strengths of all kinds, he repeated as he stood now in the lee
of the castle wall and listened to the approach of the next of
the circling Shadowen. He would need especially a resolve of
the sort that Cogline possessed—a fierce determination not to
give in to the hardest and most certain of life's dictates—if he
was to survive this day. Famine, Pestilence, War, and Death—
the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, come to claim his soul.
But on this day he was Fate, and Pate would determine the
destiny of all.

He looked up as Pestilence appeared, then straightened per-
ceptibly. It was time.

Walker Boh waited in the shadow of the wall, an invisible
presence, while the Horseman approached. It came disinterest-
edly, lethargically, borne on its serpent mount, a swarm of
buzzing, plague-ndden insects gathered in the shape of a man.
Pestilence lacked features and therefore expression, and Walker
could not tell what it was seeing or thinking. It passed without
slowing, serpent claws scraping roughly on the path. Walker

The Talismans of Shannara 219

fell into step behind it. The spell of invisibility kept him from
being seen, and the sound of the serpent's own passage kept
him from being heard. Walker had considered using the spell
of invisibility to slip clear of the Shadowen entirely. But they
had been quick enough to find him when he had tried to es-
cape through Paranor's underground tunnels, even though he
had been as silent as thought, and he believed that they could
sense him when he was far enough from the Keep, from his
sanctuary and the source of his Druid power. Even invisibility
might not protect him then. Better, he had decided, to use his
advantage where it could be relied upon and put an end to the
Horsemen once and for all.

In the wake of Pestilence he circled the castle walls,) the si-
lence of midday broken only by the scrabble of serpent claws
and the buzzing of caged insects. They moved out of the
cooler north wall and down along the west, passing the gates
at which each morning the Horsemen gathered to issue chal-
lenge to him. He had chosen the north wall in which to hide,
aware that he would be out there for hours in the heat, hoping
that the castle's lee shadows might give him some protection.
But the south wall was where he would fight these
Shadowen—south, where the sunlight was strongest. Already it
was brightening ahead as they passed from the last shade of-
fered by the castle ramparts and edged out into the light.

They rounded the comer of the south wall, a towering, flat
expanse of burning stone that faced out across a broad sweep
of forestland towards the densely clustered peaks of the Drag-
on's Teeth. A worn, dusty stretch of bluff offered what pas-
sageway there was below the wall, barren save for a smattering
of scrub and a few stunted trees that fell away in a steep slide
toward the cooler woodlands. The heat rose in a swelter that
threatened to suck the air from Walker's lungs, but he held
himself steady against the burning rush, trailing Pestilence at
the same distance, catching sight momentarily of Famine far
ahead disappearing into the shadows formed by the parapet
arch beneath the eastern fasthold.

The seconds slipped away. Walker could feel the tension
build inside. Be patient, he reminded himself. Wait until it is
time.

Within, his magic began to come together.

220                         The Talismans of Shannara

When Pestilence was midway between the near watchtower
and the south gates. Walker Boh struck. Still concealed within
the spell of invisibility, he unleashed a thunderbolt at Pesti-
lence that sent both rider and mount tumbling to the earth. The
Horseman tried to rise, and Walker struck again, the magic a
cool heat lancing from his hands, slamming the Shadowen
backward in shock. Already Walker could hear the sound of
the others coming, a shriek in his mind. Already he could feel
their anger.

Famine appeared first, wheeling through the arch of the
fasthold that had momentarily swallowed it, closer to the strug-
gle than the others. Skeletal frame hunched low, bony hands
stretched forth, the Horseman charged ahead. But there was a
cloud of dust and smoke in its way, stirred by Walker in antic-
ipation of its coming, and it could not see clearly what was
happening. When it broke through the screen, it found itself
right on top of its prey. Walker Boh was struggling with Pes-
tilence, grappling with the Shadowen, trying to wrest it from
atop its writhing serpent, fighting to keep either from rising.

Famine swept past, finger bones raking Walker across the
face.

Missing him completely.

Catching Pestilence instead. And being caught by the other
in turn.

Both of the Horsemen screamed as the magic of each at-
tacked the other. Pestilence fell back, weakened by hunger and
want. Famine lurched away, sickened and retching.

Fire exploded out of the stone walls between them, dealing
Famine a ferocious blow that sent the Shadowen reeling.

Now War appeared, come around the west end of the wall,
the huge mace raised overhead as the Horseman thundered to
the fray. Its serpent breathed flames, and there was a glimmer
of fire in the eye slits beneath the armor. It saw Walker Boh
clearly, saw the Druid grappling with Famine, and it attacked
at once. It might have heard Famine scream in warning, but if
it did it failed to heed. It brought the mace down with a
crunching blow, intending to finish Walker Boh with a single
pass. But Walker had disappeared, and the blow struck Famine
instead, hammering right through the Shadowen and deep into

The Talismans of Shannara                         221

his serpent. Famine wailed in anguish and collapsed in a pile
of bones. Serpent and rider lay unmoving in the dust.

War wheeled back, and suddenly there were plague flies all
over it, stinging and biting past weapons and armor. War
shrieked, but the strike was quick and certain. Pestilence had
seen Walker Boh dodge the blow that had felled Famine, seen
him launch himself onto War and begin to strangle the Shad-
owen. Pestilence, dazed and battered, had reacted out of in-
stinct, sending fever and sickness in a swift counterattack. But
somehow things had gone awry; it was not Walker Boh who
was struck, but the Horseman War.

Flattened against the castle wall. Walker withdrew the image
of himself into a cloud of dust behind the thrashing War and
sent a bolt of fire into Pestilence that threw the Shadowen
from his mount completely. The entire stretch of bluff was a
haze of dust and heat thrown up by the twisting, snarling ser-
pents and their maddened riders. The images were an old trick,
one that a young Jair Ohmsford had perfected three centuries
ago in his battle with the Mord Wraiths. Walker had remem-
bered and used the trick to good purpose this day, sending the
Shadowen wheeling this way and that, overlaying an image of
himself on first one and then another, all the while keeping his
back firmly planted against the castle wall.

Mirrors and light, but it was proving to be enough.

Stricken with a dozen killing fevers. War wheeled its serpent
about. Walker Boh had appeared again, straddling the fallen
Pestilence, trying to smother the Shadowen. War charged, half-
blinded and crazed, a great battle-axe drawn. It was on the
Druid in seconds, and the axe swept down, cutting him apart.

Except that he wasn't there again, and the blade sliced
through Pestilence and his serpent instead.

From his place against the castle wall. Walker sent fire ham-
mering into War. The Shadowen went down, separated from
his mount. When the mount tried to rise. Walker burned it to
ash.

The mounts, he had discovered, did not share their riders'
resiliency. And the Four Horsemen, while able to recover from
his magic, were not immune to their own. He had not missed
the way they had attacked him each time out—one at a time,
one after the other, never all at once. A sustained rush would

222                          The Talismans of Shannara

have finished him, and there had been none. The Four Horse-
men were deadly not only to their enemies, but to one another.
Flawed imitations of the legends, their magics were anathema.
He had counted on that. He had depended on it like he had de-
pended on the midday light and heat weakening these things
born of darkness. He had been right.

There was a desperate thrashing from where War lay writh-
ing within its armor, fighting the sickness that raged through it.
Famine and Pestilence were unmoving heaps. Their serpents
lay still beside them, greenish ichor seeping from their bodies
into the ground. The hazy air was clearing, dust and grit set-
tling to the earth. Patches of sky and mountain and forest were
coming back into view.

Walker stepped away from the wall. One left. Where was—

The weighted black cord whistled out of the haze with a
hawk's shriek, slamming into Walker and whipping about him
as he sagged from the blow. Tangled, he dropped to his knees,
then fell onto his back. Instantly Death appeared, riding out of
the sunlight's glare, the great scythe lifted. Walker gulped air
into his stinging lungs. How could it have found him? How
could it have seen where he was? The Horseman was bearing
down on him, its serpent's claws scrabbling viciously on the
rocky earth. Walker lunged back to his knees, fighting to get
free. It must have come up more cautiously than the others. It
must have seen him bum War's serpent, traced the fire to its
source, and guessed where he was hiding.

Walker dropped the spell of invisibility, useless to him now
that he had been discovered, and summoned the Druid fire in
a blinding whirlwind that cut Death's cord to nbbons. Just as
the Horseman reached him. Walker struggled to his feet, threw
up a protective shield, and deflected the scythe as it swept
down. Even so, the force of the blow knocked him sprawling.
He lurched to his feet again as the Shadowen wheeled back.
Walker braced. There was no one left to fight this battle for
him; he had taken the image trick as far as it would go. This
rime he must stand alone.

He summoned the fire again. Death against Fate. Walker
crouched.

The Horseman swept past a second time, and Walker sent
the fire burning into it. Death reeled away, the scythe's blade

The Talismans of Shannara 223

deflected just enough that it missed. But the air turned chilly
at its passing, and Walker felt a wave of nausea rush through

him.

Back around swung the Shadowen, and Walker counterat-
tacked at once, the Druid fire lancing from his extended hand.
Up came the scythe, catching the fire and shattering it. Death
urged the serpent forward, sending it at Walker once more.
Again and again Walker struck out, but the fire would not pen-
etrate the Horseman's defenses. Death was almost on top of
him now, the serpent hissing balefully through the dust and
heat, the scythe glinting. Walker realized suddenly that Death
had changed the form of its attack and meant simply to ride
him down. Instantly he shifted the focus of the Druid fire,
striking the serpent's legs, cutting them out from underneath,
striking next the writhing body until everything was a mass of
smoking flesh.

The serpent shuddered, twisted aside, lost its balance, and
went tumbling forward. Walker threw himself out of the way
as the monstrous beast slid past, engulfed in flames, screaming
in fury. The tail thrashed wildly, catching Walker across the
chest and slamming him down against the earth. Dust rose in
clouds to mingle with the smoke from the serpent's charred
body, and everything disappeared in a blinding haze.

Battered and bloodied, his robes torn. Walker forced himself
to his feet. To one side the serpent lay dying, its breathing an
uneven rasp in the sudden silence. Walker peered about,
searching the haze.

Then Death appeared behind him, scythe swinging wickedly
for his head. Walker threw up the Druid fire and blocked the
strike, then straightened to meet Death's rush. His good hand
locked on the handle of the scythe, and his body pressed up
against Death's. Paralyzing cold surged through him. The
Shadowen's cowled head lowered as they lurched back and
forth across the bluff, the strange red eyes fixing him, drawing
him slowly in. Walker turned his face aside quickly and sent
the Druid fire spinning out from his hand and down the
scythe's haft. Death jerked back, cowl lifting to the light,
empty within save for the crimson eyes. One hand left the
scythe and struck out at Walker, knocking him backward.
Walker shrank from the blow, feeling the cold spread through

224                         The Talismans of Shannara

him anew. His magic was failing him. Again Death struck out,
a vicious blow to his throat. Walker released his hold on the
scythe and fell away.

Death strode forward purposefully, a terrible blackness
against the haze. Walker rolled to his knees, pain washing
through him as he clutched at his chest, fighting for breath.

The blade of the scythe rose and fell.

Then suddenly Cogline was between them, come out of no-
where, a scarecrow figure, worn robes flapping and wispy hair
flying. He caught the handle of the scythe and turned the blow
aside, sending the blade slicing deep into the earth beside
Walker. Walker twisted away and tried to regain his feet, yell-
ing at the old man. But Cogline had thrown himself on the
Shadowen and forced him further back. Death had one hand on
Cogline's throat and the other on the handle of the blade, lift-
ing it to strike. The old man was determined, fighting with ev-
ery ounce of strength he possessed, but the Shadowen was too
much. Slowly Cogline was forced back, the hand on his throat
bending him away, the other hand shifting to get a better grip
on the scythe. Get away! Walker pleaded in a silent mouthing,
unable to speak the words. Cogline, get away!

Walker staggered to his feet, fighting through his exhaustion
and pain, reaching down inside for the last of his strength.

Cogline's stick-thin frame was bending like deadwood in a
high wind, crumpling beneath the Shadowen onslaught. Then
suddenly he cried out, his hand snatched a handful of the black
powder he carried from his robe, and he threw it at the Horse-
man with a curse.

At the same instant, the scythe swept down.

The powder exploded through Death in a flash of fire and
sound, catching Cogline as well, sending both flying. Walker
flinched away from the blast and the sudden glare and the
glimpse of tattered bodies. Then he was stumbling forward,
summoning the magic as he went, building the Druid fire in
his fist. He saw Death rise from the dust, black-cloaked form
singed and smoking, bits of flame spurting from the ends of its
sleeve. The scythe lay shattered on the ground beside it, and its
red eyes flared as it reached for what remained.

Walker sent the fire lancing into the Shadowen, down
through the faceless hood, down into what lived inside. Death

The Talismans of Shannara                         225

lurched back, stricken. Walker kept coming, the fire hammer-
ing with relentless purpose, burning and burning more. Death
reeled away, trying to flee. But there was no escape. Walker
caught up to it, jammed his fist into the twisting cowl, and sent
everything he had left down inside.

Death shuddered once and exploded in flames.

Walker fell back, yanking his arm clear and twisting away
from the light and the heat. His allies, light and heat, he
thought dazedly—what he knew the Shadowen could not sur-
vive. He looked back once. Death burned in tatters on the
dusty ground, lifeless and still.

Walker Boh went back then to where Cogline lay sprawled
on the earth in a crumpled heap. Gently he turned the old man
over, kneeling to straighten out his arms and legs and to place
the blackened, singed head in his lap. Cogline's hair and beard
were mostly burned away. There was blood leaking from his
mouth and nostrils. He had been too close to the fire to escape
what it would do. Walker felt a tightening in his chest. The old
man had known that, of course. He had known it and used the
powder anyway.

Cogline's eyes opened, startlingly white against the black-
ened skin. "Walker? " he breathed.

Walker nodded. "I'm here. It's over, old man. They are
finished—all of them."

A rattle of breath ended in a gasping for air. "I knew you
would need me."

"You were right. I did."

"No." Cogline's hand reached up and gripped his arm pos-
sessively. "I knew. Walker." He coughed up blood, and his
voice strengthened. "I was told. By Allanon. At the
Hadeshom, when he warned me that my time was gone, that
my life was ending. Remember, Walker? I told you only part
of what I learned that day. The part about the Druid Histories.
There was more that I kept secret from you. You would have
need of me, I was told. I would be given a little time, here, in
Paranor, to be with you. I would stay alive long enough to be
of use once more."

He coughed, doubling over with pain. "Do you under-
stand? "

Walker nodded. He recalled how distant and withdrawn the

226                         The Talismans of Shannara

old man had seemed within the Dmid's Keep. Something had
changed, he had thought, but consumed by his struggle to es-
cape the Shadowen he had not taken time to discover what.
Now it was clear. Cogline had known his life was almost
over. Allanon had given him a reprieve from death, but not a
pass. The magic of the Druid Histories had saved him at
Hearthstone so that he could die at Paranor. It was a trade the
old man had been willing to make.

Walker glanced down at the ruined body. Where the scythe
had cut through him, there was frost woven in silver streaks
through the fabric of his robes.

"You should have told me," he insisted quietly. There were
tears in his eyes. He did not know when they had come. Some
part of him remembered being able to cry once, a long time
ago. He did not understand why he was able to do so now, but
did not think after this that he would ever do so again.

Cogline shook his head, a slow and painful movement. "No.
A Druid doesn't tell what he doesn't have to." He coughed
again. "You know that."

Walker Boh couldn't speak. He simply stared down at the
old man.

Cogline blinked. "You told me that I always knew when to
act and when not to." He smiled. "You were right."

He swallowed once more. Then his eyes fixed and he quit
breathing. Walker kept staring down at him, kneeling in the
dust and heat, listening to the silence as it stretched away un-
broken, thinking in bitter consolation that Allanon had used the
old man for the last time.

He closed Cogline's sightless eyes.

It remained to be seen if the Druid had used him well.

XX

Walker Boh buried Cogline in the woods below
Paranor, laying him to rest in a glade cooled by a
stream that meandered through a series of shallow
rapids, a glade sheltered by oaks and hickories whose leafy
branches dappled a carpet of wildflowers and green grasses
with shadowy patterns that would shift and change each day
with the sun's passage west. It was a setting that reminded
Walker of the hidden glens at Hearthstone where they had both
loved to walk. He chose a place near the center of the glade
where the spires of Paranor could be clearly seen Cogline,
who to the end had thought of himself as a Druid gone astray,
had come home for good.

When he was finished with the old man. Walker stayed in
the clearing. He was battered and worn, but the wounds that
were deepest were those he couldn't see, and it gave him a
measure of comfort to stand amid the ancient trees and breathe
the forest air. Birds sang, a wind rustled the leaves and grasses,
the stream nppled, and the sounds were soothing and peaceful.
He didn't want to go back into Paranor just yet. He didn't want
to go up past the blackened, charred remains of the Four
Horsemen and their serpent mounts. What he wanted was to
wipe away everything that had happened in his life like chalk
from a board and start over. There was a bitterness within him
that he could not resolve, which gnawed and scratched at him
with the persistence of a hungry animal and refused to be
chased. The bitterness had many sources—he did not care to
list them. Mostly, of course, he was bitter with himself. He was
always bitter with himself these days, it seemed, a stranger

227

228 The Talismans of Shannara

come out of nowhere, a man whose identity he barely recog-
nized, an all-too-willing pawn for the wants and needs of old
men a thousand years gone.

He sat in the glade by the stream, staring back across the
clearing and the patch of fresh-turned earth where Cogline lay,
and forced himself to remember the old man. His bitterness
needed a balm; perhaps memories of the old man would pro-
vide it. He took a moment to splash handfuls of the stream's
cold water on his face, cleansing it of the dirt and ash and
blood, then positioned himself in a patch of sun and let his
thoughts drift.

Walker remembered Cogline as a teacher mostly, as the man
who had come to him when his life had been jumbled and con-
fused, when he had abandoned the Races to live in isolation at
Hearthstone where he would not be stared at and whispered
about, where he would not be known as the Dark Uncle. The
magic had been a mystery to Walker then, the legacy of the
wishsong come down through the years from Brin Ohmsford
in a tangle of threads he could not unravel. Cogline had shown
him ways in which he could control the magic so that he no
longer would feel helpless before it. Cogline had taught him
how to focus his life so that he was master of the white heat
that roiled within. He removed the fear and the confusion, and
he gave back to Walker a sense of purpose and self-respect.

The old man had been his friend. He had cared about him,
had looked after him in ways that on reflection Walker knew
were the ways that a father looked after a son. He had in-
structed and guided and been present when he was needed.
Even when Walker was grown, and there was that distance be-
tween them that comes when fathers and sons must regard
themselves as equals without ever quite believing it, Cogline
stayed close in whatever ways Walker would allow. They had
fought and argued, mistrusted and accused, and challenged
each other to do what was right and not what was easy. But
they had never given up on or forsaken each other; they had
never despaired of their friendship. It helped Walker now to
know that was so.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that the old man had lived
other lives before this one, some of which Walker still barely
knew about. Cogline had been young once. What had that been

The Talismans of Shannara                          229

like? The old man had never said. He had studied with the
Druids—with Allanon, with Bremen, with those who had gone
before, perhaps, though he had never really said. How old was
Cogline? How long had he been alive? Walker realized sud-
denly that he didn't know. Cogline had been an old man when
Kimber Boh was a child and Brin Ohmsford came into Darklin
Reach in search of the Ildatch. That was three hundred years
ago. Walker knew about Cogline then; the old man had talked
about that period of time, about the child he had raised, about
the madness he had feigned and then embraced, about how he
had led Brin and her companions to the Maelmord to put an
end to the Mord Wraiths. Walker had heard those stories; yet
it was such a small piece of the old man's life to know—one
day of a year's time. What of all the rest? What parts of his
life had Cogline failed to reveal—what parts that were now
lost forever?

Walker shook his head and stared out across the trees at
Paranor. Parts that the old man had not minded losing, he de-
cided. Walker could not begrudge that Cogline had chosen to
keep them secret. It was that way with everyone's life. All
people kept parts of who and what they were and how they
had lived to themselves, things that belonged only to them,
things that no one else was meant to share. At death, those
things were dark holes in the memories of those who lived on,
but that was the way it must be.

He pictured the old man's whiskered face. He listened for
the sound of his voice in the silence. Cogline had lived a long
time. He had lived any number of lives. He had lived longer
than he should have, spared at Hearthstone to come into
Paranor and see it brought back again, and he had died in the
way he chose, giving up his own life so that Walker could
keep his. It would be wrong for Walker to regret that gift, be-
cause in regretting it he was necessarily diminishing its worth.
Cogline had lived to see him transformed into the Druid the
old man had never become. He had lived to see him through
growing up to the dreams of Allanon and the fulfillment of
Brin Ohmsford's trust. Whether it was for good or bad. Walker
had gotten safely through because of Cogline.

He felt some of the bitterness beginning to fade. The bitter-
ness was wrong. Regrets were wrong. They were chains that

230                         The Talismans of Shannara

bound you tight and dragged you down. Nothing good could
come of them. What was needed was balance and perspective
if the future was to have meaning. Walker could remember—
and should. But memories were for shaping what would come,
for taking the possibilities that lay ahead and turning them to
the uses for which they were intended. He thought again of the
Druids and their machinations, of the ways they had shaped
the history of the Races. He had despised their efforts. Now he
was one of them. Cogline had lived and died so that he could
be so. The chance was his to do better what he had been so
quick to criticize in those who had gone before. He must make
the most of that chance. Cogline would expect him to do so.

The sun was slipping beneath the canopy of the forest west
when he rose and stood a final time before the ground in
which the old man lay. He was better reconciled to what had
happened than before, more at peace with the hard fact of it.
Cogline was gone. Walker remained. He would take strength
and courage and resolve from the old man's example. He
would carry his memory in his heart.

With the light turning crimson and gold and purple in the
haze of summer heat, he made his way back through the dark-
ening forests to Paranor.

That night he dreamed of Allanon.

It was the first time he had done so since Hearthstone. His
sleep was deep and sound, and the dream did not wake him
though he thought afterward it might have come close once or
twice. He was exhausted from his struggle, and he had eaten
little. He had bathed, changed, then drank a cup of ale as he
sat within the study that Cogline had favored. Rumor lay
curled up at his feet, the luminous eyes glancing toward him
now and then as if to ask what had become of the old man.
When he had grown so tired he could barely hold himself up-
right, he had gone to his sleeping chamber, crawled beneath
the blankets, and let himself drift away.

The dream seemed to come instantly. It was night, and he
walked alone upon the shiny black rock that littered the floor
of the Valley of Shale. The sky was clear and filled with stars.
A full moon shone white as fresh linen against the jagged
ridge of the Dragon's Teeth. The air smelled clean and new as

The Talismans of Shannara                          231

it had of old, and a wind brushed his face with a cooling touch.
Walker was dressed in black, robe and cowl, belt and boots, a
Druid passing in the wake of Druids gone before. He did not
question who he was, come out of the darkness of the Black
Elfstone, come through the fire of the transformation in the
well of the Keep, come back into the world of men. He was
master of Paranor and servant to the Races. It was a strange,
exhilarating feeling. The feeling seemed to belong.

Languid moments slipped past in the dream and then he
neared the Hadeshom, its waters black and still in the night.
Like glass the lake shone in the moonlight, smooth and pol-
ished, reflecting the sky and the stars. The stone crunched be-
neath his feet as he walked, but beyond that single sound there
was only silence. It was as if he were alone in the world, the
last man to walk it, keeper of a solitary vigil over the empti-
ness that remained.

He reached the Hadeshom and stopped, standing perfectly
still at its edge. The wind died as he did so, and the silence
pressed in about him. He reached up and pulled back the hood
of his cloak; he did not know why. Head bared, he waited.

The wait lasted only a moment. Almost instantly the
Hadeshom began to chum, its waters boiling as if heated in a
kettle. Then they began to swirl, a slow and steady clockwise
sweep that extended from shoreline to shoreline. Walker recog-
nized what was happening. He had seen it happen before. The
Hadeshom hissed, and spray lifted in geysers that towered
above the surface and fell away in a tumble of diamonds.
Wailing began, the sound of voices trapped in a faraway place,
begging for release. The valley shuddered as if recognizing the
cries, as if cringing away from them. Walker Boh held his
ground.

Then Allanon appeared, rising out of the black waters to a
chorus of cries, a cloaked and hooded gray ghost come out of
the netherworld to speak with the man who had been chosen
as his successor. He shimmered as he rose, translucent in the
moonlight, the flesh and bone of his mortal body faded into
dust long ago, a pale image of who he had been. He ascended
from the depths until he stood upon the surface of the waters,
there to settle into stillness facing out at Walker Boh.

232 The Talismans of Shannara

"Allanon," the Dark Uncle greeted in a voice he did not rec-
ognize as his own.

—You have done well. Walker Boh—

The voice was deep and sonorous, welling up from far in-
side some cavernous space within the shade.

Walker Boh shook his head. "Not so well. Only adequately.
I have done what I must. I have given up who I was for who
you would have me be. I was'angry at first that it should be
so, but I have put that anger behind me."

The waters of the Hadeshom roiled and hissed anew as the
shade came forward, gliding on the surface without seeming to
move. It stopped when it was within ten feet of Walker.

—Life is a time for making choices. Walker Boh. Death is
a time for remembering how we chose. Sometimes the mem-
ories are not always pleasant—

Walker nodded. "I know that it must be so."

—Are you sad for Cogline—

Walker nodded again. "But that, too, is behind me. The
choices he made were good ones. Even this last."

The shade's arm lifted, trailing a glitter of spray that fell
away like silver dust.

—I could not save him. Even Druids do not have the power
to stay death. I was told by Bremen when my time was near.
Cogline was told by me. I gave him what help I could—a
chance to come back into the Four Lands with Paranor
restored—a chance to help you one last time in your battle
with the Shadowen. It was all I could do—

Walker did not speak, staring at the apparition, staring right
through him, looking far away at events come and gone, at
Cogline's final stand. Death had claimed the old man, but it
had claimed him on his terms.

—If I could, I would give you back all those you have lost,
Walker Boh. But I cannot. I can give you nothing of what is
gone and nothing of what will yet be lost. A Druid's life sees
many passings—

In his dream the valley was darkened by a wash of mistiness
that swept like rain through a forest or clouds across the sun.
It was a slow, soft passage, and it carried with it a sense that
lives had come into being and run their course, all in a matter
of seconds. There were faces, all unknown; there were voices

The Talismans of Shannara                         233

that called out in laughter and pain. Time stretched away, hours
to days, days to years, and Walker was there, unchanged,
through it all, constantly left behind, eternally alone.
_It will be like that for you. Remember—
But Walker did not need to remember. He had Allanon's
memories for that. The transformation had given them to him.
He had the memories of all the Druids who had gone before.
He knew what his life would be like. He understood what he
was facing.

—Remember—

The shade's whisper brought time to a halt again, the Valley
of Shale back into focus, and the flow of Walker's thoughts to
bear on the dream's intent once more.

"Why am I here, Allanon? " he asked.

—You are complete now. Walker Boh. You have become
what you were intended to be, and there is nothing more that
remains to be done. You bear the Druid mantle; you will wear
it in my stead. Carry it now from Paranor into the Pour Lands.
You are needed there—

"I know."

Spray hissed and sang. Allanon's hooded face lowered.

—You do not know. You are transformed. Walker Boh, but
that is only the beginning. You have become a Druid, yes—but
becoming is not being. Yours is the responsibility of the Races,
of their well-being. Dark Uncle. Those from whom you once
sought to isolate yourself must now be your charge. They
wait—

"To be free of the Shadowen."

—For you to show them how to be free. For you to set them
on the path. For you to guide them from the darkness—

Walker Boh shook his head, confused. "But I don't know
the way any better than they do."

The surface of the Hadeshom steamed, and the air was filled
with mist. The dampness settled on Walker's face like the chill
of an early winter's morning. It was death to touch the waters
of the Hadeshom, but not for him. For the Druids had discov-
ered secrets long ago that enabled them to transcend death.

Allanon's voice was dark and certain.

—You will find the way. You have the strength and the wis-
dom of all those who have gone before. You have the magic

234                         The Talismans of Shannara

of the ages. Take yourself out from Paranor and find the other
children of Shannara. Each of you was sent to fulfill a charge.
Each of you has done so. You are bearers of talismans. Walker
Boh. Those talismans shall sustain you—

Walker shook his head in confusion. "What talisman do I
bear?"

The shade of Allanon shimmered momentarily in a wailing
of cries that rose out of the lake, threatening to disappear.

—The most powerful talisman of all: the Druid mantle
which you have assumed. It can never be seen, but it is always
there and it is yours alone. Its power increases as you wield it;

it strengthens with each use. Think, Walker Boh. Before you
fought and destroyed the Horsemen, you were less than what
you are now. So shall it be with each challenge you face and
overcome. You are in your infancy, and you are just beginning
to discover what it is to be a Druid. With time, you will
grow—

"But for now ... ?"

—The charges are enough. The charges yield talismans, and
the talismans yield magic. Magic combined with knowledge
shall see the end of the Shadowen. It was thus when I first
spoke to you. It is thus now. If I could, I would give you more,
Walker Boh. But I have given you all I can, all that I know.
Remember, Dark Uncle. I am gone from your world and
placed within another. I am without substance. I am now of
other things. I see imperfectly from where I stand. I see only
shadows of what would be and must rely on those. Yours is the
vision that can be relied upon. Go, Walker. Find the scions of
Shannara and discover what they have done. In their stories
and in your own you will find what you need. You must
believe—

Walker said nothing then, thinking for a moment that he was
being asked once again to proceed on faith alone. But, of
course, that was what he had been doing ever since the dreams
had first appeared to him and he had been persuaded to travel
to the Hadeshom and Allanon. Was it really so difficult to ac-
cept that faith must guide him anew?

He looked at the pale figure before him, all lines about
transparency, all memories of life gone before. "I believe," he
said to Allanon's shade, and meant it.

The Talismans of Shannara                          235

—Walker Boh—

The shade's voice was soft and filled with regrets that words
could not speak.

—Find the children of Shannara. You have the Druid sight.
You have the wisdom they need. Do not fail them—
"No," Walker said hoarsely. "I will not."

—Put an end to the Shadowen before they destroy the Pour
Lands completely. I feel their sickness spreading even here.
They steal the earth's life. Stop them. Walker Boh—

"Yes, Allanon, I will."

—Bend to me then. Dark Uncle. Bend to me one final time
before you go. Sleep carries us towards daybreak, and we must
travel different paths. Hear the last of what I would tell you,
and let your wisdom and your reason divine what remains con-
cealed from us both. Bend to me. Walker Boh, and listen—

The shade approached, steam upon the waters of the
Hadeshom in human shape, a cloaking of mist and gray light,
a wraith formed of sounds come out of terrifying darkness.

Tense and uncertain. Walker Boh waited, eyes lowered to
the boiling waters, to the reflection of stars and sky, until both
disappeared in the blackness of shadow.

Then he felt the other's touch against his skin, and he shud-
dered uncontrollably.

He came awake at sunrise, the light a faint creeping from
the hallway beyond his darkened room. He lay without moving
for a time, thinking of the dream and what it had shown him.
Allanon had sent the dream so that he would have a place to
begin his new life. The dream had reinforced his intention to
seek out Par and Wren, but it had also given him reason to be-
lieve in himself. He could accept who and what he had be-
come if there was at least a chance that he could bring the
ravaged lands and their people safely out of the Shadowen
thrall.

Find the children of Shannara. Do not fail them.
He rose then from his bed, washed, dressed, and ate break-
fast on the castle battlements looking out over the land in the
light of the new day. He thought again of Cogline, of all that
the old man had taught him. He recited to himself the litany of
rules and understandings that his transformation from mortal

236 The Talismans of Shannara

man to Druid had given him, the whole of the history of the
Druids come and gone. He worked his way carefully through
the teachings of his magic's use—some already put to the test,
some that remained untried.

Last of all, he recounted the events of the dream and the se-
crets it had shown him. And there had been secrets—a few,
important ones, there at the last, when Allanon had touched
him. What he had learned was already beginning to suggest
answers to his heretofore-unanswered questions. The whole of
the history of the Four Lands since the time of the First Coun-
cil at Paranor formed a pattern for what was happening now.
The events of weeks past gave color and shape to that pattern.
But it was the dream and the insights with which it provided
him that thrust that pattern into the light where it could be
clearly seen.

What was missing still was the reason that Wren had been
charged with bringing back the Elves.

What was missing was the reason Par had been sent to find
the Sword of Shannara.

Most of all what was missing was the truth behind the secret
of the Shadowen power.

He rose finally and went down into the depths of the castle,
Rumor trailing silently, a shadow at his back. He would take
the moor cat with him, he decided. Cogline had given him the
cat, after all; it was his responsibility to see that it was looked
after. It could not be left locked up within the Keep, and the
closeness they shared might prove useful. He smiled as he ex-
amined his thinking. The truth was that Rumor would provide
a little of the companionship he would miss without Cogline.

Down into the well of the Keep he descended, there to place
his hands on the walls of stone, reaching inward to the life that
rested there. The magic came to him, obedient to his summons,
and he set in place a bar to any but himself so that none could
enter until he returned.

Then he closed Paranor's gates and went out into the world
again. He went down from the bluff and into the forests where
the heat was screened away and it was shady and cool. Rumor
went with him, grateful to be free again of the confining walls,
slipping into the shadows to forage and track, returning now
and again to Walker's side to be certain he was still there.

The Talismans of Shannara                          237

They traveled north of the place where Cogline lay, and
Walker did not turn aside. He had said goodbye already to the
old man; it was best to leave it at that.

The day eased away toward nightfall, the sun's fiery glare
slipping west toward the Dragon's Teeth, the heat dissipating
slowly into the cool of the evening shadows. Walker and the
moor cat traveled steadily on. Ahead, the watch fires of the
Federation soldiers camped within the Kennon Pass were lit,
meals were consumed, and guards sent to their posts.

By midnight Walker and the cat had slipped by them unseen
and were on their way south.

XXI

The rains that had inundated the Westland Elves and the
pursuing Federation army were still thunderheads on the
western horizon the morning the two ragged scrap-
women led their elderly blind father through the gates of Tyrsis
with the other tradesmen, merchants, drummers, peddlers, and
itinerant hucksters who had come in from the outlying commu-
nities to barter their wares. As with most of the others that
sought entry, they had spent the night camped before the gates,
anxious to enter early so as to secure the best stalls in the open
market where the trading and bartering took place. They shuf-
fled along as quickly as they could manage, the women slowed
by the old man as he groped his way uncertainly, supported on
either side, his feet directed carefully along the dusty way.

Federation guards lined the entries through the outer and in-
ner walls, checking everyone who passed, pulling aside those
who seemed suspicious. It was unusual for them to worry
about who was entering the city, for the emphasis in the past
had been directed toward worrying about who might leave. But
Padishar Creel, the leader of the free-bom, was to be executed
at noon of the following day, and the Federation was con-
cerned that an attempt would be made to rescue him. It was
believed that such a rescue would fail, no matter how well
conceived, because the city garrison was at full strength, some
five thousand men strong, and security measures were extraor-
dinary. Still, nothing was to be left to chance, so the guards at
the gates had been given explicit instructions to make certain
of everyone.

They chose to pull aside the scrapwomen and the old man.
238

The Talismans of Shannara                         239

It was a random selection, an approach the guard commander
had settled on early, a compromise between stopping everyone,
which would take forever, and no one, which would seem a
dereliction of his duty. The three were ordered to stand apart
from the throng, to occupy a space in the center of the court
between the city's walls, there to wait for questioning. Scat-
tered glances from the crowd were directed their way, furtive
and suspicious. Better you than me, they seemed to say. Dust
rose with the crowd's passing, and even now, before the heat
of the day had settled in, the air had a hot, sticky feel to it.

"Names," the duty officer said to the scrapwomen and the
old man.

"Asra, Wintath, and our father, Criape," the one with the
ragged, tangled reddish hair said. Sores dappled the skin of her
face, and she smelled like old rubbish.

The officer glanced at the other woman, who promptly
opened her mouth to reveal blackened teeth and a raw, red
throat in which the tongue was missing. The officer swal-
lowed.

"She can't speak," the first said, grinning.

"What's your village? "

"Spekese Run," said the woman. "Know of it? "

The officer shook his head. He studied the piles of rags they
carried strapped to their backs. Worthless stuff. He glanced at
the old man, whose head was lowered into his cowl. Couldn't
see much of his face. The officer stepped forward and pushed
back the cowl. The old man's head jerked up and his black-
ened lids snapped back to reveal a thick, milky fluid where his
eyes should have been. The officer gagged.

"On with you." He beckoned, moving quickly away to ques-
tion the next unfortunate.

The women and the old man shuffled off obediently, slip-
ping back into the crowd, passing through the cordon of guards
that lined the gates of the inner wall, moving on from there
into the city. They were well off the Tyrsian Way and into the
side streets where there were no Federation guards before
Many Roh spit out the dyed fruit skin pasted to the inside of
her mouth and said, "I told you this was too risky!"

"We got through, didn't we?" Morgan snapped irritably.

240 The Talismans of Shannara

"Stop complaining and get me where I can wash this stuff out
of my eyes!"

"Be silent, the both of you!" Damson Rhee ordered, and
hurried them on.

Tempers were short by now. They had fought bitterly about
who was to come into the city, a fight precipitated by the news
of Padishar Creel's impending execution. A day and a half was
not nearly enough time to effect a rescue, but it was all they
had to work with and Morgan had decided that his original
plan needed changing. Instead of Matty and Damson going
into the city and finding the Mole on their own, he would enter
as well. At best they had today and tonight to track down the
Mole, bring Chandos and the others of the free-born in through
the underground tunnels, devise a rescue plan for Padishar, and
set it in motion. Morgan insisted that he needed to get inside
the city immediately in order to determine what must be done.
He could not afford to wait for nightfall and the Mole to get
a look at things. Damson and Matty were equally insistent that
any attempt to sneak him past the guards would jeopardize
them all. It would be hard enough for just the two of them, but
doubly dangerous if they were forced to take him in as well.
Why couldn't he do his thinking where he was? Hadn't he
spent enough time in the city by now to know where every-
thing was?

So it had gone, but in the end Morgan won the argument by
pointing out that he couldn't do any thinking at all until he
knew where Padishar was being kept, and he couldn't know
that unless he went into the city. The price for his victory was
an implacable demand by both women that he leave his Sword
behind. A disguise would possibly work, but not if he carried
that weapon. Chances of discovery were simply too great. De-
spite his protests, neither woman would budge. The Sword of
Leah had stayed behind with Chandos.

Damson took them down an alleyway to a side door in an
abandoned building, pushed open the door, and guided them
inside. The interior was close and airless, and dust hung in the
air in visible layers. She closed the door behind them. They
moved across the room to a second door and from there into
another room, equally stifling. A tiny courtyard opened be-
yond, and they crossed through the early morning shadows and

The Talismans of Shannara                          241

the faint scent of wildflowers inexplicably growing in one sun-
drenched comer of the otherwise withered yard to an open-
fronted shed filled with old tools and workbenches. Damson
left her companions there and went off with a tin bowl. When
she returned, the bowl was filled with water, and the three sat
down to wash themselves off.

When they were scrubbed clean again, they dug through the
bundles of rags and pulled out their good clothes. Stripping off
the old, they redressed and sat down on a pair of the work-
benches to discuss what would happen next.

"I'll go out first to try to make contact with the Mole,"
Damson said, still combing out the knots from her tangled red
hair. Carefully she tied it all back and tucked it into a scarf.
"There are signs I can leave that he will understand. When
that's done, I'll come back and we'll see what we can discover
about Padishar. Then I'll have to put you somewhere while I
go wait for the Mole. He might not come if he sees all of
us—he doesn't know either of you and he will be very careful
after what's happened. If he comes, he and I will go after
Chandos and the rest, and we will meet up with you again by
dawn. If he doesn't come—"

"Don't say it," Morgan cut her short. "Just do the best you
can."

Damson looked at Matty. "How well do you know the
cityf "

"Well enough to stay out of trouble."

Damson nodded. "If anything happens to me, you will have
to get Morgan out of here."

"Wait a minute!" Morgan exclaimed. "I'm not going to—"

"You are going to do what you are told. Your plans count
for nothing if I fail. If the Federation has the Mole or if they
capture me, there isn't anything more to be done."

Morgan stared at her, silenced by the anger and determina-
tion he found in her green eyes.

Matty took his arm and moved him back a step. "I'll look
after him," she promised.

Damson nodded, and her face softened a shade. She rose,
wrapped her cloak about, gave them a short nod, and disap-
peared back the way she had come. Morgan stared after her,
feeling helpless. She was right. There was nothing he could do

242                         The Talismans of Shannara

if she failed. The success of any plan he devised depended on
the girl and the Mole bringing Chandos and the free-born into
the city. Without the free-born or the magic of his Sword, he
would not be able to help Padishar. Such a slender thread for
events to hang upon, he thought grimly.

"Care for something to eat? " Matty Roh asked cheerfully,
her dark eyes questioning, and offered him an apple.

They waited within the shade of the storage shed, secluded
and alone in the little, closed-about courtyard until almost mid-
day. The air grew steamy and thick with heat, and the sun
burned a slow trail across the stones and withered grass, climb-
ing the north wall east to west like the spread of spilled paint.
Morgan dozed for a time, weary from the long march in and
the uncertain night sleeping before the gates in his uncomfort-
able disguise. He found himself thinking of Par and Coil and
the days before the Shadowen and Allanon, of the times they
had spent hunting and fishing in the Highlands, of his own
boyhood, of the long slow days when life had seemed an ex-
citing game. He thought of Steff and Granny Elise and Auntie
Jilt. He thought of Quickening. They were memories of a past
that lost a little of its color with the passing of every day. They
all seemed to have disappeared from his life a very long time
ago.

The sun was directly overhead when Damson Rhee finally
returned. She was flushed with the heat and covered with dust,
but there was excitement in her eyes.

"They have Padishar within the same watchtower where
they held me," she announced, dropping down on one of the
benches and peeling off her cloak. She took a long drink from
the cup of water Matty Roh offered her. "It seems to be com-
mon knowledge. They plan to take him to the main gates at
noon tomorrow and hang him in view of the city."

"How is he? " Morgan asked quickly. "Did anyone say? "

She shook her head, swallowing. "No one has seen him. But
talk among the soldiers is that he'll walk to his end."

She glanced at Matty Roh. The other woman frowned.
"Common knowledge, is it? " She gave Damson a thoughtful
look. "I don't much trust common knowledge. Common
knowledge often ends up meaning 'false rumor' in my experi-
ence."

The Talismans of Shannara 243

Damson hesitated. "Everyone seemed so sure." She cut her-
self short. "But I guess we have to make certain, don't we? "

Matty Roh leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin in hands,
her boyish face intense. "You've told me how they used you
to trap Padishar." Morgan stared. This was the first he'd heard
of that. How much more had Damson told her that he didn't
know? "It worked once, so chances are pretty good they'll try
it again. But they'll change the rules. They'll make sure no one
gets away this time. Instead of using live bait, maybe they'll
use ... common knowledge."

Morgan nodded. He should have thought of that. "A decoy.
They expect a rescue attempt, so they misdirect it They keep
Padishar somewhere else."

Matty nodded solemnly. "I would guess."

Damson came back to her feet, "I've left signs for the Mole
that he can't miss. If he's coming, he'll come tonight. I've got
until then to go back out and try to find where Padishar really
is."

"I'm coming as well." Morgan rose and reached for his
cloak.

"No." Matty Roh's voice was sudden and firm. She stood up
and came between them. "Neither of you is going." She
reached for her cloak. "I am." She looked at Morgan. "You
might be recognized, now that you've shed your disguise, and
you can't go where you might learn anything in any case. You
are better off staying here." She turned to Damson. "And you
can't afford to risk yourself further. After all, they know who
you are, too. It was chancy enough going out this morning.
Whatever happens, you have to stay safe until you can meet
the Mole and bring the others in. You can't do that if you're
discovered and find yourself in Padishar Creel's company. Be-
sides, I'm better at this sort of thing than you are. I know how
to listen, how to find things out. -Discovering secrets is what I
do."

They stared at her without speaking for a moment. When
Morgan started to object. Damson silenced him with a look.
"She's right. Padishar would agree."

Again Morgan tried to speak, but Damson overrode him,
saying, "We'll wait here for you, Matty. Be careful."

Matty nodded and slung her cloak over her shoulder. Her

244                         The Talismans of Shannara

slim face was tight and smooth across the set of her jaw.
"Don't wait if I'm not back by dark." She gave Morgan a
quick, ironic smile. "Keep me safe in your thoughts, High-
lander."

Then she was across the courtyard and through the door of
the room beyond and gone.

They waited for Matty Roh all day, hunched down in the
shelter of the shed, trying to take what small comfort they
could from the shade it provided. The sun passed slowly west,
the heat building in its wake, the air still and dusty within the
airless court.

To help pass the time, Morgan began telling Damson how
Padishar and he had fought together against the Federation at
the Jut. But talking of it did not ease his boredom as he had
hoped. Instead it brought back a memory he had hoped
forgotten—not of Steff or Teel or the Creeper or even his shat-
tering battle within the catacombs, but of the terrible, frighten-
ing sense of incompleteness he had felt when deprived of the
magic of the Sword of Leah. Discovering its magic again after
years of dormancy through generations of his family had
opened doors that he could not help but feel had been better
left closed. The magic had saddled him with such dependency,
an elixir of power that was stronger than reason or self-denial,
that was insidious in its intent to dominate, that was absolute
in its need to command. He remembered how that power had
bound him, how he had suffered its loss afterward, how it had
stripped him of his courage and resolve when he had needed
both—until now, in possession of that power once more, he
was terrified of what its renewed use would cost him. It made
him think again of Par, cursed, not blessed, with the magic of
the wishsong, a magic potentially ten times stronger than that
of the Sword of Leah, a magic with which he had been forced
to contend since his birth, and which now had evolved in some
frightening way so that it threatened to consume him com-
pletely. Morgan thought he had been lucky in a way the
Valeman had not. There had been many to give aid to the
Highlander—Steff, Padishar, Walker, Quickening, Horner
Dees, and now Damson and Matty Roh. Each had brought a
measure of reason and balance to his life, keeping him from

The Talismans of Shannara 245

losing himself in the despair that might otherwise have claimed
him. Some had been taken from him forever, and some were
distanced by events. But they had been there when he had
needed them. Whom had Par been able to rely upon? Coil,
stripped away by Shadowen trickery? Padishar, gone as well?
Walker or Wren or any of the others who had started out on
this endless journey? Cogline? Himself? Certainly not himself.
No, there had been only Damson and the Mole—and mostly
only Damson. Now she was gone, too, and Par was alone
again.

One thought led to another, and although he had started talk-
ing of Padishar and the Jut, he found himself turned about in
the end, speaking once more of what haunted him most, of Par,
his friend, whom he had failed, he felt, over and over again.
He had promised Par he would stay with him; he had sworn to
come north as his protector. He had failed to keep that prom-
ise, and he found himself wishing that he might have another
chance, just one, to make up for what he had given away.

Damson spoke of the Valeman as well, and the timbre of her
voice betrayed her feelings more surely than any words, a
whisper of her own sense of loss, of her own perceived failing.
She had chosen Padishar Creel over Par, and while the choice
could be justified, there was no comfort for her in the knowl-
edge.

"I am tired of making choices, Morgan Leah," she whis-
pered to him at one point. They had not spoken for a time,
lying back within their shelter, sipping at warm water to keep
their bodies from dehydrating. Her hand gestured futilely. "I
am tired of being forced to choose, or constantly having to
make decisions I do not want to make, because whatever I de-
cide, I know I am going to hurt someone." She shook her
head, lines of pain etched across her brow. "I am just plain
tired, Morgan, and I don't know, if I can go on anymore."

There were tears in her eyes, generated by thoughts and
feelings hidden from him. He shook his head. "You will go on
because you must. Damson. People depend on you to do so.
You know that. Padishar now. Par later." He straightened.
"Don't worry, we'll find him, you and I. We won't stop until
we do. We can't be tired before then, can we? "

He sounded condescending to himself and didn't like it. But

246 The Talismans of Shannara

she nodded in response and brushed away the tears, and they
went back to waiting for Matty Roh.

Nightfall came, and she still hadn't returned. Shadows blot-
ted away the light, and the sky was darkening quickly and fill-
ing with stars. West, beyond where they could see, the storm
front continued to approach, and within the walls of the city
the air began to cool with its coming.

Damson rose. "I can't wait any longer, Highlander. I have to
go now if I am to find the Mole and still have time to bring
the free-born into the city." She pulled on her cloak and tied it
about her. "Wait here for Matty. When she comes, find out
what you can that will help us."

"When she comes," Morgan repeated. "Assuming she does."

She reached down to touch him lightly on the shoulder.
"Whatever happens, I will come back for you as quickly as I

He nodded. "Good luck. Damson. Be careful."

She smiled and disappeared across the darkening courtyard
into the shadows. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the
stone and faded away into silence.

Morgan sat alone in the gloom and listened to the sounds of
the city slowly quiet and die. Overhead, clouds moved across
the stars and began to screen them away. The night darkened,
and a strange hush settled over the bluff. Padishar, he thought,
hang on, we're coming. Somehow,'we're coming.

He tried sleeping and could not. He tried thinking of some-
thing he could do, but everything involved going out from his
hiding place, and if he did that he might not get back again.
He would have to wait. Rescue plans crowded his mind, but
they were as ephemeral as smoke, based on speculation, not on
fact, and useless. He wished he had brought the Sword of Leah
so that he would not feel so defenseless. He wished he had
made better choices in his efforts to aid his friends. He wished
himself into a dark comer and was forced to stop wishing for
fear that he would find himself paralyzed by regrets.

It was nearing midnight when he heard the scrape of boots
on the stone of the courtyard and looked up from his light doze
to see Matty Roh materialize in the fading starlight. He jerked
upright, and she hushed him to silence. She crossed to where
he waited and sat next to him, breathing heavily.

The Talismans of Shannara                          247

"I ran the last mile," she said. "I was afraid you would be
gone."

"No." He waited. "Are you all right? "

She looked at him, and her eyes were haunted. "Damson? "

"Gone in search of the Mole, then off to bring Chandos and
the rest through the tunnels. She'll meet us back here by
dawn."

The smile she gave was anxious and searching. "I'm glad
you're here."

He smiled back, but the smile seemed wrong, and he let it
drop. "What happened, Matty? "

"I found him."

Morgan took a deep breath. 'Tell me," he urged softly, sens-
ing she should not be rushed. There was a sheen of sweat on
her skin, and that strange look in her eyes.

She bent so that their shoulders touched. Her boyish, deli-
cate features were taut, and there was an urgency that radiated
as surely as light. "I began at the ale houses, looking and lis-
tening. I made some easy friends, soldiers, a junior officer. I
got what I could from them and kept moving. Padishar's name
was mentioned, but just in passing, in connection with the ex-
ecution. Night came, and I still hadn't learned where they were
keeping him."

She swallowed, reached for the water tin, scooped out a cup,
and drank deeply. He could feel the strength in her slim body
as it moved against his own.

She turned back. "I was certain they were keeping him
somewhere people would avoid. The watchtower was a ruse,
so where else would he be? There are prisons, but word would
leak from there. It had to be someplace else, a place no one
would want to go."

Morgan paled. "The Pit.".

She nodded. "Yes." She kept her eyes fixed on him. "I went
into the People's Park and found the Gatehouse heavily
guarded. Why would that be? I wondered. I waited until an of-
ficer emerged, one highly placed, one who shares. I followed
him, then sat with him to drink. I let him persuade me to go
with him to a private place. When I had him alone, I put a
knife to his throat and asked him questions. He was evasive,

248                         The Talismans of Shannara

but I was able to persuade him to admit what I already knew—
that Padishar was being held in his cells."

"But he is alive? "

"Alive so that he can be executed publicly. They don't want
rumors floating about afterwards that he might have escaped.
They want everyone to see him die."

They stared at each other in the dark. The Pit, Morgan was
thinking, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He had hoped never
to go back there again, never even to come close. He thought
of the things that lived there, the Shadowen misfits, the mon-
sters trapped by the barrier of magic that had shattered the
Sword of Leah ...

He brushed the thought aside. The Pit. At least he knew
what he was up against. He could devise a plan with that.

"Did you learn anything else? " he asked quietly.

She shook her head. He could see the pulse beat at her
throat, the black helmet of her hair a frame about her delicate
face.

"And the officer? "

There was a long silence as she looked into his eyes, seeing
something beyond and far away. Then she gave him an empty
smile.

"When I was finished with him, I cut his throat."

T




XXII

hey sat without speaking after that, side by side on the
workbench, still touching, looking out at the darkness.
Several times Morgan thought to rise and move away,
but he was afraid that she would mistake the reason for it and
so stayed where he was. The sound of laughter penetrated the
silence of the open court from somewhere without, harsh and
unwelcome, and it seemed to rub raw even further nerves that
were already frayed. Morgan did not know how much time
passed. He should say something, he knew. He should confront
the dark image of her words. But he did not know how to do
so.

A dog barked in the distance, a long staccato peal that died
away with jarring sharpness.

"You don't like it that I killed him," she said finally. It was
not a question; it was a statement of fact.

"No, I don't."

"You think I should have done something else? "

"Yes." He didn't like making the admission. He didn't like
the way he sounded. But he couldn't help himself.

"What would you have done? "

"I don't know."

She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him until they
were facing. Her eyes were pinpricks of blue light. "Look at
me." He did. "You would have done the same thing."

He nodded, but was not convinced.

"You would have, because if you stop to think about it,
there wasn't any other choice. This man knew who I was. He
knew what I was up to. He couldn't have mistaken that. If I

249

250                         The Talismans of Shannara

had let him live, even if I had tied him up and hidden him
away somewhere, he might have escaped. Or been found. Or
anything. If that had happened, we would have been finished.
Your plans, whatever they might be, wouldn't stand a chance.
And I have to return to Varfleet. If he ever saw me there, he
would know. Do you see? "

He nodded again. "Yes."

"But you still don't like it." Her rough, low voice was a
whisper. She shook her head, her black hair shimmering. There
was an unmistakable sadness in her voice. "I don't either, Mor-
gan Lean. But I learned a long time ago that there are a lot of
things I have to do to survive that I don't like. And I can't help
that. It has been a long time since I have had a home or a fam-
ily or a country or anything or anyone but myself to rely on."

He stopped her, suddenly ashamed. "I know."

She shook her head. "No, you don't."

"I do. What you did was necessary, and I shouldn't find
fault. What bothers me is the idea of it, I suppose. I think of
you in another way, a different way."

She smiled sadly. "That is only because you really don't
know me, Morgan. You see me one way, for a short time, and
that is how I am for you. But I am a good many more things
than what you have seen. I've killed men before. I've killed
them face to face and out of hiding. I've done it to stay alive."
There were tears in her eyes. "If you can't understand that..."

She stopped, bit down on her lip, rose abruptly, and moved
away. He did not try to stop her. He watched her walk to the
far side of the courtyard and seat herself on the stones with her
back against the wall in the deep shadows. She stayed there,
motionless in the dark. Time slipped away, and Morgan's eyes
grew heavy. He had not slept since the previous night and then
poorly. Dawn would be there before he knew it, and he would
be exhausted. He had not yet devised a plan for rescuing
Padishar Creel—had not even considered the matter. He felt
bereft of ideas and hope.

Finally he spread his cloak on the floor of the shed, made a
pillow with the rags that the three of them had carried in, and
lay down. He tried to think about Padishar, but he was asleep
almost at once.

Sometime during the night he was awakened by a stirring

The Talismans of Shannara                         251

next to him. He felt Many Roh curl up against him, her body
pressing close against his own. One slender arm reached
around him, and her hand found his.
They lay together like that for the remainder of the night.

It was nearing dawn when Damson's touch on his shoulder
brought him awake. There was a lightening in the spaces be-
tween the shadows that told of day's coming, faint and silvery
lines against the building walls surrounding where he lay. He
blinked the sleep from his eyes and recognized who it was
crouching next to him. He was still tangled with Matty, and he
nudged her gently awake. Together they rose stiffly, awk-
wardly, to their feet.

"They're here," Damson said simply. Her eyes revealed
nothing of what she thought, finding them together. She ges-
tured over her shoulder. "The Mole has them hidden in a cellar
not far away. He found me last night shortly after I left you,
took me through the tunnels, and together we brought Chandos
and the others in. We're ready. Did you find Padishar? "

Morgan nodded, fully awake now. "Matty found him." He
looked back at me elfin face. "I wouldn't have been able to, I
don't think."

Damson smiled gratefully at the tall girl and clasped her
slender hands in her own. "Thank you. Many. I was afraid this
was all going to be for nothing."

Matty's cobalt eyes glinted like stone. "Don't thank me yet.
We still have to get him out. He's being held in the Gatehouse
cells at the Pit."

Damson's jaw tightened. "Of course. They would take him
there, wouldn't they? " She wheeled back. "Morgan, how are
we going to—"

"We'd better hurry," he said, cutting her short. "I'll tell you
when we reach the others."

If I can think of something by then, he added silently. But
the beginnings of an idea were forming in the back of his
mind, a plan that had come to him all at once upon waking. He
threw on his cloak, and together the three of them abandoned
the tiny court, went back through the rooms that led in, and
stepped out into the street.

It was silent and empty there, the street a black corridor that

252                         The Talismans of Shannara

sliced through building walls until it disappeared into a tangle
of crossroads and alleyways. They moved quickly ahead, skim-
ming along the stone in tandem with their shadows, pressing
through the blackness of the dying night. Morgan's mind was
working now, turning over possibilities, examining ways, con-
sidering alternatives. They would execute Padishar at midday.
He would be hanged at the city gates. To do that, they would
have to transport him from the Gatehouse at the Pit to the
outer wall. How would they do that? They would take him
down the Tyrsian Way, which was broad and easily watched.
Would he walk? No, too slow. On horseback or in a wagon?
Yes, standing in a wagon so that he could be seen by every-
one ...

They turned into a passage that ran back between two build-
ings to a dead end. There was a door halfway down, and they
entered. Inside, it was black, but they groped their way to a
door on the far wall that opened to a flicker of lamplight.
Chandos stood in the door, sword in hand, black beard bris-
tling. He looked ferocious in the shadows, all bulk and iron.
But his smile was quick and welcoming, and he guided them
down the steps into the cellar below where the others waited.

There were greetings and handshakes, a sense of anticipa-
tion, of readiness. It had taken the little band of twenty-four al-
most the entire night to come into Tyrsis through the tunnels,
but they seemed fresh and eager, and there was determination
in their eyes. Chandos handed Morgan the Sword of Lean, and
the Highlander strapped it across his back. He was as anxious
as they.

He looked for the Mole and could not find him. When asked
about him, Damson said he was keeping watch.

"I'll need him to show me where the tunnels run beneath
the streets," he announced. "And I'll need you to draw a map
of the city so that he can do that."

"Have you a plan, Highlander? " Chandos asked, pressing
close.

Good question, Morgan thought. "I do," he replied, hoping
he was right.

Then he drew them close and told them what it was.

The dawn was gray and oppressive, the thunderheads moved

The Talismans of Shannara                         253

close to the edge of Callahom, roiling black clouds that cast
their dark shadow east to the Runne. It was hot and windless
in the city of Tyrsis as its citizens woke to begin their day's
work, the air thick with the taste of sweat and dust and old
smells. Men and women glanced skyward, anxious for the im-
pending rain to begin so that it might give them some small
measure of relief.

As morning slid toward midday, excitement over the im-
pending execution of the outlaw Padishar Creel began to build.
Crowds gathered at the city gates in anticipation, irritable and
weary from the heat, anxious for any distraction. Shops closed,
vendors cleaned out their stalls, and work was set aside in
what soon became a carnival atmosphere. There were clowns
and tricksters, sellers of drink and sweets, hucksters and
mimes, and cordons of Federation soldiers everywhere, dressed
in their black and scarlet uniforms as they lined the Tyrsian
Way from inner to outer wall. It grew darker with midday's ap-
proach as the thunderheads crowded the skies from horizon to
horizon and rain began to fall in a thin haze.

At the center of the city, the People's Park sat silent and de-
serted. Wind from the approaching storm rustled the leaves of
the trees and stirred the banners at the Gatehouse entrance. A
wagon had arrived, drawn by a team of horses and surrounded
by Federation guards. Canvas stretched over metal hoops cov-
ered its wooden bed, and iron bound its wheels and sides. The
horses stamped and grew lathered in their traces, and the heat
brought a sheen of sweat to the faces of the uniformed men.
Eyes searched the trees and pathways of the Park, the walls
that ringed the Pit, and the shadows that gathered in clumps all
about. The iron heads of pikes and axes glinted dully. Voices
were kept low and furtive, as if someone might hear.

Then the Gatehouse doors swung open, and a team of sol-
diers emerged with Padishar Creel in tow. The leader of the
free-born had his arms bound tightly behind him and his
mouth securely gagged. He walked unsteadily, his gait halting
and painful. There was blood on his face and bruises and cuts
everywhere. He lifted his head despite his obvious pain, and
his eyes were hard and fierce as he surveyed his captors. Pew
gaze, keeping their attention trained elsewhere, wait-
was past to sneak a furtive glance. The outlaw was




254                         The Talismans of Shannara

taken to the back of the wagon and pushed inside. Canvas
flaps were drawn in place, the wagon was turned about, and
the soldiers began to assemble in lines on either side. When all
was in readiness, the procession began to move slowly ahead.

It took a long time to complete the journey out of the palk,
the horses held carefully in check, the lines of soldiers sur-
rounding the wagon in a solid wall. There were more than fifty
of them, armed and hard-faced, spearing a path through the
trees and out onto the Tyrsian Way. The few people they en-
countered were moved quickly back, and the wagon lurched
slowly into the city. Buildings rose to either side, and heads
leaned out of windows. The soldiers deployed, teams moving
ahead to search doorways and alcoves, to check cross streets
and alleys, to move aside any obstruction they found. Rain was
falling steadily now, spattering on the stones of the roadway,
staining them dark and beginning to puddle. Thunder boomed
from somewhere distant, a long steady peal that echoed
through the city walls. The rain fell harder, and it grew in-
creasingly difficult to see.

The wagon had reached a commons where a series of cross
streets intersected when the woman appeared. She was crying
hysterically, calling out to the soldiers to stop. Her clothes
were in disarray and there were tears on her face. They had the
outlaw leader with them, didn't they? They were taking him to
be hanged, weren't they? Good, she cried out vehemently, for
he was responsible for the deaths of her husband and son, good
men who had fought in the Federation cause. She wanted to
see him hang. She wanted to make certain she was there when
it happened.

The procession lurched to an uncertain stop as others ap-
peared to take up the cry, stirred by the woman's fiery speech.
Hang the outlaw leader, they cried out angrily. They pressed
forward, a ragged bunch, throwing up their hands and gestur-
ing wildly. The soldiers held them away with pikes and spears,
and the unit's commanding officer ordered them to move back.

No one noticed the sewer grate slide away from its seating
under where the wagon was stopped or saw the shadowy forms
that slid out of the darkness one by one to crouch beneath.

Hang him here and now! the crowd was crying, continuing
to press up against the soldiers massed before it. The Federa-

The Talismans of Shannara 255

tion officer had drawn his sword and was shouting angrily for
his men to clear the way.

Then abruptly the forms beneath the wagon sprang up on all
sides, some onto the driver's seat, some into the bed. The driv-
ers and the officer were thrown to the street, clutching their
throats. More soldiers were thrown out the back to land in
crumpled heaps, bloodied and still. The soldiers surrounding
the wagon turned instinctively to see what was happening, and
in an instant's time half fell dying as the free-born who at that
point made up the bulk of the crowd killed them with the dag-
gers they had kept hidden. Screams and shouts rose up, and the
soldiers surged back and forth wildly, trying to bring their
weapons to bear.

Morgan Leah appeared on the driver's seat of the wag-
on, snatched up the reins, and shouted at the horses. The wagon
lurched forward, the horses wild-eyed. Soldiers flung them-
selves at the Highlander, trying to claw their way up to stop
him, but Matty Roh was there instantly, her blade swift and
deadly as it cut them down. The wagon broke through the lead-
ing edge of the column, the team trampling some men beneath
its hoofs, the wagon wheels crushing more. Morgan sawed on
the reins and turned the team onto a side street. Behind, the
fighting continued, men grappling with one another and striking
out with their weapons. The Federation column was decimated.
No more than a handful still stood, and those few had backed
themselves against a building wall and were battering at the
doors.

Damson Rhee raced up, finished now with her deception as
the grieving widow. She reached for the seat rail and pulled
herself aboard as the wagon rolled past. The free-bom were
charging after them as well, swiftly closing the gap between
themselves and the wagon. For a second it seemed that Mor-
gan's plan was goings to work. Then something moved in the
shadows to one side, and Morgan, distracted momentarily,
turned to look. As he did, the wagon struck a water-filled hole,
an axle broke, a wheel flew off, and the traces snapped. The
wagon lurched wildly to one side, and a split second later it
upended, sending everyone sprawling into the street.

Morgan lay in a tangle with Damson and Matty Roh. Slowly
they picked themselves up, muddied and bruised. The wagon

256                         The Talismans of Shannara

was mined, the canvas shredded and the wooden box splin-
tered and cracked. In the distance, the terrified team disap-
peared into the gloom. Chandos crawled from beneath the
wreckage with his burly arms wrapped about Padishar. The
outlaw leader had freed his hands and removed the gag. There
was fire in his eyes as he tried to stand on his own.

"Don't stop!" he rasped. "Keep moving!"

The others of the free-bom reached them, their clothing
bloodstained and torn. There were fewer than before, and some
were wounded. Shouts and cries trailed after them, and a fresh
body of soldiers surged into the square.

"Hurry! This way!" Damson called urgently, and began to
run.

They slogged after her down the muddied street through a
maze of rain-soaked buildings. Mist rose off the damp, heated
stone as the air cooled and everything farther than twenty feet
away disappeared in a haze. More Federation soldiers ap-
peared, surging out of side streets with their weapons drawn.
The free-bom met them head-on and thrust them back, strug-
gling to get clear. Matty Roh battled at the forefront of the
charge, cat-quick and deadly as she opened a path for the rest.
Chandos and Morgan fought on either side of Padishar, who,
though game enough to try, lacked sufficient strength to protect
himself. He fell continually, and finally Chandos was forced to
pick him up and carry him.

They reached a bridge that spanned a dry riverbed and stum-
bled across wearily. Without the wagon to carry them, they
were tiring quickly. Almost half of those who had come into
the city to rescue Padishar were dead. Several of those who re-
mained were wounded so badly they could no longer fight.
Federation soldiers were coming at them from everywhere,
summoned from the gates where news of the escape had car-
ried. The little party fought valiantly to go on, but time was
running out. Soon there would be too many soldiers to avoid.
Even the mist and the rain would not hide them then.

A body of horsemen charged out of the mist, appearing so
swiftly that there was no chance to get clear. Morgan saw
Matty fling herself aside and tried to do the same. Bodies went
flying as the free-bom were overrun. The horses stumbled and
went down in the melee and their riders went flying as well.

The Talismans of Shannara                         257

Screams and shouts rose from the struggling mass. Chandos
was gone, buried in a pile of bodies. Padishar lurched to one
side and fell to his knees. Morgan rose and stood centermost
on the bridge, virtually alone, and swung the Sword of Leah at
everything that came within reach. He gave his family's battle
cry, "Leak, Leah," seeking strength in the sound of it, and
fought to rally those who were left to stand with him.

For a second he thought they were lost.

Then Chandos surged back into view, bloodied and terrible,
thrusting Federation soldiers aside like deadwood as he stum-
bled to where Padishar leaned against the bridge wall and
pulled the leader of the free-bom back to his feet. Damson was
calling out from somewhere ahead, urging them on. Matty Roh
reappeared, darted at the last Federation soldier standing, killed
him with a single pass, and sped on. Morgan and the free-bom
followed, skidding in the mix of rain and blood that coated the
bridge surface.

On the low end of the causeway they found Damson waiting
in the open doors of a large warehouse, gesturing for them to
hurry. They stmggled to reach her, hearing the sounds of
pursuit—booted feet pounding through the mud, weapons
clanging against armor, curses and shouts of rage. They en-
tered the gloom-filled building in a rush, and Damson
slammed and barred the doors behind them. The Mole poked
his head out of a trapdoor that was all but lost in the shadows
at the building's rear and disappeared again.

"Down into the tunnels!" Damson ordered, pointing after the
Mole. "Quick!"

The free-bom hastened to comply, those who were able giv-
ing what support they could to the injured. Chandos went first,
half dragging, half carrying Padishar Creel, and disappeared
from sight. The shouts of their pursuers reached the doors of
the warehouse, and a violent pounding began. Pikes and spears
slammed into the barrier, splitting the wood. Morgan paused,
hallway to the tunnel. Matty Roh stood alone before the im-
pending rush, sword held ready.

"Matty!" he called out.

The last of the free-bom dropped through the trapdoor.
Battle-axes split the crossbar that braced the warehouse en-
trance, and the heavy doors sagged. Matty Roh backed away

258                          The Talismans of Shannara

slowly, reluctant even now to give ground. She seemed small
and vulnerable before the crush that surely faced her, but held
herself as if made of iron.

"Many!" Morgan shouted again, then raced back for her.
Seizing her arm, he dragged her toward the tunnel entry just as
the warehouse doors gave way, and Federation soldiers poured
into the room. Foremost were Seekers, hooded and cloaked,
the wolf's-head insignia gleaming on their uniforms. Their
cries at seeing him were hisses of delight.

Morgan turned to face them, standing before the tunnel en-
trance. It was too late to flee. If he tried, they would cut him
down from behind and then catch the others as well. If he
stayed, he could slow the rush and the others would gain a few
precious moments. Matty Roh crouched at his elbow. He
thought momentarily to tell her to run, but a furtive glance at
her face told him he would be wasting his time.

The rush came from three sides, but Morgan and the girl
fought with a ferocity bom of desperation and threw it back.
The Sword of Leah turned to blue fire as it met the Seeker
strike, hammering past the Shadowen defense and turning the
black things to ash. Some of the Federation soldiers saw what
was happening and fell back with whispered cries and oaths.
Matty Roh attacked at the first indication of a weakening in the
ranks, her slender sword snaking out so quickly that it could
barely be seen, her movements fluid and efficient as she fol-
lowed her weapon into the crush. Morgan went with her, fight-
ing to cover her back, impelled by the sudden rush of magic
that surged from the Leah talisman into his limbs. He howled
out his battle cry anew, "Leah, Leah," and threw himself at the
men before him. The Seekers died immediately, and the sol-
diers who had followed them in tripped and fell over one an-
other in their haste to get away. Many Roh was crying out as
well, a shriek that pierced the cacophony of screams rising
from the dead and wounded. Morgan felt light-headed, empty
of thought, of needs and wants, of everything but the magic's
fire.

Then suddenly the Federation attack gave way completely,
and the last of those who still lived fled back through the
warehouse doors into the streets of Tyrsis. Morgan whirled in
fury, driven by the magic, and the Sword of Leah radiating

The Talismans of Shannara                         259

fire. Swinging the talisman like a scythe, he cut into the up-
right beams that braced the ceiling supports, cut so deep that
he severed them, and the entire building began to collapse.

"Enough!" Matty screamed, catching hold of his arm and
pulling him away.

He fought her for an instant, then realized what he was
doing and gave in. They rushed for the trapdoor and scrambled
to safety just as the ceiling gave way and buried everything in
a thunderous crash.

Below, they ran through the blackness of the tunnels, charg-
ing ahead recklessly, heedless of where they were going. Light
glimmered in the distance, faint and beckoning, and they raced
wildly to reach it. The strange wholeness that Morgan felt
when using the Sword's magic began to dissipate, opening a
pit within that widened into a hunger, into a familiar sense of
loss, into the beginnings of a desperate need. He fought against
it, warning himself that he must not let the magic rule him as
it had before, calling up images of Par and Walker and finally
Quickening to strengthen his resolve. He reached out for Matty
and caught hold of her hand. Her grip tightened on his own, as
if she sensed his fear, and she held him fast.

Don't let me go, he prayed silently. Don't let me fall.

Dust and dampness filled his lungs, and he coughed against
the air's thickness, fighting to catch his breath. His weariness
weighed him down, chains on his limbs and body. They ran
on, the light stronger now, closer. Matty's ragged breathing
matched the pounding of their boots on the stone. The blood
pulsed in his ears.

Then they were within the light, a shaft of brightness from
a drainage-grate opening in the street above. Rain cascaded
down through the gaps and formed a silver curtain, and thun-
der rolled across the skies. Matty collapsed against one wall,
pulling him down with her. They sat with their backs against
the cool stone, gasping.

She turned to him, and her cobalt eyes were wild and fierce
and her waiflike features were shining. She looked as if she
wanted to howl with glee. She looked as if she had discovered
something that she had believed forever lost.

260                         The Talismans of Shannara

'That was wonderful!" she breathed, and laughed like a
child.

When she saw the astonishment mirrored on his face, she
leaned over quickly and kissed him hard on the mouth. She
held the kiss for a long time, her arms wrapping about him and
holding him fast.

Then she released him, laughed again, and pulled him to his
feet. "Come on, we have to catch the others! Come on, Mor-
gan Leah! Run!"

They continued down the tunnel, the sounds of the storm
trailing after them into the black. They did not run far, slowing
quickly to a walk as their wind gave out. Their eyesight ad-
justed to the gloom, and they could pick out the movement of
rats. Rainwater sloshed down the grates in an increasingly
heavy flow, and soon they were ankle-deep. From light shaft to
light shaft they made their way, listening for the sounds of
those who might be following as well as for those they sought.
They heard shouts and cries from the streets, the gallop of
horses, the rumble of wagons, and the thudding of booted feet.
The city was swarming with soldiers hunting for them, but for
now the sounds were all aboveground.

Still there was no sign of Damson and the free-born.

Finally they reached a divergence in the passageway that
forced them to choose. Morgan did the best he could, but there
was nothing to help him decide. If the rainwater hadn't flooded
the sewer floor, there might have been tracks. They pressed on,
side by side, Matty Roh holding onto him as if frightened she
might lose him to the dark. The distance between the grates
began to widen until the tunnel was so black they could barely
see.

"I think we missed a turn," Morgan said softly, angrily.

They backtracked and tried again. The new passage angled
sharply one way and then another, and again the distance be-
tween grates widened and the light began to fail. They found
a blackened torch wedged in the rock wall and managed to
light it using a strip of cloth and Matty's fire-making stones. It
took a long time to get a flame in the dampness, and by the
time they had the torch burning, they could hear movement in
the watery corridors behind them.

"They've dug through—or found another way," the girl

The Talismans of Shannara                         261

whispered, and gave him a secretive smile. "But they won't
catch us—or if they do, they'll wish they hadn't. Come on!"

They pushed ahead into tunnels that grew increasingly nar-
row. The grates finally disappeared entirely and the torch be-
came their only light. The hours wore on, and it became
obvious that they were hopelessly lost. Neither said so, but
both knew. Somehow they had chosen the wrong direction. It
was still possible that they would find their way clear, but
Morgan didn't care for the odds. Even Damson, who lived in
the city and came down into the tunnels often, did not feel she
could navigate the maze of corridors without the Mole. He
wondered what had become of her and the others of the free-
bom. He wondered if they thought Matty and he were dead.

They found another torch, this one in better condition, and
took it with them as a spare. When the pitch-coated length of
the first was burned away, Morgan used the stub to light the
spare and they continued on. They were angling deeper into
the bluff and could no longer see or hear the rain. Sounds grew
muffled and then disappeared; there was only their breathing
and their footsteps. Morgan tried to set a direct course, but the
tunnels intersected and cut back so often that he gave it up.
Time ticked away, but there was no way to be certain how
much of it had passed. They grew hungry and thirsty, but there
was nothing to eat or drink.

Finally Morgan stopped and turned to Matty. "We're not
getting anywhere. We have to try something else. Let's find
our way back up to the first level. Maybe we can slip out into
the city tonight and sneak through the gates tomorrow."

It was a faint hope at best—the Federation would be looking
for them everywhere—but anything was better than wandering
around hopelessly in the dark. Night would be coming soon,
and Morgan kept thinking about the Shadowen that Damson
had told him prowled the tunnels closest to the Pit. Suppose
they stumbled into one of those. It was too dangerous for them
to remain down here any longer.

They worked their way back toward the bluff face, choosing
tunnels that angled upward, winding about with their torch
slowly burning away. They knew they were running out of
time; if they did not regain the streets of the city soon, their
light would be used up and they would be stuck there in the

262 The Talismans of Shannara

dark. But now they were hearing continual sounds in the dis-
tance, the movement of men through water and damp, the
whisper of voices. Their hunters were out in force, and they
were no closer than before to finding a way past them.

It was a long time before they reached the sewers again and
caught a glimpse of daylight through a street grating. The light
was thin and fading now, the day easing quickly toward dark.
The rain had turned to a slow drizzle, and the city was silent
and empty feeling. They walked until they found a ladder lead-
ing up, and Morgan took a deep breath and climbed. When he
peered out from between the bars he saw Federation soldiers
stationed across from him, grim and silent in the gloom. He
climbed back down noiselessly, and they continued on.

Their torch burned out, the daylight turned to dark—the
skies so clouded that almost no light showed down into the
tunnels, and the sound of their hunters faded away and was re-
placed by the scurrying of rats and the drip of ronoff. All of
the grate openings they checked were under watch. They kept
moving because there was nothing else for them to do, afraid
that if they stopped they might not be able to start again.

Morgan was beginning to despair when the eyes appeared in
front of him. Cat's eyes, they gleamed in the darkness and then
disappeared.

Morgan came to an immediate stop. "Did you see that? " he
whispered to Matty Roh.

He felt, rather than saw, her nod. They stood frozen for a
long time, not wanting to move until they knew what was out
there. Those eyes had not belonged to any rat.

Then there was a whisper of water disturbed and a scrape of
boots.

"Morgan? " someone called softly. "Is that you? "

It was Damson. Morgan answered, and an instant later she
was hugging him, then Many, telling them she had been look-
ing for them for hours, searching the tunnels from end to end,
trying to find their trail.

"Alone? " Morgan asked incredulously. He was so relieved
to see her he was almost giddy. "Do you have any food or wa-
ter? "

She gave them both an aleskin and bread and cheese from
her pack. "I had the Mole to help me," she said, keeping her

The Talismans of Shannara                          263

voice at a whisper. "When you collapsed the ceiling to the
warehouse, a part of the tunnel went with it. Maybe you didn't
even notice. At any rate, we were cut off from you, and you
ended up going the wrong way." She shook back her fiery hair
and sighed. "We had to get Padishar and the others out first.
There was no time to look for you then. When they were safe,
the Mole and I came back for you."

In the darkness to one side, the Mole's bright eyes blinked
and gleamed. Morgan was dumbfounded. "But how did you
find us? We were completely lost. Damson. How could
you...?"

"You left a trail," she said, clutching at his arm to slow his
argument.

"A trail? But the rainwater washed everything away!"

She smiled, although she was clearly trying not to. "Not in
the earth, Morgan—in the air." He shook his head in confu-
sion. "Mole? " she called. 'Tell him."

The Mole's furry face eased into the light. He blinked al-
most sleepily, and his nose twitched as he sniffed at the High-
lander. "Your smell is very strong," he said. "All through the
tunnels. Lovely Damson is right. You were easy to track."

Morgan stared. He could hear Many Roh's smothered laugh-
ter, and he turned bright red.

They rested only long enough to eat, then set out again, this
time with the Mole as their guide. There were no encounters
with either Federation soldiers or Shadowen wraiths and their
passage was smooth and easy. As he walked, Morgan's
thoughts wandered into the past and out again, a slow, deliber-
ate journey of self-evaluation. He looked at himself and the
ways he had changed. When he was done, he found he was not
displeased. The lessons he had learned were important ones,
and he was better for having traveled the road that had brought
him north from Lean.

When they emerged from the side of the mountain north, the
skies were clear once more and filled with light from the moon
and stars. The air was rain-washed and smelled of the forest,
and the breeze that blew out of the west was cool and soft as
down. They stood together in grasses still damp with the

264 The Talismans of Shannara

storm, looking out across the plains and hills to the Dragon's
Teeth and the horizon beyond.

Morgan glanced at Matty Roh and found her studying him,
smiling slightly, her thoughts private and secretive and
strangely compelling. She was plain and pretty, reticent and
forward, and a dozen other contradictions, a paradox of moods
and behavior he did not understand but wanted to. He saw her
in fragments of memory—as'the boy he had believed her to be
at the Whistledown, as the girl with the ruined feet and shat-
tered past at Pirerim Reach, as the deadly quick swordswoman
standing against the Federation and the Shadowen at Tyrsis,
and as the quixotic waif who could be either demon or sprite
at a moment's passing.

He could not help himself. He smiled back at her, trying to
share a secret that only she knew.

Damson was kneeling before the Mole. "Won't you come
with us this time? " she was asking him. The Mole was shak-
ing his head. "It grows more dangerous for you every time you
go back."

The Mole considered. "I am not afraid for myself, lovely
Damson. I am afraid only for you."

"The monsters, the Shadowen, are in the city," she reminded
him gently.

He gave her a small shrug and a serious look. "The mon-
sters are everywhere."

Damson sighed, nodded, reached out carefully, put her arms
around the little fellow, and hugged him. "Goodbye, Mole.
Thank you for everything. Thank you for Padishar. I owe you
so much."

The Mole blinked. His bright eyes glistened.

She released him and rose. "I will come back for you when
I can," she said. "I promise."

"When you find the Valeman? " The Mole suddenly looked
embarrassed.

"Yes, when I find Par Ohmsford. We will both come back."

The Mole brushed at his face. "I will wait for you, lovely
Damson. I will always wait for you."

Then he turned and disappeared back into the rocks, melting
away like one of night's shadows. Morgan stood with Matty
Roh and stared after him, not quite believing he was really

The Talismans of Shannara                          265

gone. The night was still and cool, empty of sound and filled
with memories that jumbled together like words spoken too
fast, and it seemed as if everything was a dream that could end
in the blink of a waking eye.

Damson turned to look at him. "I'm going after Par," she
announced quiedy. "Chandos has taken Padishar and the others
back to Firerim Reach where they will rest a day or two before
making their journey north to meet with the Trolls. I have done
what I can for him, Morgan. He doesn't need me for anything
more. But Par Ohmsford does, and I intend to keep my prom-
ise to him."

Morgan nodded. "I understand. I'm going with you."

Matty Roh looked inexplicably defiant. "Well, I'm going,
too," she declared. She searched first one face and then the
other for an objection, found none, and then asked in a more
reasonable tone, "Who is Par Ohmsford? "

Morgan almost laughed. He had forgotten that Many knew
only a little of what was going on. There was no reason, he
guessed, that she shouldn't know it all. She had earned the
right by coming with them into Tyrsis after Padishar Creel.

'Tell her on the way," Damson interjected suddenly, and
gave an uneasy glance over her shoulder. "We're too exposed,
standing about out here. Don't forget they're still hunting for
us."

Within moments they were moving east away from the bluff
and toward the Mermidon. An hour's walk would bring them
to the shelter of the forests and a few hours' sleep. It was the
best that they could hope for this night.

As they traveled, Morgan told again the story of Par
Ohmsford and the dreams of Allanon. The three figures re-
ceded slowly into the distance, midnight came and went, and
the new day began.

XXIII

They spent what remained of the night in an arbor of
white oaks bordering the Mermidon a few miles below
the Kennon Pass. It was cool and shady where they
slept, protected from the late summer heat that gathered early
on the open grasslands, and they did not wake until well after
sunrise. They washed and ate from the supplies that Damson
carried, listening to the steady flow of the river and an effer-
vescent birdsong. Morgan rubbed sleep from his eyes and tried
to remember everything that had happened the previous day,
but it was already growing vague in his mind, a memory that
seemed to have been stored away a long time ago. That
Padishar Creel was safe again, however distant the event, was
all that mattered, he told himself wearily, and he let the matter
slide into the distance of yesterday.

He pulled on his boots as he munched on bread and cheese
and considered what lay ahead. Today was a hot, sultry expec-
tation that shimmered through the dappled shadows of the
leaves and branches, and it might take him anywhere. The past
was a reminder of the vicissitudes of life, chance playing off
opportunity and giving back what she would. The hardships
and losses that Morgan had experienced had tempered him like
iron run through the fire, and a vacuum had formed around
him that he did not think anything would ever get past again,
a dead place where hurt and disappointment and fear could not
survive, a shield that let him keep everything away so that he
might go on when sometimes he did not think he could. The
problem, of course, was that it kept other things away as
well—hope and caring and love among them. He could admit

266

The Talismans of Shannara                          267

them when he chose, but there was always the danger that the
other feelings would come in as well. When you let in one,
you always risked letting in the others. It was his legacy from
Steff and Quickening, from the Jut and Eldwist, from Druid
wraiths and Shadowen. It was a truth that haunted him.

He brushed aside the musings and speculation, finished off
his meal, and stood and stretched.

"Ready? " Damson Rhee asked. She was flushed from cold
water splashed on her skin, and her fiery hair was brushed out
so that it shone. She was pretty and vital and filled with a de-
termination that radiated like heat from a flame. Morgan
looked at her and thought again how lucky Par was to have
someone like that in love with him.

Many Ron finished washing off her plate and handed it over
to Damson to pack. "Where do we go from here? " she asked
in her customarily blunt fashion. "How do we go about finding
Par Ohmsford? "

Damson shoved the plate in with the others. "We track
him." She tightened the stays on the pack and stood up. "With
this."

She reached down inside her tunic front and pulled out what
looked to be half of a medallion threaded on a leather thong.
Morgan and Matty bent close. The medallion—a metal disk,
actually—had no markings or insignia, and the jagged sharp-
ness of the straight edge indicated that it had been broken re-
cently.

"It is called a Skree," Damson explained, holding it up to
the light where it gleamed a copper gold. "I gave the other half
to Par when we separated. The disk was fashioned out of one
metal, one forging, and can only be used once. The halves
draw the holders to each other. They give off light when they
are brought close."

Matty Roh looked skeptical. "How close do you have to
be? " Her black hair was short and straight about her elfin face,
and her eyes were deep and searching. She looked fresh-
scrubbed and new—younger than she was, Morgan thought,
and nothing of who she could be.

Damson smiled. "The Skree is a street magic. I have seen it
work; I know what it can do." The smile tightened. "Shall we
try it out? "

268                         The Talismans of Shannon"

She held it outstretched in her palm and faced west, north,
and then east. The Skree did nothing. Damson glanced at them
quickly. "He was traveling south," she explained. "I saved that
for last."

She pointed her hand south. The coppery face of the Skree
might have pulsed faintly, but Morgan really wasn't sure.
Damson, however, nodded iR satisfaction.

"He's a long way away, it seems." Her smile was hesitant as
she let her eyes meet theirs. "You have to know how to read
it." She stuffed the disk back inside her tunic. "We had better
start walking."

She reached down for her pack and swung it over her shoul-
ders. Matty Roh gave Morgan a sideways glance and a shake
of her head that said. Did you see something I missed? Morgan
shrugged. He wasn't sure.

They set out into the heat, following the Mermidon on its
winding path east toward Varfleet, keeping as much as they
could to the shade of the trees. A breeze blew off the water
and helped cool them, but the surrounding countryside was
empty and still. The peaks of the Dragon's Teeth north were
barren and gray with the summer's swelter, and the mix of
hills and low mountains south were burned out and dry. The
sun lifted in the cloudless sky, and the heat beat down in
waves. Dead animals lay scattered on the open plains, their
twisted bodies rotting. Vast stretches of Callahom's woods had
been sickened and the earth beneath left bare. Pools of stag-
nant, dull-green water stood listless and stinking. Trees were
ravaged and withered like the carcasses of creatures hung out
to dry. Often the stretches of ruined earth lasted for miles.
Morgan could smell the decay in the air. This was more than
the summer heat and dryness; this was the Shadowen poison-
ing that he had witnessed time and again since coming north,
a devastation of the land that the dark things were somehow
causing. And it was growing worse.

Midday faded into afternoon, and they skirted Varfleet to the
north, still following the Mermidon as it began to bend south.
They encountered a handful of peddlers and other tradesmen
on their way, but the heat kept most would-be travelers out of
the sun, so they had the river road pretty much to themselves.

The Talismans of Shannara                          269

They spotted their first Federation patrol as they neared
Varfleet and stepped back into the trees to let it pass.

Damson used the Skree again while they waited, and the re-
sult was the same. The disk glowed faintly when pointed
south—or it might have been nothing more than a glimmer of
sunlight. Again Morgan and Matty Roh exchanged a surrepti-
tious look. It was hot, and they were tired. They were wonder-
ing if this was leading somewhere or if Damson was just being
hopeful. There were other ways to track Par if the disk wasn't
working, but neither of them was ready to challenge Damson
on the matter just yet.

They needed a boat to travel down the Mermidon to the
Rainbow Lake, she advised, tucking the Skree away once
more. It would be quicker by three times than trying to make
the journey afoot. Matty shrugged and said she would go
into the city, since it was less dangerous for her to do so than
for them, and she would meet them here again as soon as she
had found what they needed. She put down the bedroll she had
been carrying and disappeared into the swelter.

Morgan sat with Damson in the shade of an ancient willow
close by the riverbank where they could see anyone approach-
ing from either direction. The river was muddy and clogged
with debris in the wake of last night's storm, and they watched
it flow past in sluggish, deliberate fashion, a bearer of discards
and old news. Morgan's eyes were heavy with lack of sleep,
and he closed them against the light.

"You're still not certain of me, are you? " he heard Damson
ask after a time.

He looked over at her. "What do you mean? "

"I saw the look you exchanged with Matty when I used the
Skree."

He sighed. "That doesn't mean I'm not certain of you. Dam-
son. It means I didn't see anything and that worries me."

"You have to know how to use it."

"So you said. But what if you're wrong? You can't blame
me for being skeptical."

She smiled ironically. "Yes, I can. Somewhere along the
way we have to start trusting each other, all three of us. If we
don't, we're going to get into a lot of trouble. You think about
it, Morgan."

270                         The Talismans of Shannara

He did and was still thinking on it when dusk settled over
the borderlands and Matty trudged back out of the haze with
a tired look on her face.

"We have a boat," she announced, dropping wearily into the
shadow of the willow and reaching for the water cup Damson
offered. She splashed water on her dust-streaked face and let it
run off. "A boat, supplies, and weapons, all tucked away at the
waterfront. We can pick them up after dark when we won't be
seen."

"Any problems? " Morgan asked.

She gave him a hard look. "I didn't have to kill anyone, if
that's what you mean." She glowered at him, then settled back
and wouldn't say another word.

Now they were both mad at him, he thought, and decided he
didn't care.

When night came, they followed the riverbank down into
the city until they reached the docks north where Matty had se-
cured the boat. It was an older craft, a flat-bottomed skiff with
poles, oars, a mast, and a canvas sail, and was supplied with
food and weapons as Matty had promised. They climbed
aboard without saying anything and shoved off, rode the skiff
downriver to the first unoccupied cove, then beached their craft
and went immediately to sleep. At sunrise they were up again
and off. They rode the Mermidon south toward the Runne until
sunset and made camp in a wedge of rocks that opened onto
a narrow sand bar fronting a grove of ash. They ate dinner
cold, rolled into their blankets, and slept once more. Two days
had passed without anyone saying much of anything. Tempers
were frayed, and uncertainty over the direction they were tak-
ing had shut down any real effort at communication. There had
been a bonding in Tyrsis that was lacking here—perhaps be-
cause of the doubts they were feeling about one another, per-
haps because of their uneasiness over what might be waiting
for them. In Tyrsis there had been a plan—or at least the ru-
diments of one. Here there was only a vague determination to
keep hunting for Par Ohmsford until he was found. They had
known where Padishar was, and there had been a sense of hav-
ing some control over reaching him. But Par could be any-
where, and there was nothing to suggest that they were not
already too late to do him any good.

The Talismans of Shannara                         271

It was with immense relief, then, that when Damson brought
out the Skree the following morning and pointed her hand
south, the copper metal gleamed bright even in the shadow of
the rocks that hemmed them about. There was a moment's hes-
itation, and then they smiled like old friends rediscovering one
another and pushed off into the channel with fresh determina-
tion.

The tension eased after that and the sense of companionship
they had shared in rescuing Padishar returned once more. The
skiff eased its way down the channel, borne steadily south on
waters that had turned calm and smooth once more. The day
was hot and windless, and the journey was slow, but the free-
bom women and the Highlander passed the time exchanging
thoughts and dreams, working their way past the barriers they
had allowed to form between them, conversing until they were
comfortable with one another once more.

Nightfall found them deep within the Runne, the mountains
a shadowy wall in the growing dark that blocked the starlight
and left them with only a narrow corridor of sky overhead.
They camped on an island that was mostly sandy beach and
bleached driftwood encircling a stand of scrub pine. The air
stayed sultry and was thick with pungent river smells—dead
fish, mud flats, and rushes. Morgan fished, and they ate what
he caught over a small fire, drank a little of the ale Damson
carried, and watched the river flow past like a silver ribbon.
Damson used the Skree, and it glowed bright copper when
pointed south. So far, so good. They were less than a day's
journey from where the Mermidon emptied into the Rainbow
Lake. Perhaps there they would learn something of the where-
abouts of Par.

After a time Damson and Matty stretched out on their blan-
kets to sleep while Morgan ambled down to the water's edge
and sat thinking of other times and places. He wanted to pull
together the threads of all that had happened in an effort to
make some sense out of what was to come. He was tired of
running from an enemy he still knew almost nothing about,
and in typical fashion believed that if he considered the matter
hard enough he was bound to leam something. But the threads
trailed away from him as if blown in a wind, and he could not
seem to gather them up. They drifted and strayed, and the

272                          The Talismans of Shannara

questions that had plagued him for weeks remained unan-
swered.

He was digging in the sand with a stick when Matty ap-
peared and sat down next to him.

"I couldn't sleep," she offered. Her face was pale and
cool-looking in the starlight, and her eyes were depthless.
"What are you doing? "

He shook his head. "Thinking."

"What about?"

"Everything and nothing." He gave her a quick smile. "I
can't seem to settle on much. I thought I might try to reason
out a few things, but my mind just keeps wandering."

She didn't say anything for a moment, her eyes turning
away to look out over the river. "You try too hard," she said
finally.

He looked at her.

"You work at everything like it was the last chance you
were ever going to get. You're like a little boy with a chore his
mother has given him to do. It means so much to you that you
can't afford to make even the smallest mistake."

He shrugged. "Well, that's not how I am. Maybe that's how
I seem at the moment, but that isn't really me. Besides, now
who's judging who? "

She met his gaze squarely. "I'm not judging you; I'm giving
you my impression. That's different from what you were
doing. You were judging me."

"Oh." He didn't believe it for a moment. His face said so,
and he didn't bother to hide it. "Anyway, trying hard isn't a
bad thing."

"Do you remember when I told you that I had killed a lot
of men? " He nodded. "That was a lie. Or at least an exagger-
ation. I just said that because you made me mad." She looked
away again, thoughtful. "There's a lot you don't understand
about me. I don't think I can explain it all to you."

He stared at her hard, but she refused to look at him. "Well,
I didn't ask you to explain," he replied defensively.

She ignored him. "You're very good with that sword. Al-
most as good as I am. I could teach you to be better if you'd
let me. I could teach you a lot. Remember what happened to

The Talismans of Shannara                          273

you at the Whistledown when you grabbed me. I could teach
you to do that, too."

He flushed. "That wouldn't have happened if ..."
"... you had been ready." She smiled. "I know, you said so
before. But the point is, you weren't ready—and look what
happened. Besides, being ready is what counts. Padishar taught
me that. Being ready is certainly more important than trying

hard."

His jaw tightened. "Are you about finished detailing what's
wrong with me? Or is there something else you'd like to

add? "

The smile disappeared from her face. She did not look at
him, keeping her eyes on the river. He started to say something
more, then thought better of it. She seemed strangely vulnera-
ble all of a sudden. He watched her draw up her knees, clasp
her arms about them, and lower her head into the darkened
space between. He could hear the sound of her breathing, slow
and even.

"I like you a lot," she said finally. She kept her face hidden.
"I don't want anything to happen to you."

He didn't know what to say. He just stared at her.

"That's why I'm here," she said. "That's why I came." She
lifted her head to look at him. "What do you think about
that? "

He shook his head. "I don't know what I think."

She took a deep breath. "Damson told me about Quicken-
ing."

She said it as if the words might catch fire in her mouth.
Her eyes searched his, and he saw that she was frightened of
what he might be thinking but determined that she would fin-
ish anyway. "Damson said you were in love with Quickening,
that losing her was the worst thing that had ever happened to
you. She told me about it because I asked her. I wanted to
know something about you that you wouldn't tell me yourself.
Then I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn't know how.
I'm very good at listening, but not so good at asking."

Morgan blinked. He saw Quickening in his mind, a flawless,
silver-haired vision as ephemeral as smoke. The pain he felt in
remembering was palpable. He tried to shut it away, but it was

274                         The Talismans of Shannara

pointless. He did not want to remember, but the memory was
always there, just at the edges of his thinking.

Matty Roh put her hand over his, impulsive, hesitant. "I
could listen now, if you would let me," she said. "I would like
it if I could."

He thought. No, I don't want to talk about it, I don't even
want to think about it, not with you, not with anybody! But
then he saw her again in his' mind bathing her ruined feet in
the stream and telling him how she had come to be disfigured,
how the poisoning of the land had changed her life forever.
Was the pain of her memories any less than his own? He
thought, too, of Quickening as she lay dying, healing the shat-
tered Sword of Leah, giving him a part of herself to take with
him, something that would transcend her death. What she had
left behind was not meant to be kept secret or hidden. It was
meant to be shared.

And memories, he knew, were not glass treasures to be kept
locked within a box. They were bright ribbons to be hung in
the wind.

He turned his hand over and clasped hers. Then he leaned
close so that he could see her face clearly and began to speak.
He talked for a long time, rinding it hard at first and then
easier, working his way through the maze of emotions that rose
within him, searching for the words that sometimes would not
come, forcing himself to go on even when he thought that
maybe he could not.

When he was done, she held him close and some of the pain
slipped away.

They set out again at dawn, the daylight gray and misty with
a promise of rain. Clouds rolled out of the west, a heavy, dark
avalanche that sealed away everything in its path. It was hot
and still on the river, and the slap of the water against the can-
yon walls echoed sharply as they wound their way downriver.
Morgan put up the mast and sail, but there was little wind to
help, and after a while he took it down again and let the cur-
rent carry them. It was nearing midday when they passed be-
neath Southwatch, the black obelisk towering over them, vast
and silent and impenetrable, its shadow cast like a Forbidding
across the Mermidon. They stared at it with loathing as they
passed, imagining the dark things that waited within, uneasy

The Talismans of Shannara                         275

with the possibility that they might be watched. But no one ap-
peared, and they sailed by unchallenged. Southwatch receded
into the distance, melted into the haze, and was gone.

They reached the mouth of the river shortly after, the waters
widening and stretching away to become the Rainbow Lake,
smoothing into a glassy surface and brightening into a richer
blue. The rainbow from which the lake took its name was in
pale evidence, shimmering in the heat and mist, suspended
above the water like a weathered, faded banner whose stays
had come loose so that it floated free. They guided the skiff to
the west bank, beached it, and walked out onto a barren flat
that dropped away east and south into the water and spread
northwest across a plain empty of everything but scrub grass
and stunted, leafless ironwood to where a line of hills shad-
owed the horizon. They breathed the air and looked about,
finding no sign of anything for as far as they could see.

Damson brushed back her fiery hair, tied it in place with a
bandanna across her forehead, and drew out the Skree. Holding
it forth in her open palm, she faced south. Morgan watched as
the half disk glimmered bright copper.

She began to put it away, apparently had second thoughts,
and tested each of the other compass points. When she faced
north, the direction from which they had come, the Skree glim-
mered a second time, a small, weak pulsing. Damson stared at
it in disbelief, closed her hand over it, turned away and then
back once more, and reopened her hand. Again the Skree glim-
mered fitfully.

"Why is it doing that? " Matty asked immediately.

Damson shook her head. "I don't know. I've never heard of
it behaving like this."

She faced south again and carefully let her palm travel the
horizon from east to west and back again. Then she did the
same thing facing north, reading the Skree's hammered surface
as she turned. There was no mistake in what they were seeing.
The Skree brightened both ways.

"Could it have been broken again and the pieces carried in
two directions? " Morgan asked.

"No. It can only be divided once. Another breaking would
render it useless. That hasn't happened." Damson looked wor-
ried. "But something has. The reading south points towards the

276                         The Talismans of Shannara

Silver River country west of Culhaven above the Battlemound.
It is the stronger of the two." She looked over her shoulder.
'The reading north is centered on Southwatch."

There was a long silence as they considered what that
meant. A heron cried out from over the lake, swept out of the
haze in a flash of silver brightness, and disappeared again.

'Two readings," Morgan said, and put his hands on his hips
and shook his head. "And one of them is a fake."

"So which one do we believe? " Matty asked. She started
away a few steps as if she had something in mind, then turned
abruptly and came back again. "Which is the real one? "

Again Damson shook her head. "I don't know."

Matty's cobalt eyes glanced toward the horizon where the
clouds were building. "Then we will have to check them
both."

Damson nodded. "I think so. I don't know any other way."

Morgan exhaled in frustration. "All right. We'll go south
first. That reading is the stronger of the two."

"And abandon Southwatch? " Matty shook her head. "We
can't do that. Someone has to stay here in case Par Ohmsford
is inside. Think about it, Highlander. What if he's in there and
they try to move him? What if a chance to rescue him comes
along and no one is here to do anything about it? We might
lose him and have to start all over again. I don't think we can
take that chance."

"She's right," Damson agreed.

"Fine, you stay. Damson and I will go south," Morgan de-
clared, irritated that he hadn't thought of it first.

But Many shook her head again. "You have to be the one
who stays. Your sword is the only effective weapon we have
against the Shadowen. If a rescue is needed, if any sort of con-
frontation comes about, your Sword is a talisman against their
magic. My skills are good, Morgan Leah, but I also know
when I'm overmatched. I don't like this any better than you
do, but it can't be helped. Damson and I will go south."

There was a long silence as they faced each other, Morgan
fighting to control an almost irresistible urge to reject flatly
what he perceived to be the madness of her suggestion, Matty
with her cobalt eyes steady and determined, the weight of her
arguments mirrored in their blue light.

The Talismans of Shannara                          277

Finally Morgan looked away, reason winning out over pas-
sion, a reluctant submission to necessity and hope. "All right,"
he said softly. The words were bitter and harsh sounding. "All
right. I don't like it, but all right." He looked back again. "But
if you find Par and there's to be a fight, you come back for

me."

Matty nodded. "If we can."

Morgan winced at the qualification, shook his head angrily,
and glanced at Damson in challenge. But Damson simply nod-
ded in agreement. Morgan exhaled slowly. "If you can," he re-
peated dully.

They conferred a moment more, agreeing on what they
would do if time and circumstance allowed. Morgan scanned
the countryside and then pointed west to where a bluff fronting
the lake looked out across the surrounding land. From there he
would be able to see anything coming to or going from
Southwatch. If nothing happened in the time between, that was
where they would find him when they returned.

He walked back with them to the skiff and retrieved sup-
plies sufficient to last him a week. Then he embraced them
hesitantly. Damson first, then Matty. The tall girl held him
tightly against her, almost as if to persuade him of her reluc-
tance to leave. She did not speak, but her hands pressed into
his back, and her lips brushed his cheek. She looked hard at
him as she broke away, and he had the feeling that she was
leaving something of herself behind with him in that look. He
started to give her a reassuring smile in reply, but she had al-
ready turned away.

When they were gone, faded into the mist that had settled
over the river, he turned west toward his selected watch post
and trudged into the growing dark. The clouds blanketed the
skies from horizon to horizon, and the air had begun to cool.
A wind had sprung up, gusting across the flats, sending dust
and silt swirling into his eyes. Par west, the rain was a dark
curtain moving toward him. He pulled up the hood of his for-
est cloak and lowered his eyes to the ground.

He had just reached his destination when the rain arrived, a
downpour that swept across the plains in a rush and covered
everything in an instant's dme. Morgan burrowed deep within
the shelter of a broad-limbed fir and settled down against the

278 The Talismans of Shannara

base of the trunk. It was dry and protected there, and the storm
rolled past leaving him untouched. The rain continued for sev-
eral hours, then turned to drizzle, and finally stopped. The
thunderheads passed east, the skies cleared, and the sunset was
a red and purple blaze in the fading light.

Morgan left the shelter of the fir and found a stand of broad-
leaf maple that allowed him to remain hidden while at the
same time giving him a clear view of Southwatch and the
Mermidon east, a large stretch of the Rainbow Lake south, and
a cut through the hills below the Runne that funneled any land
traffic that might approach the Shadowen keep from the north
and west. It was an ideal position to observe everything for
nearly a dozen miles. Good enough, he decided, and settled in
to await the night.

He ate a little of the food he had brought and drank some
water. He wondered if Damson and Many had attempted a
crossing of the Rainbow Lake before the storm had struck or
if they had decided to wait. He wondered if they were camped
somewhere along the river looking back across at him.

The light faded to gray, and the stars began to appear. Mor-
gan stared down at Southwatch and wished he could see in-
side. He tried not to think too closely about what might be
happening there. Too much imagination could be a dangerous
thing. He studied the plains east, barren and stripped of life, a
wasteland of brown earth and gray deadwood that radiated out
from the tower of the Shadowen like a stain. The fringes, he
noted, were already darkening as well, infected by the poison
as it spread. Trees rotted and grasses withered. The bluff on
which he sat was an island already at risk.

He unstrapped the Sword of Leah from his back and cradled
it in his arms. A talisman against the Shadowen, Many Roh
had called it. But it was power, too, that stole your soul, and
there was little that could be done to protect against it. Each
time he used the magic, a test of wills resumed, his own and
the Sword's, both fighting for supremacy, struggling for con-
trol. Three hundred years ago Allanon had answered Rone
Leah's desperate, angry plea by bestowing a tiny part of the
Druid magic on the ancient weapon, and the legacy of that gift
or curse—take your choice—was a binersweet taste that once
experienced cried out for more.

The Talismans of Shannara 279

As did the wishsong for Par. As did all the magic that ever
was or had ever been—siren songs of power that transcended
everything in their compelling, inexorable need to be sung.

He smiled darkly. Be careful what you wish for. Wasn't that
the old admonition to those who begged for what they did not

have?

The smile faded. Maybe he would find out when it came
time to summon the Sword's magic again—as summon it he
surely must, sooner or later. Maybe Quickening's healing
touch, the magic that had restored his talisman, would prove in
the end to be as killing as that of the Shadowen.

The thought left him feeling cold and empty and impossibly
alone. He sat motionless in the shadows, staring out across the
countryside, waiting for the darkness to claim it.

XXIV

Three days earlier another storm had passed, one mark
ediy more violent, a torrential downpour riddled by ex-
plosions of thunder and flashes of lightning and driven
by a rough-faced howling wind, the sort of deluge that came
and went regularly in the Borderlands with the buildup of late
summer pressure and heat. It swept into Callahom at dusk, in-
undated the land through the night, and disappeared south with
the coming of dawn.

In the wake of its passing a solitary figure rose from the
sodden earth at the edge of the Rainbow Lake, muddied be-
yond recognition and stooped as if weighed down with chains.

Dark eyes blinked and tried to focus. The day was late in
waking, worried perhaps that the storm might return, dark-
edged clouds lingering fitfully in the leaden skies, sunrise iron-
gray and cautious as it eased back the night's stubborn
shadows. The figure stared out at the flat expanse of the lake,
at the light east, at the skies, at a world that was clearly unfa-
miliar. One hand held a sword that glimmered faintly where
the grass and mire caked on it were scraped down to the metal.
The figure hesitated uncertainly, then stumbled to the edge
of the lake and submerged hands and face and finally body as
well, washing and rinsing down to a tangle of rags and bare
skin.

Mud and debris swirled away in the dark waters, and Coil
Ohmsford rose to look about.

At first he could not remember anything beyond who he
was—though he was quite determined of that, as if perhaps his
identity had been in doubt once. He recognized the Rainbow

280

The Talismans of Shannara                          281

Lake, the ground upon which he stood, and the country that
surrounded him. He was standing on the lake's southern shore
west of Culhaven and north of the Battlemound. But he did not
Icnow how he had gotten there.

He looked down at the blade in his hand (Had he managed
to wash himself without releasing it?) and realized that he was
holding the Sword of Shannara.

And then the memories came back in a rush that caused him
to gasp and double over as if a blow had been delivered to his
stomach. The images hammered at him. He had been captured
by the Shadowen and imprisoned at Southwatch. He had man-
aged an escape, but in truth Rimmer Dall had managed it for
him. He had been tricked into believing that the Mirrorshroud
would conceal him when in truth it had subverted him in ways
he did not care to recall, turning him into one of them, making
him over in their image. He had lost control of himself, be-
coming something very close to animal, scouring the country-
side in search of his brother. Par, seeking him without clear
reason or purpose beyond a vague intention to cause him harm.
Cloaked in the Mirrorshroud's dark folds, he had tracked,
found, and attacked his brother ...

He was breathing rapidly through his mouth. His chest tight-
ened and his stomach churned.

His brother.

... and tried to kill him—and would have, if something
hadn't stopped him, hadn't driven him away.

He shook his head, fighting through the maze of memories.
He had fled from Par confused and maddened, torn between
who he had been and what he had become. He had drawn Par
after, barely aware of what he was doing, fleeing by day, seek-
ing by night, hunting always, lost somewhere deep within him-
self. Hatred and fear drove him, but their source was never
clear. He could feel the Mirrorshroud's hold on him beginning
to loosen, yet was undecided whether or not that was good. He
was changing back again, but could not come the whole dis-
tance, still bound by the Shadowen magic, still held within its
thrall. In darkness he would return to find his brother, thinking
to kill him, thinking at the same time to find salvation, the
thoughts twisting about each other like snakes. Follow me! he

282 The Talismans of Shannon'1

had prayed to Par—then sought to run so fast and so far that
his brother couldn't.

He hugged himself against the chills that swept through
him, looking out across the hazy expanse of the lake, remem-
bering. How many days had he run? How much time had been
lost?

Follow me!

He had stolen the metal disk then, the one that Par wore
hung about his neck—had stolen it without knowing why, but
only from seeing him hold and caress it in the twilight shad-
ows and sensing its importance, thinking to hurt Par by taking
it, but thinking, too, that stealing the disk would make his
brother follow after him.
As it had.

To the ruined land below Southwatch.
Why had he run there? The reason eluded him, an evasive
whisper in his subconscious. His brow furrowed deeply as he
struggled to understand. He had been driven by the
Mirrorshroud's magic, compelled to return ...
His eyes widened. To bring Par, because ...
And Par had caught up with him there beneath that ancient,
blasted oak, found him exhausted and beaten and ruined. They
had fought one final time, grappling for the Sword of
Shannara, trying to break through the barriers that separated
them, each in his own way—Par struggling to summon the
Sword's magic so that Coil could be free. Coil battling in turn
to ... to ...
What?
To tell Par. To tell him.

"Par," he whispered in horror, and his memory of what the
Sword's truth had revealed to him burned through him like
white fire. He looked down at the mud-streaked blade; at the
carving beneath his fingers—the hand that held aloft a burning
torch. He stared at it in recognition and wonder, and his fingers
moved along the emblem as if finding secrets still.

All those months spent searching for the Sword of Shannara.
he thought, and they had never realized. So much effort ex-
pended to recover it, a struggle marked by desperate battles
and lost lives, and they had never once suspected. Allanon's
charge had swept them on, heedless. It had driven Par, and

The Talismans of Shannara 283

Coil had been swift to follow. Find the Sword of Shannara, the
Druid shade had instructed. Only then can the Four Lands be
made whole. Find the Sword, he had whispered in the whirl-
wind of cries that echoed from the Hadeshom.

And Par Ohmsford had done so—without once suspecting
that it was never to be his to use.

Coil Ohmsford's heart was racing, and he took slow, deep
breaths to steady himself against the pounding of his blood. He
experienced an almost overpowering urge to despair because of
what the deception might have cost them, but he would not let
himself be drawn to that precipice. With both hands wrapped
about the talisman, he moved back from the Rainbow Lake to
where a stand of maple trees spread dappled shadows across a
grassy knoll. Dazed and weakened, he sat where the sun's light
could find him through the branches and tried to sort through
the images he had unlocked from his memory.

Par had tracked him to that plain west of Southwatch and
they had done battle a final time, brother against brother. Par
had come for him because the Mirrorshroud was a Shadowen
magic from which Coil could not free himself. Par had sought
to use the Sword of Shannara to give Coil what he needed to
break his shackles—recognition of who and what he had be-
come, understanding of how he had been subverted. Truth, the
special province of the Sword, would help him to escape. Par
had been certain that it really was the Sword of Shannara he
possessed because the magic had revealed itself when Coil had
come at him above Tyrsis. Triggered in the heat of their strug-
gle, it had spiraled down through them both, letting Par know
that Coil was alive and giving Coil a terrifying glimpse of
what he had become. Let the magic of the Sword come into
his brother. Par had believed, and Coil would be set free.

There were tears in his eyes as he remembered the intensity
in Par's face as they stood locked in battle in the fury of that
storm. Again he saw his brother's lips move, whispering to
him. Coll. Listen to me. Coll. Listen to the truth.

And the truth had come, blazing out of the Sword of
Shannara in a cleansing, white heat, winding down into Coil
and shattering the Shadowen magic so that he could tear off
the Mirrorshroud and cast it away forever. The truth had come,
and Coil had indeed been set free.

284                         The Talismans of Shannara

But the truth had never been Par's truth—and never Par's to
give. It had been Coil's—and his alone to take.

East, the sun was breaking through the diminishing storm
clouds, the grayness of dawn giving way to golden daylight.
Coil stared at it and felt as if all the sadness he had ever
known had been compressed into this single moment in time.

Par hadn't summoned the magic of the Sword of Shannara.
Coil had. Not once, but both times, and each time without re-
alizing what he was doing or that it was his to command. Coil,
not Par, was the Ohmsford for whom the Sword was meant
But the truth here, as in so many things, was as elusive as
smoke and took time to understand. Allanon had given Coil no
charge when they had gathered at the Hadeshom—yet the
power to summon the Sword of Shannara's magic was his. Is
was reasonable that it should be, when you thought about it.
He was Par's brother, and like Par an heir to the Elven magic.
They shared the same Elven blood and birthright. But it was to
Par that the charge had been given, and it was on Par that ev-
erything had subsequently focused. Par had been sent to re-
cover the Sword, armored in his own magic and in his
unyielding resolve, certain of his purpose even when the others
in the little company had doubted. Par had been sent, and
Allanon must have known he would not fail. But why had they
not been told that the Sword was meant for Coil? Why had
nothing been asked of him?

His hands clasped and knotted before him. He remembered
how it had felt when he had brought the Sword's magic to life,
an inexplicably cool white fire. Even trapped as he was in the
thrall of the Mirrorshroud he had felt it come, a flood washing
through him, sweeping everything before it. Truths broke down
the barriers of the Shadowen magic, small ones first, remem-
brances of childhood and youth, then larger ones, harsher and
more insistent, blows that stiffened his resolve, that toughened
him little by little against what was to follow. The truths were
painful, but they were healing as well, and when the last of
them was brought before him—the truth of who and what he
had become—he was able to accept it and to put an end to the
charade being played on him.

He had told the story of the Sword of Shannara a thousand
times—how the talisman had come to life in the hands of Shea

The Talismans of Shannara                          285

Ohmsford five hundred years earlier, how it had revealed the
Valeman to himself and then unmasked the Warlock Lord. He
had told the story so often that he could recite it in his sleep.

But even that had not prepared him for what he felt now in
the aftermath of the magic's use. Exposure to the truth had
drained him of illusions and conceits that had sheltered him for
his entire life. He had been stripped of the protective barriers
he had erected for himself against the harshest of his mistakes
and failings. He had been left naked and exposed. He had been
left feeling foolish and ashamed.

And terrified for Par.

For the Sword of Shannara in freeing him had revealed
truths about Par as well. One of them was that Par could not
use the Sword. Another was that he did not realize this. A third
was that the wishsong was the cause of his brother's problems.

Secrets revealed—he had seen them all. But Par had not.
For reasons still unknown, the wishsong would not let Par
summon the Sword's magic, would not let him bring the magic
into himself, and would not let him see any truths about him-
self. The wishsong was a wall that kept the Sword's magic out,
hiding what it would reveal, keeping his brother a prisoner.
Coil didn't know why that was—only that it was so. The
wishsong was doing something to Par, and Coil was not cer-
tain what it was. He had felt its resistance to the power of the
Sword when he had struggled with his brother for possession
of the blade. He had felt it force the magic away, keeping it in-
side Coil, making certain that the truths revealed were his and
not his brother's.

Why? he wondered. Why would that be? Why hadn't
Allanon told them anything about this, or about who could use
the Sword, or about what the Sword was needed to do? What
was the Sword's purpose? They had been sent to retrieve it and
had done so. Now what were they supposed to do with it?

What was he supposed to do with it?

Sunlight brushed his face, and he closed his eyes and leaned
into it. The warmth was soothing, and he let it envelop him
like a blanket. He was tired and confused, but he was safe as
well and that was more than could be said for Par.

He backed out of the light and opened his eyes anew. The
King of the Silver River had tried to take them both, but the

286 The Talismans of Shannar'

effort had failed. Par had panicked and used the wishsong, ana
his magic had counteracted that of their rescuer. Coil had beep
carried up into the light and safely away, but Par had fallen
back into the darkness and the waiting hands of the Shadowen.

Rimmer Dall had him now.

Coil's mouth tightened. He had screamed after Par as he had
watched him fall, then felt himself wrapped about and soothed
by the light that bore him away. The King of the Silver River
had spoken to him, words of reassurance and comfort, words
of promise. The old man's voice had been soft in his ear. He
would be safe, it whispered. He would sleep and momentarily
forget, but when he woke he would remember again. He would
keep as his own the Sword of Shannara, for it was his to
wield. He would carry it in search of his brother, and he would
use it to save him.

Coil nodded at the memory. Use it to save him. Do for Par
what Par had done for him. Seek Par out and by invoking the
magic of the Sword of Shannara force him to confront the
truths that the wishsong was hiding and set him free.

But free from what?

A dark uneasiness stirred inside him as he remembered Par's
fears about the way the wishsong's magic was evolving. Rim-
mer Dall had warned both Ohmsfords that Par was a
Shadowen, that the wishsong made him so, and that he was in
danger of being consumed by the magic because he did not un-
derstand how to control it. He had warned that only he could
keep the Valeman from being destroyed. There was no reason
to believe anything the First Seeker said, of course. But what
if he was even a little bit right? That would surely be reason
enough for the wishsong to block the Sword's truth from Par.
Because if Par really was a Shadowen ...

Coil exhaled sharply, furiously. He would not let himself
finish the thought, could not accept its possibility. How could
Par be a Shadowen? How could he be one of those monsters?
There was some other reason for what was happening. There
had to be.

Stop debating the matter! You know what you have to do!
You have to find Par!

He rose to his feet and stood staring out at the misted lake,
battered and worn from his struggle to stay alive and from the

The Talismans of Shannara                          287

revelations of the Sword. He thought of the years he had spent
looking after his brother while they were growing up—Par so
volatile and contentious, fighting to understand and control the
magic that lived within him, and Coil the peacemaker, using
his size and calming disposition to keep things from getting
out of hand. How many times had he stood up for Par,
shielded him from punishments and retributions, and kept him
safe from harm? How often had he compromised his own mis-
givings so that he could stand with his brother and protect
him? He couldn't begin to count them. He didn't want to. It
was simply something he'd had to do. It was something he
would do again now. Par and he were brothers, and brothers
stood up for one another when it was needed. The choice had
been made a long time ago.

Find Par and set him free.

Before it is too late.

He looked down at the Sword of Shannara and fingered its
pommel experimentally, remembering the feel of the magic
coursing through him. His magic. The magic he had thought
he would never have. It was an odd sensation, knowing that its
power was his. He remembered how much he had wanted it
once, wanted it not so much for what it could do but because
he had believed it would bring him closer to Par. He remem-
bered how alone he had felt after the meeting with Allanon—
the only member of the Ohmsford family to whom no charge
had been given. He remembered thinking that he might just as
well not have been there. The memory burned even now.

So what would he make of the chance that had been given
him?

He looked at himself, ragged and battered, without food or
water, without weapons (save for the Sword), without coins or
possessions to trade. He looked back across the lake again, at
the mist beginning to bum off as the sunlight strengthened.

Find Par.

His brother would be at Southwatch. But would he be his
brother still? Coil believed he could reach Par, that he could
find a way to overcome any obstacles set against him, but what
would have happened to his brother in the meantime? Would
the Sword of Shannara help against what the Shadowen might

288                          The Talismans of Shannara

have done to Par? Would the magic be of any use if Par had
become one of them?

The questions were troubling. If he considered them further,
he might change his mind about going.

But was it any different when Par came in search of me?

Did he ask if I was still his brother?

He brushed the questions aside, took a firm grip on the
Sword of Shannara, and started walking.

He traveled east, following the shoreline toward the mouth
of the Silver River. Going west was out of the question, be-
cause it meant navigating the Mist Marsh and he knew better
than to try that. The clouds disappeared, the sun came out, and
the land turned molten. Steamy dampness rose in waves from
the sodden earth, and the puddles and streams created by the
storm dried back into the dust. Herons and cranes flew over
the lake in long swooping glides, and the waters turned silver-
tipped in the wake of their passing.

A stranger still to his new life, he thought long and hard
about everything that had happened, trying to piece together
the parts of the puzzle that still didn't fit. Chief among those
was Rimmer Dall's obsession with Par. That the First Seeker
had such an obsession was now beyond dispute. Too much
time and effort had been expended to think otherwise. First
there had been his elaborate hoax to make Par think Coil was
dead. Then Coil had been allowed to come back to life, sub-
verted by the Mirrorshroud, and sent to find Par. And there
was the whole business of giving the Sword of Shannara to Par
when Par couldn't use it. What was it all about? Why was his
brother so important to Rimmer Dall? If he had been an obsta-
cle in the First Seeker's path, he would have been killed long
ago. Instead Dall seemed content with elaborate gamesplay-
ing—with the search for the Sword of Shannara, with orches-
trating Coil's death and subversion, and with suggesting
repeatedly the possibility that Par was the very thing he sought
to destroy. What was Rimmer Dall trying to do?

Somehow, Coil knew, it was tied to the charge that Allanon
had given his brother to bring back the Sword of Shannara.
Perhaps the Sword was meant to reveal the truth behind all the
deceptions. Perhaps it was meant for something else. Whatever

The Talismans of Shannara                         289

the case, there were schemes and maneuverings at work here
that neither he nor Par yet understood, and somehow they must

unravel them.

He rested at midday, drinking water from a stream and wish-
ing he had something to eat. He was nearing the Silver River
and would soon turn north toward the Rabb. He had grown
strong at Southwatch training with Ulfkingroh, but his subver-
sion by the Mirrorshroud had weakened him considerably. His
hunger worked through him, and he finally gave in to it. Using
the Sword, he fashioned a spear from a willow stick and went
fishing. Walking through the shallows of the lake to a quiet
cove, he stood knee-deep in the clear waters until a fish passed
and stabbed at it. It took him a dozen tries, but finally he had
his catch. He carried it ashore, then remembered he had no
way to cook it. He could not eat it raw—not after his days in
the thrall of the Mirrorshroud. He searched his clothing for
fire-making materials, but found only the strange disk he had
stolen from Par stuffed down into one pocket. Angry and frus-
trated, he threw the fish back into the lake and began walking
once more.

The afternoon dragged by. Coil rested more frequently now,
light-headed in the swelter, his concentration wavering. Sleep
would help, but he had determined to go on until nightfall. He
saw Par appear now and again in the shimmer of heat that rose
off the saw grass, heard him speaking and saw him move.
Memories came and went, mixing with the images and evapo-
rating when he tried to venture too close. He needed a better
plan, he told himself. It was not enough simply to return to
Southwatch. He would never be able to rescue Par on his own.
He needed help. What, he wondered, had happened to Morgan
Leah and the others? What had become of Walker Boh and
Wren? Where was Damson? Was she searching for Par, too?
Padishar Creel would help if Coil could find him. But Padishar
could be anywhere.

He walked into the early twilight and saw the Silver River
appear ahead, a bright thread weaving inland. He skirted a
mire formed by the poisoning of a shallow inlet, tepid waters
green and murky, vegetation gray with sickness, the stench of
its dying heavy on the air. Breathing through his mouth, he
forced his way past, anxious to get on.

290                         The Talismans of Shannara

As he came out from a stand of pine he saw a wagon and
stopped.

Five men seated about a cooking fire looked up. Hard-faced
and rough, they stared at him without moving. There was meat
cooking on a spit and broth in a pot. The smells reached out
to Coil enticingly. A team of mules unhitched from the wagon
grazed on a tether. Bedrolls lay scattered on the ground in
preparation for sleep. The men were in the process of passing
an aleskin back and forth.

One of them motioned for Coil to join them. Coil hesitated.
The others waved him over, telling him to come on in, to have
something to eat and drink, and what in the name of every-
thing sane had happened to him?

Coil went, aware of how strange he must look, but desperate
for food. He was seated among them, given a plate and bowl
and a cup of the ale. He had barely taken his first bite when
the first blow struck him behind the ear and they were all over
him. He fought to rise, to free himself and flee, but there were
too many hands holding him back. He was pummeled and
kicked nearly unconscious. The Sword of Shannara was
stripped from him. Chains were locked about his wrists and
ankles, and he was thrown into the back of the wagon. He
pleaded with them not to do this. He begged them to set him
free, telling them that he was searching for his brother, that he
had to find him, that they had to let him go. They laughed at
him, scorned him, and told him to keep quiet or he would be
gagged. He was propped upright and given a cup of broth and
a blanket.

His weapon, he was told, would fetch a good price. But he
would fetch an even better one when they sold him to the Fed-
eration to work in the slave mines at Dechtera.

XXV

Par Ohmsford dreamed.

He ran through a forest black with shadows and
empty of life. It was night, the sky through the leafy
canopy of boughs a deep blue bereft of stars and moon. Par
could see clearly as he ran, but he could not determine the
source of his vision's light. The trunks of the trees shifted be-
fore him, waving like stalks of grass in a wind, forcing him to
dodge and weave to avoid them. Branches reached down and
brushed against his face and arms, trying to hold him back.
Voices whispered, calling out to him over and over again.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

He was terrified.

The clothes he wore were damp with his sweat, and he
could feel the chafing of his boots against his ankles. Now and
again there would be streams and ponds, and he was forced to
leap them or turn aside because he knew instinctively that they
were quagmires that if stepped in would pull him down. He
listened as he ran for the sounds of other living things. He kept
thinking that he could not be this alone, that a forest must have
other creatures living within it. He kept thinking, too, that the
forest must eventually end, that it could not go on indefinitely.
But the farther he ran, the deeper grew the silence and the
darker the trees. No sound broke the stillness. No light pene-
trated the woods.

After a time he became aware of something following him,
a nameless black thing that ran as swiftly as he, following as
surely as his shadow. He sought to outdistance it by running
faster and could not. He sought to lose it by turning aside, first

291

292                          The Talismans of Shannara

this way and then that, and the thing turned with him. He
sought to flatten himself against a monstrous old trunk of in-
distinguishable origin, and the thing stopped with him and
waited.

It was the thing that whispered to him.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

He ran on, not knowing what to do, panic rushing through
him, despair washing away hope. He was trapped by the trees
and the darkness and could not escape, and he knew that
sooner or later the thing would have him. He could feel the
blood pounding in his ears and hear the ragged tremor of his
breathing. His chest heaved and his legs ached, and he did not
think he could go on but knew he could not stop. He reached
down for his weapons and found he carried none. He tried to
bring someone to help him by sheer force of will, but the
names and faces of those he would call upon would not come.

Then he was at the bank of a river, black and swift in the
night, racing with the force of floodwaters down a broad,
straight channel. He knew it was not really a river, that it was
something else, but he did not know what. He saw a bridge
spanning it and raced to cross. Behind, he could hear the thing
following. He leaped onto the bridge, a wide arching span built
of timbers and iron nails. His boots made no sound as he ran.
His footfalls were silent. The bridge had seemed an avenue of
escape when he had started across it, but now he found he
could not see the far shore. He looked back, and the forest had
disappeared as well. The sky had lowered and the water had
risen, and suddenly he was in a box that was closing tightly
about.

The thing that followed him hissed. It was gaining quickly,
and it was growing as the box shrank.

Par turned then, knowing he would not escape, that he had
been led into a trap, that whatever he had hoped to gain by
running had been lost. He turned, and as he did so he remem-
bered that he was not defenseless after all, that he possessed
the power of the wishsong, and that the Elven magic could
protect him against anything. A surge of hope flooded through
him, and he summoned the magic to his defense. It exploded
through him in a wild, euphoric rush, a white light that turned
his blood to fire and his body to ice. He felt it fill him, felt it

The Talismans of Shannara                            293
sheathe him in the armor of its power and turn him indestruc-
tible.
He waited for the thing that followed with anticipation.

It crept out of the night like a cat, a creature without form
or substance. He could feel it long before he saw it. He could
sense it watching, then breathing, then drawing itself up. It was
first to one side and then to the other and finally all about. But
he knew somehow that he was not in danger until he could see
its face. It twisted and swirled about him, staying carefully out
of reach, and he waited for it to tire.

Then it began to materialize, and it was not strange or mis-
shapen or even so large. Its body was the size and shape of his
own, and it stood just before him, fully revealed save for its
face. He brought the wishsong's magic to his fingertips and
held it there like an arrow drawn back in a bowstring, taut,
straining for release, razor-sharp. The thing before him
watched. Its head was turned toward him now, but its face was
clouded and dim. Its voice whispered again.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

Then its face came together and Par was looking at himself.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

Par shuddered and sent the magic of the wishsong flying
into the thing. The thing caught it, and it was gone. Par sent
the magic a second time, a hammer-blow of power that would
smash the creature back into smoke. The thing swallowed it as
if it were air. His face smiled back at him, hollow-looking and
ragged about the edges, a mirage threatening to disappear back
into the heat.

Don't you know?

Don't you see?

The voice whispered, sly, condescending, and hateful, and
he attacked again, over and over, the magic flying out of him.
But something strange was happening. The more he called
upon the magic, the more pleased the thing seemed. He could
feel its satisfaction as if it were palpable. He could sense its
pleasure. The thing was changing, growing more substantial
rather than less, feeding on the magic, drawing it in.

Don't you understand?

Par gasped and stepped back, aware now that he was chang-
ing as well, losing shape and definition, disintegrating like

294                        The Talismans of Shannam

burned wood turned to ash. He groped at himself in despai.
and saw his hands pass through his body. The thing came
closer, reaching out. He saw himself reflected in its eyes.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

He saw himself, and he realized that there was no longer
any difference between them. He had become the thing.

He screamed as it took him in its arms and slowly drew him
in.

The dream ended, and Par awoke with a lurch. He was
dizzy, and his breathing was ragged and harsh in the silence
Just a dream, he thought. He put his face in his hands and
waited for the spinning to stop. A nightmare, but so very real'
He swallowed against his lingering fear.

He opened his eyes again and looked about. He was in a
room that was as black as the forest through which he had
fled. The room smelled of must and disuse. Windows on a far
wall opened onto night skies that were clouded and moonless
The air felt hot and sticky, and there was no wind. He was sit-
ting on a bed that was little more than a wooden frame and
pallet, and his clothes were damp and stiff with dried mud.

He remembered then.

The plains, the storm, the battle with Coil, the triggering of
the magic of the Sword of Shannara, the coming of the
Shadowen, the appearance of the King of the Silver River, the
light and then the dark—the images sped past him in an in-
stant's time.

Where was he?

A light flared suddenly from across the room, a brilliant
firefly that rested at the fingertips of an arm gloved to the el-
bow. The light settled on a lamp, and the lamp brightened,
casting its glow across the shadows.

"Now that you're awake, perhaps we can talk."

A black-cloaked form stepped into the light, tall and rangy
and hooded. It moved in silence, with grace and ease. On its
breast gleamed the white insignia of a wolf's head.

Rimmer Dall.

Par felt himself go cold from head to foot, and it was all he
could do to keep from bolting. He looked about quickly at the
stone walls, at the bars on the windows, at the iron-bound

The Talismans of Shannara                          295

wooden door that stood closed at Rimmer Dall's back. He was
at Southwatch. He looked for the Sword of Shannara. It was
gone. And Coil was missing as well.

"You don't seem to have slept well."

Rimmer Dall's whispery voice floated through the silence.
He pulled back the hood and his rawboned, bearded face was
caught in the light, all angles and planes, a mask devoid of ex-
pression. If he was aware of Par's distress, he did not show it.
He moved to a chair and seated himself. "Do you want some-
thing to eat? "

Par shook his head, not yet trusting himself to speak. His
throat felt dry and tight, and his muscles were in knots. Don't
panic, he told himself. Stay calm. He forced himself to breathe,
slow and deep and regular. He brought his legs around on the
bed and put his feet on the floor, but did not try to rise. Rim-
mer Dall watched him out of depthless eyes, his mouth a nar-
row, tight line, his body motionless. Like a cat waiting. Par
thought.

"Where is Coil? " he asked, and his voice was steady.

"The King of the Silver River took him." The whispery
voice was smooth and oddly comforting. "He took the Sword
of Shannara as well."

"But you managed to keep him from taking me."

The First Seeker laughed softly. "You did that yourself. I
didn't have anything to do with it. You used the wishsong, and
the magic worked against you. It forced the King of the Silver
River away from you." He paused. "The magic grows more
unpredictable, doesn't it? Remember how I warned you? "

Par nodded. "I do. I remember everything. But what I re-
member doesn't matter, because I wouldn't believe you if you
told me the sun came up in the east. You've lied to me from
the beginning. I don't know why, but you have. And I'm
through listening, so you might as well do whatever you have
in mind and be done with it."

Rimmer Dall studied him silently. Then he said, 'Tell me
what I've lied to you about."

Par was furious. He started to speak, but then stopped, sud-
denly aware that he couldn't remember any specific lies the
big man had told. The lies were there, as clear as the wolf's

296                          The Talismans of Shannara

head that glimmered on the black robes, but he couldn't seem
to focus on them.

"I told you when we met that I was a Shadowen. I gave you
the Sword of Shannara and let you test it against me to find
out if I was lying. I warned you that your magic was a danger
to you, that it was changing you, and that you might not be
able to control it without help. Where was the lie in any of
this?"

"You took my brother prisoner after making me think I had
killed him!" Par howled, on his feet now in spite of his re-
solve, threatening. "You let me think he was dead! Then you
let him escape with the Mirrorshroud so that he would become
a Shadowen and I might kill him again! You set us against
each other!"

"Did I? " Rimmer Dall shook his head. "Why would I do
that? What would doing that gain me? Tell me what purpose
any of that would serve." He stayed seated and calm in the
face of Par's wrath, waiting. Par stood there glaring, but did
not answer. "No? Then listen to me. I didn't make you think
you killed Coil—you did that on your own. Your magic did
that, twisting you about, changing what you saw. Remember,
Par? Remember the way you thought you had lost control? "

Par caught his breath. Yes, it had been exactly like that, a
sense of flying out of himself, of being shifted away.

The big man nodded. "My Seekers found your brother after
you had fled and brought him to me. Yes, they were rough
with him, but they did not know who he was, only that he was
where he shouldn't be. I held him at Southwatch, yes—trying
to persuade him to help me find you. I believed him my last
chance. When he escaped, he took the Mirrorshroud with
him—but I didn't help him steal it. He took it on his own. Yes,
it subverted him; the magic is too strong for a normal man
You, Par, could have worn it without being affected. And I
didn't set you against each other—you did that yourselves.
Each time I came to you I tried to help, and each time you ran
from me. It is time the running stopped."

"I'm sure you would like that!" Par snapped furiously. "It
would make things so much easier!"

"Think what you are saying. Par. It lacks reason."

Par clenched his teeth. "Lacks reason? Everywhere I go

The Talismans of Shannara                         297

there are Shadowen waiting, trying to kill me and my friends.
What of Damson Rhee and Padishar Creel at Tyrsis? I suppose
that was all a mistake? "

"A mistake, but not mine," Rimmer Dall answered calmly.
"The Federation pursued you there, took the girl and then sub-
sequently the free-born leader. The Seekers you destroyed in
the watchtower when you freed the girl were there on Federa-
tion orders. They did not know who you were, only that you
were an intruder. They paid for it with their lives. You must
answer for the fairness of that."

Par shook his head. "I don't believe you. I don't believe
anything you say."

Rimmer Dall shifted slightly in the chair, a ripple of black.
"So you have said each time we have talked. But you seem to
lack any concrete reason for your stance. When have I done
anything to threaten you? When have I done anything but be
forthright? I told you the history of the Shadowen. I told you
that the magic is our birthright, a gift that can help, that can
save. I told you that the Federation is the enemy, that it has
hunted us and destroyed us at every turn because it fears and
hates what it cannot or will not understand. Enemies, Par? Not
you and I. We are kindred. We are the same."

Par saw the dream suddenly, and its memory sparked some-
thing dark and inexorable inside. Running from himself, from
the magic, from his birthright, from his destiny—it was possi-
ble, wasn't it?

"If we are kindred, if you are not the enemy, then you will
let me go," he insisted.

"Oh, no, not this time." The big man shook his head and his
smile was a twitch at the comers of his mouth. "I did so be-
fore, and you almost destroyed yourself. I won't be so foolish
again. This time we will try my way. We will talk, visit, ex-
plore, discover, and hopefully leam. After that, you can go."

Par shook his head angrily. "I don't want to talk or visit or
any of the rest. There's nothing to talk about." He glared. "If
you try to hold me, I will use the wishsong."

Rimmer Dall nodded. "Go ahead, use it." He paused. "But
remember what the magic is doing to you."

Changing me. Par thought in recognition of the warning's
import. Each time I use it, it changes me farther. Each time, I

298                         The Talismans of Shannarc.

lose a little more control. I try not to let that happen, but I
can't seem to prevent it. And I don't know what the conse-
quences will be, but they do not feel as if they will be pleasant

"I am not a Shadowen," he said dully.

Rimmer Dall's gaze was flat and steady. "It is only a word.

"I don't care. I am not."

The First Seeker rose and walked over to the window. He
stared out at the night, 'distracted and distant. "I used to be
bothered by who I was and what I was called," he said. "I con-
sidered myself a freak, a dangerous aberration. But I learned
that was wrong. It was not what other people thought of me
that mattered; it was what I thought of myself. If I allowed
myself to be shaped by other people's opinions, I would be-
come what they wished me to become."

He turned back to Par. "The Shadowen are being destroyed
without reason. We are being blamed without cause. We have
magic that can help in many ways, and we are not being al-
lowed to use it. Ask yourself. Par—how is it any different for
you? "

Par was suddenly exhausted, weighed down by the impact
of what had happened to him and his confusion over what it
might mean. Rimmer Dall was calm and smooth and unshak-
able. His arguments were persuasive. Par could not think how
the First Seeker had lied. He could not focus on when he had
tried to cause harm. It had always seemed that he was the
enemy—and Allanon and Cogline had said so—but where was
the proof of it? Where, for that matter, were the Druid and the
old man? Where was anyone who could help him?

His memory of the dream haunted him. How much truth had
the dream told?

He turned back to the bed from which he had risen and sat
down again. It seemed as if nothing had gone right for him
from the moment he had accepted Allanon's charge to recover
the Sword of Shannara. Not even the Sword itself had proved
to be of any use. He was alone and abandoned and helpless.
He did not know what to do.

"Why not sleep a bit more," Rimmer Dall suggested quietly.
He was already moving for the door. "I'll have food and drink
sent up to you in a little while, and we can talk again later."

He was through the door and gone almost before Par

The Talismans of Shannara                          299

thought to look up. The Valeman rose quickly to stop him,
then sat down again. The spinning sensation had returned. His
body felt weak and leaden. Perhaps he should sleep again. Per-
haps he would be able to reason things through better if he did.

Shadowen. Shadowen.

Was it possible that he was?

He curled up on the pallet and drifted away.

He dreamed again, and this second dream was a variation of
the first, dark and terrifying. He woke in a sweat, shaking and
raw-nerved, and saw daylight brightening the skies through his
windows. Pood and drink were brought by a black-robed, si-
lent Shadowen, and he thought for a moment to smash the
creature with his magic and flee. But he hesitated, uncertain of
the wisdom of this course of action, the moment passed, and
the door closed on him once more.

He ate and drank and did not feel better. He sat in the gloom
of his prison and listened to the silence. Now and again he
could hear the cries of herons and cranes from somewhere
without, and there was a low whistling of wind against the cas-
tle stone. He walked to the windows and peered out. He was
facing east into the sun. Below, the Mermidon wound its way
down out of the Runne to the Rainbow Lake, its waters swol-
len from the storm and clogged with debris. The windows
were deep-set and did not allow for more than a glimpse of the
land about, but he could smell the trees and the grasses and he
could hear the river's flow.

He sat on his bed again afterward, trying to think what to
do. As he did so, he became aware of a thrumming sound from
deep within the castle, an odd vibration that ran through the
stone and the iron like thunder in a storm, low and insistent. It
seemed that it ran in a steady, unbroken wave, but once in a
while he thought he could feel it break and hear something dif-
ferent in its whine. He listened to it carefully, feeling its move-
ment in his body, and he wondered what it was.

The day eased toward noon, and Rimmer Dall returned. So
black that he seemed to absorb the light around him, he slipped
through the door like a shadow and materialized in the chair
once more. He asked Par how he was feeling, how he had
slept, whether the food and drink had been sufficient. He was

300 The Talismans of Shannara

pleasant and calm and anxious to converse, yet distant, too, as
if fearing that any attempt to get close would exacerbate
wounds already opened. He talked again of the Shadowen and
the Federation, of the mistake that Par was making in confus-
ing the two, of the danger in believing that both were enemies.
He spoke again of his mistrust of the Druids, of the ways they
manipulated and deceived, of their obsession with power and
its uses. He reminded Par 'of the history of his family—how
the Druids had used the Ohmsfords to achieve ends they tx.
lieved necessary and in the process changed forever the live&
of those so employed.

"You would not be suffering the vicissitudes of the
wishsong's magic if not for what was done to Wil Ohmsforcl
years ago," he declared, his voice, as always, low and compel-
ling. "You can reason it through as well as I, Par. All that you
have endured these past few weeks was brought about by the
Druids and their magic. Where does the blame for that lie? "

He talked then of the sickening of the Four Lands and the
steps that needed to be taken to hasten a recovery. It was not
the Shadowen who caused the sickness. It was the neglect of
the Races, of those who had once been so careful to protect
and preserve. Where were the Elves when they were needed?
Gone, because the Federation had driven them away, fright-
ened of their heritage of magic. Where were the Dwarves, al-
ways the best of tenders? In slavery, subdued by the Federation
so that they could pose no threat to the Southland government.

He spoke for some time, and then suddenly he was gone
again, faded back into the stone and silence of the castle. Par
sat where he had been left and did not move, hearing the First
Seeker's whisper in his mind—the cadence of his voice, the
sound of his words, and the litany of his arguments as they be-
gan and ended and began again. The afternoon passed away,
and the sun faded west. Twilight fell, and dinner arrived. He
accepted what he was offered by the silent bearer and this time
did not think of trying to escape. He ate and drank without
paying attention, staring at the walls of his room, thinking.

Nightfall came, and with it came Rimmer Dall once more.
Par was looking for him this time, expecting him, anticipating
him as he would thunder in a rainstorm. He heard the door
latch give, saw it open, and watched the First Seeker come

The Talismans of Shannara                          301

through. The black-cloaked figure moved to his chair without
speaking and sat. They stared at each other in the silence, mea-
suring.
"What have I not told you that I should? " Rimmer Dall

asked finally, motionless in the growing shadows. "What an-
swers can I give? "

par shook his head. The First Seeker had given him too
many answers and too much to consider, and it tumbled about
in his mind like colored glass in a kaleidoscope. A part of him
continued to resist everything he heard, stubborn and intracta-
ble. It would not let him believe; it would not even let him
consider. He wished that it would. His sleep was filled with
nightmares, and his waking was crowded with a senseless war-
ring of possibilities. He wanted it all f end.

He did not say this to Rimmer Dall. He asked instead about
the sounds from within the castle, the thrumming through the
walls, the pitch and whine, the sense of something stirring. The
First Seeker smiled. The explanation was simple. What Par
was hearing was the Mermidon passing through an under-
ground channel that ran beneath the keep, its waters crashing
against the walls of ancient caves below. At times you could
feel the vibrations for miles about. At times you could feel
them in your bones.

"Does it disturb your sleep? " the big man asked.

Par shook his head. The nightmares disturbed his sleep. "If
I were to decide to believe you," he said, letting the words slip
free before his stubborn side could think better of it, "what
would you do to help me control the magic of the wishsong? "

Rimmer Dall sat perfectly still. "I would teach you to man-
age it. I would teach you to be comfortable with it. You could
learn how to use it safely again."

Par stared straight ahead without seeing. He wanted to be-
lieve. "You think you could do that? "

"I have had years to learn how. I was forced to do so with
my own magic, and the lessons have not been lost on me. The
magic is a powerful weapon. Par, and it can turn against you.
You need discipline and understanding to rule it properly. I can
give you that."

Par's mind felt leaden and his eyes drooped. His weariness

302                         The Talismans of Shannara

was a dark cloud that would not let him think. "We could talk
about it, I guess," he said.

"Talk, yes. But experiment, too." Rimmer Dall was leaning
forward, intense. "Control of the magic comes from practice; it
is an acquired skill. The magic is a birthright, but it needs
training."

"Training? "

"I could show you. I could let you see inside my mind, let
you see how the magic functions within me. I could give you
access to the ways in which I block it and channel it. Then you
could do the same for me."

Par looked up. "How? "

"You could let me see inside your mind. You could let me
explore and help set in place the protections you need. We
could work together."

He went on, explaining carefully, persuasively, but Par had
ceased to hear, locked on something vaguely alarming, some-
thing that lacked an identity, but was there nevertheless. The
stubborn part that refused to believe anything the First Seeker
said had risen up with a gasp and closed down his mind like
a trapdoor. He pretended to listen, heard bits and pieces of
what the other was saying, and gave responses that committed
nothing.

What was it? What was the matter?

After a time, Rimmer Dall left him alone. "Think about
what I have told you," he urged. "Consider what might be
done." The night settled in, and the darkness of Par's chamber
was complete. He lay down to sleep, exhausted without reason,
then fought against the urge to close his eyes because he did
not want the nightmares to come again. He stared at the ceiling
and then out the windows at a sky that was clear and filled
with stars. He thought of his brother and the Sword of
Shannara, and he wondered what the King of the Silver River
had done with them. He thought of Damson and Padishar,
Walker and Wren, and all the others who had been involved in
his struggle. He wondered vaguely what the struggle had been
for.

He slept finally, drifting off before he knew what was hap-
pening, sinking into a soothing blackness. But the nightmare
surfaced instantly, and he experienced for the third time a con-

The Talismans of Shannara                          303

frontadon with himself as a Shadowen wraith. He thrashed and
twisted and fought to come awake, and afterward lay sweating
and gasping in the dark.

He realized then, with chilling certainty, that something was
dreadfully wrong.

Look at what was happening to him. He could not sleep
without dreaming, and the dream was always the same. He ate,
but he lost strength. He spent his time in his room doing noth-
ing, yet he was always tired. He could not think straight. He
could not concentrate. His energy was being sapped away.

This wasn't happening by chance, he admonished himself.
Something was causing it.

He sat upright on the bed, swung his legs to the floor, and
stared into the room's shadows. Think! He fought back against
his exhaustion, against the chains of his lethargy and disorien-
tation. Recognition came, a slow untangling of threads that had
knotted. There were two possibilities. The first was that the
magic of the wishsong was infecting him in some new way,
and he needed to do what Rimmer Dall was urging. The sec-
ond was that the magic infecting him was Shadowen, that
Rimmer Dall was working to break down his defenses, and
that all his talk about helping him was some sort of trick.

But a trick to do what?

Par took a deep, steadying breath. He wanted to crawl back
beneath the covers but would not let himself. He felt an urge
to scream and choked it down. Was Rimmer Dall lying or tell-
ing the truth? What were his real intentions in all this? Par
clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking. He was
falling apart. He could feel himself unraveling, and he did not
know how to stop it. If Rimmer Dall was telling the truth
about the wishsong, then he needed his help. If he was lying,
it was a deception so intricate and so vast that it dwarfed any-
thing the Valeman could imagine, because it had to have been
at work from the moment the First Seeker had come looking
for him weeks ago at the Blue Whisker Ale House.

Shades' I need to know!

Par rose, walked to the windows, and stood looking out at
the night, breathing the cool air. He was paralyzed with inde-
cision. How was he going to learn the truth? Was there some
way to see past his own uncertainty, to recognize if there was

304                         The Talismans of Shannara

a deception being played? The Sword of Shannara had showed
him nothing, he reminded himself. Nothing! What else was
there to try?

He watched shadows thrown by the night clouds shift like
animals through the trees across the river. He would have to
stall, he told himself. He could listen and talk, but he could not
allow anything to happen. He. would have to find a way to dis-
pel his confusion so that he Could recognize what was truth
and what a lie, and at the same time he would have to find a
way to keep himself from disintegrating completely.

He closed his eyes, put his face in his hands, and wondered
how he was going to do that.

XXVI

M^ eat rose off the grasslands east of Drey Wood in swelter-
!• ing waves, the midday sun a fiery ball in the cloudless
JL^sky, the air thick with the smell and taste of sweat
and oust. Wren Elessedil lay flat against the crest of a rise
and watched the Federation army toil its way across the plains
like a slow-moving, many-legged insect.
Mindless and persistent, she thought bleakly.
She did not bother glancing over at the others—Triss, Erring
Rift, and Desidio. She already knew what she would see in
their faces. She already knew what they were thinking.

They had been watching the Federation's progress for more
than an hour—not with any expectation that they would leam
anything, but out of a need to do something besides sit around
and wait for the inevitable. The Elves were in trouble. The
Federation march north to the Rhenn had resumed two days
ago, and time was running out. Barsimmon Oridio had finally
completed the mobilization and provisioning of the main body
of the Elven army and was headed east to the pass, a forced
march that would bring the Elves into the Rhenn at least three
days ahead of the enemy. But the Elves were still outnumbered
ten to one, and any kind of direct engagement would result in
their annihilation. Worse, the Creepers continued their ap-
proach, closer now than before, catching up quickly to the
slower Southlanders. In four, maybe five days, the Creepers
would overtake them and become their vanguard, the advance
for a search-and-destroy action. When that happened, it would
be the end of the Elves.

305

306                         The Talismans of Shannara

Wren felt a vague hopelessness nudging at her, and she an-
grily thrust it away.

What can I do to save my people?

She focused again on the crawling army and tried to think
Another midnight raid was out of the question. The Federation
was alerted to them now and would not be caught napping
twice. Cavalry patrols rode day and night all around the main
body of the army, scouring the countryside for any sign of the
Elves. Once or twice riders more bold than smart had even
ventured into the forests. Wren had let them pass, the Elves
melting back into the trees, invisible in the shadows. She did
not want the Federation to know where they were. She did not
want to give them anything she didn't have to. Not that it mat-
tered. The patrols kept them at bay, and sentry lines were ex-
tended a quarter-mile out from the camp once darkness fell
The Wing Riders could come in from overhead, but she did
not care to risk her most valuable weapon when she coula
bring no strength to bear in its support.

Besides, it made little difference what she did about the Fed-
eration army if she did not fast find a way to stop the Creepers.
Though still distant, the Creepers were the most dangerous and
immediate threat. If they were allowed to reach the Rhenn, or
even the Westland forests immediately south, there would be
nothing to stop them from carving a path straight through to
Arborlon. The Creepers wouldn't worry about finding a road-
way leading in. They wouldn't concern themselves with am-
bushes and traps. They didn't need scouts or patrols to search
out the enemy. The Creepers would find the Elves wherever
they tried to hide and destroy them in the same manner they
had destroyed the Dwarves fifty years earlier. Wren knew the
stories. She knew what kind of enemy they were up against.

The sweat lay against her face like a damp mask. She ex-
haled slowly, beckoned to the others, and began backing off
the rise. When they were safely within the shelter of the trees
once more, they rose and walked to where their horses were
held by the Elven Hunters who had come with them. No one
spoke. No one had anything to say. Wren led the way, trying
to look as if she had something in mind even though she
didn't, worried that she was beginning to lose the confidence
she had won in leading the attack three nights earlier, confi-

The Talismans of Shannara                         307

dence that she needed if she was to control events once
Barsimmon Oridio arrived. She was Queen of the Elves, she
told herself. But even a queen could fail.

They mounted and rode back to the Elven camp. Wren
thought back over all that had happened since the coming of
Coeline, wondering what had become of the old man—what,
for that'matter, had become of the others he had gathered at the
Hadeshom to speak with the shade of Allanon. She experienced
a vague sense of regret that she knew so little of their fates. She
should be searching for them, seeking them out and telling them
the truth about the Shadowen origins. It was important that they
know, she sensed. Something about who and what the
Shadowen were would lead to their destruction. Allanon had
known as much, she believed. But if he had known, why hadn't
he simply told them? She shook her head. It was more complex
than that; it had to be. But wasn't everything in this struggle?

They reached the vanguard camp, settled several miles
north, dismounted, and handed over their horses. Wren strode
away from the others, still without speaking, took food from a
table not because she was hungry but because she knew she
must eat, and sat alone at one end of a bench and stared off
into the trees. The answers were out there somewhere, she told
herself. She kept thinking that they were tied to the past, that
history repeats, that you leam from what has gone before.
Morrowindl's lessons paraded themselves before her eyes in
the form of dead faces and brief images of unending sacrifice.
So much had been given up to get the Elves safely away from
that deathtrap; it could not have been simply for this. It had to
have been for something more than dying here instead of there.

She wished suddenly for Garth. She missed his steadying
presence, the way he could take any problem and make it seem
solvable. No matter how dark things had gotten. Garth had al-
ways gone on, taking her with him when she was little, letting
her lead when she was grown. She missed him so. Tears came
to her eyes, and she brushed them away self-consciously. She
would not cry for him again. She had promised she would not.

She rose and carried her plate back to the table, looking about
for Erring Rift. She would fly south again, she decided, for an-
other look at the Creepers. There had to be a way to stop or at
least slow them. Maybe something would suggest itself. It was

308                         The Talismans of Shannaru

a faint hope, but it was all she had. She wished Tiger Ty was
there; he provided some of the same steadiness that she had got-
ten from Garth. But the gnarled Wing Rider had not returned
from his search for the free-bom, and bringing the free-born 10
the aid of the Elves was more important than providing solace
for her.

She caught sight of Rift and whistled him over.

"We're going up for another look at the Creepers," she an-
nounced, keeping her gaze steady as she faced him. His bearded
face clouded. "I need to do this. Don't argue with me."

Rift shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it," he muttered
"My lady."

She took his arm and walked him through the camp. "We
won't stay out long. Let's just see where they are, all right? "

Obsidian eyes glanced over and away again. "They're too
confounded close, is where they are. We both know that al-
ready." He rubbed at his beard. "There's no mystery to this
We have to stop them. You don't happen to have a plan for
doing that, do you?"

She gave him a faint smile. "You'll be the first to know."

They were moving toward the clearing where the Rocs were
settled when Tib Arne came running up, breathless and
flushed.

"My lady! My lady! Are you flying one of the great birds?
Take me with you this time, please? You said you would, my
lady. The next time you went out, you said you would. Please?
I'm tired of sitting about doing nothing."

She turned to face him. Tib," she began.

"Please? " he begged, coming to a ragged stop in front of
her. He brushed back his shock of blond hair. His blue eyes
sparkled with anticipation. "I won't be any trouble."

She glanced at Rift, who gave her a black look of warning.
But she was feeling at loose ends with herself, strangely dis-
connected from everything, and she needed to regain her per-
spective. Why not? she thought. Perhaps having Tib along
would help. Perhaps it would suggest something.

She nodded. "All right. You can come."

Tib's smile spread from ear to ear. It just about matched Err-
ing Rift's scowl.

* * *

The Talismans of Shannara                          309

They flew south against the backdrop of the mountains, the
Elf Queen, the leader of the Wing Riders, and the boy, staying
low and tight against the land. They passed the laboring Fed-
eration army, strung out across the empty plains in a massive
cloud of dust, and continued on past the bleak expanse of the
Matted Brakes toward the blue ribbon of the Mermidon. The
wind blew at them in soothing, cooling waves, and the land
spread away in a patchwork of earth colors dotted with bright
flashes of sunlight reflecting off ponds and streams. Wren sat
behind Erring Rift, and Tib Ame sat behind her. She could feel
the tension in the boy as he strained to look down past Grayl's
wings, taking in the land below, seeking first to one side and
then to the other, small exclamations of excitement escaping
his Ups. She smiled, and lost herself in memories.

Only once did her thoughts stray back to the present. For the
second time in a row, she had not brought Faun with her on a
flight with Erring Rift. Faun had begged to go, and she had
refused. Maybe she was afraid for the Tree Squeak, frightened
that it would fall from the Roc's back. Maybe it was some-
thing more. She really wasn't sure.

The hours slipped away. They reached the Pykon, picked up
the winding channel of the Mermidon, and sped south. Still no
sign of the Creepers. Wren scanned the countryside, afraid that
the monsters had slipped into the trees where they could no
longer be followed. But seconds later a glint of metal flashed
out of the distance, and Erring Rift swung Grayl into a sweep-
ing loop that carried them away from the Mermidon and closer
to the mountains west. They hugged the rocks as they came up
on the Creepers, who were bunched east of the river, lurching
after the Federation army. Wren watched the insect things
move tirelessly through the heat and dust, monsters that served
inhuman masters and insupportable needs. She thought of the
things she had left behind on Morrowindl and realized that she
had not really left them behind after all. The dark creatures
that the Elven magic had created there had simply been recre-
ated here in another form. History repeating again, she thought.
So what were the lessons she needed to leam?

They flew past twice, and then Wren had Erring Rift land
them on a bluff amid a series of forested foothills backed up
against the Rock Spur. From there they could watch the prog-

310 The Talismans of Shannara

ress of the Creepers as they labored on across the grasslands,
disjointed legs rising and falling in steady cadence.

Wren seated herself without comment. Tib Ame sat next to
her, knees drawn up, arms wrapped about his legs, face intense
as he stared out at the Creepers. Creepers. She mouthed the
word without saying it. How could they be stopped? She dug at
the ground with the heels of her boots, thinking. Behind her,
Erring Rift was checking the harness straps on Grayl. Wind
blew gently through the trees, soothing and cool on her skin.
She thought of the Wisteron, a distant cousin to the Creepers,
sunk finally into the mire close to where it had made its lair.

Rift touched her shoulder, handing down a waterskin. She
took it, drank, and offered it to Tib, who declined. She rose
and walked with Rift to the edge of the rise, staring out again
at the Creepers. What was out there that could hurt these
things? Did they eat and sleep like other creatures? Did they
need water? Did they breathe air?

She brushed at the sweat on her face.

"We should start back," Rift said quietly.

She nodded and didn't move. Below, the Creepers lumbered
on, sunlight glinting off their armor, dust rising from their
heavy tread.

The Wisteron, she was thinking. Sunk into the earth.

She blinked. There was something there for her, she real-
ized. Something useful ...

Then she heard a familiar, low whistle, and started to turn.
Tib Ame appeared next to her, blond-haired and blue-eyed,
smiling and excited. He came up with a laugh and pointed out
toward the plains. "Look."

She stared out into the swelter, seeing nothing.

Beside her. Erring Rift grunted sharply and lurched forward.
Behind, there was a heavy clump, as if a tree had fallen, and
a shriek that froze her blood.

She turned, something slammed against her head, and every-
thing went black.

Far to the east, the Dragon's Teeth had begun already to cast
their shadows with the failing of the late afternoon light. Tiger
Ty rode Spirit on a slow, steady wind that bore them north
across the tallest of the peaks toward the parched and scorch-

The Talismans of Shannara                          311

ing plains. The Wing Rider's day had been fruitless—the same
as every day since he had set out in search of the free-bom.
From dawn to dusk he scoured the land for an indication of the
promised army and found nothing. There were Federation pa-
trols everywhere, some of considerable size, like the one
blocking the pass at the south end of the mountains. He had
left Spirit long enough to visit with people on the road, asking
for news, learning of a prison break in a city called Tyrsis,
where the leader of the free-bom, Padishar Creel, had been
held for execution until his followers managed to free him. It
was quite an accomplishment, and everyone was talking about
it. But no one seemed to know where he was now or where
any of the free-bom were, for that matter.

Or at least they weren't saying.

The fact that Tiger Ty was an Elf and knew almost nothing
of the Four Lands didn't help matters. Constricted by his igno-
rance, he was reduced to searching blindly. He had managed to
discover that the outlaws had probably gone to ground in the
mountains he now sailed across, but the peaks were vast and
filled with places to hide, and he might spend fifty years look-
ing and never find anyone.

In point of fact, he was beginning to think that it was hope-
less. But he had given his promise to Wren that he would find
the free-bom, and he was no less determined than she had been
when she had flown to Morrowindl in search of the Elves.

He stared down at the empty, blasted rock, his leathery face
furrowed and dark. It all looked the same; there was nothing to
see. As the mountains spread farther north, he banked Spirit
left, tracking their line yet again. He had made this same
sweep twice now, taking a slightly different tack each time so
as to cover a fresh stretch of the vast range, knowing even as
he did that there were still hundreds of places he was missing.

His body knotted with frustration and weariness. If there
was a free-bom army out there, why was it so confounded
hard to find?

He thought momentarily of Wren and the Land Elves, and he
wondered if the Federation army had recovered sufficiently to
continue its pursuit. He smiled, remembering the night attack.
The girl was something, all right. She was all grit and hard
edges. Barely grown, and already a leader. The Land Elves, he

The Talismans of Shannara

thought, would go exactly as far as they would allow her to take
them. If they didn't listen to her, they were foolish beyond—

A flash of light from the rocks below disrupted his train of
thought. He stared downward intently. The flash came again,
quick and certain. A signal, sure enough. But from who? Tiger
Ty nudged Spirit, spiraling outward so that he could study bet-
ter what they were flying toward. The flash came a third and
fourth time, and then stopped, as if whoever had given it was
satisfied that it had been seen. The source of the signal was a
bluff high in the north central peaks, and as he approached he
could see a knot of four men standing at the bluff's center,
waiting. They were out in the open and not trying to hide, and
it did not appear that there were any others about or any places
that they might be hiding. A good sign, the Wing Rider
thought. But he would be careful anyway.

He settled Spirit onto the bluff, alert for any deception. The
giant Roc came to rest at the edge, well away from the four.
Tiger Ty sat where he was for a moment, studying the terrain.
The men across from him waited patiently. Tiger Ty satisfied
himself, loosened the retaining straps, and climbed down. He
spoke a word of caution to Spirit, then ambled forward across
a stretch of dried saw grass and broken rock. Two of the four
came to meet him, one tall and lean and chiseled like stone,
the other black-bearded and ferocious. The tall one limped.

When they were less than six paces from each other. Tiger
Ty stopped. The two men did the same.

"That was your signal? " Tiger Ty asked.

The tall one nodded. "You've been flying past for two days
now, searching for something. We decided it was time to find
out what. Legend has it that only Wing Riders fly the giant
Rocs. Is that so? Have you come from the Elves? "

Tiger Ty folded his arms. "Depends on who's asking.
There's a lot of people not to be trusted these days. Are you
one of them? "

The black-bearded man flushed and started forward a step,
but a glance from the other stopped him in his tracks. "No," he
answered, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. "Are you? "

Tiger Ty smiled. "Guess this game could go on awhile,
couldn't it? Are you free-born? "

"Now and forever," said the tall man.

The Talismans of Shannara                          313

"Then you're who I'm looking for. I'm called Tiger Ty. I've
been sent by Wren Elessedil, Queen of the Land Elves."

"Then the Elves are truly back? "

Tiger Ty nodded.

The tall man smiled in satisfaction. "I'm Padishar Creel,
leader of the free-bom. My friend is called Chandos. Welcome
back to the Four Lands, Tiger Ty. We need you."

Tiger Ty grunted. "We need you worse. Where's your

army?"

Padishar Creel looked confused. "My army? "

"The one that's supposed to be marching to our rescue!
We're under attack by a Federation force ten times our size—
cavalry, foot soldiers, archers, siege equipment—well, not so
much of that anymore, but enough armor and weapons to roll
us up like ants under a broom. The boy said you were on your
way to help us with five thousand men. Not enough by half,
but any help would be welcome."

Chandos frowned darkly, rubbing at his beard. "Just a min-
ute. What boy are you talking about? "

Tiger Ty stared. "The one with the war shrike." A sudden
uneasiness gripped the Wing Rider. 'Tib Ame." He looked
from one face to'the other. "Blue eyes, towheaded, kind of
small. You did send him, didn't you? "

The men across from him exchanged a hurried glance. "We
sent a man who was forty if he was a day. His name was
Sennepon Kipp," Chandos said carefully. "I should know. I
made the choice myself."

Tiger Ty went cold all the way through. "But the boy? You
don't know the boy at all? "

Padishar Creel's hard eyes fixed him. "Not before this. Tiger
Ty. But I'd be willing to bet we know him now."

Bright light seared the slits of Wren's eyes as she regained
consciousness, and she turned her head away, blinking. A fist
knotted in her hair and jerked her upright, and the voice that
whispered in her ear was filled with hatred and disdain.

"Awake, awake. Queen of the Elves."

The hand released, letting her slump forward on her knees,
her head aching from the blow that had felled her. A gag filled
her mouth, secured so tightly that she could only breathe

314 The Talismans of Shannara

through her nose. Her hands were tied behind her back, her
wrists lashed with cord that cut the flesh. Dust and the smell
of her own sweat and fear filled her nostrils.

"Ah, lady, my lady, the fairest of the fair, ruler of the West-
land Elves—you are such a fool!" The voice became a hiss.
"Sit up and look at me!"

She was struck a blow to roe side of the head that spilled
her back to the ground, and again the fist closed on her hair
and yanked her upright. "Look at me!"

She lifted her head and stared into Tib Ame's blue eyes.
There was no laughter in them now, nothing of the boy that he
had seemed. They were hard and cold and filled with menace.

"Cat got your tongue? " he sneered, and gave her a mirth-
less smile. There was blood on his hands. "Cat got your
tongue, and I've got the rest. But what to do with you? What
duty shall I render to the Queen of the Elves? "

He wheeled away, laughing softly, shaking his head, hug-
ging himself with glee. Wren looked around in dismal recogni-
tion. Erring Rift lay dead on the ground next to her, the killing
blade still jammed to the hilt in his back. Grayl lay a little fur-
ther off, lifeless as well, most of his head missing. Towering
over him was Gloon, grown somehow as large as the Roc,
feathers bristling from his sinewy body like quills. Talons and
beak already red with blood ripped at the dead Roc, tearing out
new chunks of flesh. In the midst of eating, Gloon paused and
stared directly at her, crested brows furrowing, and what she
saw in the war shrike's eyes was an undisguised hunger.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she could not look
away.

"Larger than you remember him, isn't he? " Tib Ame said,
suddenly very close again, his shadow enveloping her as he
bent down. His boyish voice was all wrong for the hardened
face. "That was your first mistake—thinking that we were
what we seemed. You were very stupid."

He seized her neck and twisted her to face him. "It was
easy, really. I could have come into the camp at any time,
could have told you I was anyone. But I waited, patient and
smart. I saw the free-born messenger, and I intercepted him.
He told me everything before he died. Then I took his

The Talismans of Shannara                          315

place. All I needed to do was to get you alone for a few mo-
ments, you see. That was all."

His eyes danced. Suddenly he began hitting her with his free
hand, holding her upright as he did so that she would not fall.
"But' you wouldn't give me that!" He stopped hitting her, jerk-
ing her bloodied face about so that she could see him again. His
blond hair was awry and his blue eyes sparkled, but the winning
boy could not conceal the monster that seethed just beneath the
surface of the skin, tensed to break forth. "You tried to send me
away, and while I was gone you led that night attack on the
Federation army! Stupid, stupid girl! They're nothing! All you
did was slow things up a bit, force us to bring the Creepers just
that much sooner, require us to work just that much harder!"

He dropped to his knees in front of her, hand still clenched
about her neck in a grip of iron. A single word repeated itself
over and over in her pain-fogged mind. Shadowen.

"But I killed those men—or rather Gloon did for me. Tore
them to shreds, and I listened to them scream and did nothing
to quicken their death. But it was your fault they died, not
mine. I sent Gloon to hide and came back—too late to stop
your foolish night raid, but soon enough to make certain it
would not happen again. And then I waited, knowing a chance
would come to get you alone, knowing it must!"

He gave her his little-boy look of pleading, and his voice
grew mocking. "Oh, Lady, please, please take me with you?
You promised you would? Please? I won't be any trouble? "

She breathed sharply through her nose, fighting to clear the
blood and dust, struggling to stay conscious.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you uncomfortable? " He slapped her
lightly on one cheek and then the other. "There! Is that bet-
ter? " He laughed. "Where was I? Oh, yes—waiting. And to-
day marks the end of that, doesn't it? You turned your back, I
whistled in Gloon to finish the Roc, kept your attention fixed
on the Creepers while I stabbed the Wing Rider, then knocked
you out. So quick, so easy. Over and done with in seconds."

He released her and stood up. Wren slumped but refused to
fall, to give him the satisfaction. Her own rage was building,
fighting through the weariness and pain, giving her strength
enough to focus on the boy.

The Shadowen.

316                         The Talismans of Shannon'

Tib Ame snickered. "No hope for you now, is there, Queen
of the Elves? Not the least. They'll hunt for you, but they
won't find you. Not you, not the Wing Rider, not the Roc. You
will all simply disappear." He smiled. "Want to know where?
Of course you do. Doesn't matter with the other two, but
you ..."

He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, his casual
stance betrayed by the hardness in his eyes and the malice in
his voice. "You will go to Southwatch and Rimmer Dall—with
these!"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch
that held the Elfstones. Her heart lurched. The Elfstones, her
only weapon against the Shadowen.

"We've known about them since you killed our brother at
the Wing Hove. Such power—but it is no longer yours. It be-
longs to the First Seeker now. And so will you, my lady. Until
he's done with you, and then I'll ask that you be given back
to me!"

He shoved the pouch back into his pocket. "You should
have let things be. Elf Queen. It would have been better for
you if you had. You should have remembered that we are all
of a common origin—Elves, come out of the old world where
we were kings You should have asked to be one of us. Your
magic would have let you. Shadowen are what Elves were des-
tined to become. Some of us knew. Some of us listened to the
earth's whisper!"

What is he talking about? she wondered. But her thinking
was muddled and dull.

He turned away, watched Gloon eat for a time, then whistled
the war shrike over. Gloon came reluctantly, pieces of Grayl
still clutched in his hooked beak. Tib Ame patted and soothed
the giant bird, talking quietly with it, laughing and joking.
Gloon listened intently, eyes fixed on the boy, head dipped
obediently. Wren stayed where she was, trying to think what
she might do to help herself.

Then Tib came for her, picked her up easily, slung her over
Gloon's slate-gray back like a sack of grain, and strapped her in
place. The boy went back for Ernng Rift, and threw the Wing
Rider's body from the bluff into the dense thickets below. On
command, Gloon buried his blood-streaked yellow beak in

The Talismans of Shannara                          317

Gravl dragged the unfortunate Roc to the edge, and dropped
him after. Wren closed her eyes against what she was feeling.
Tib Arne was right; she had been stupid beyond reason.
The boy came back to her then and pulled himself aboard

Gloon.

"You see, the magic allows us anything. Elf Queen," he
snapped over his shoulder as he settled himself in place. "Gloon
can make himself large or small as he chooses, cloaked in the
shrike's feathers, come out of the Shadowen form he took when
he embraced the magic. And I can be the son you'll never have.
Have I been a good son, mother? Have I? " He laughed. "You
never suspected, did you? Rimmer Dall said you wouldn't. He
said you'd want to like and trust me, that you needed someone
after losing your big friend on Morrowindl."

Wren felt bitterness rise within to mix with humiliation and
despair. Tib Ame watched her for a moment and laughed.

Then Gloon spread his wings and they were flying east
across the plains, speeding away from the Westland forests, the
Creepers, the Federation army, and the Elves. She watched ev-
erything disappear gradually into the sunset and then into shad-
ows, mght descending in a hazy, gray light. They flew into
darkness, following the line of the Mermidon into Callahom,
past Kern and Tyrsis, down through the grasslands south.

Midnight came, and they descended to a darkened flat on
which a wagon and horsemen waited. How they had come to be
there. Wren didn't know. The men were black-cloaked and bore
the wolf's-head insignia of Seekers. There were eight, all dark
and voiceless within their garb, wraiths in the silence of the
night. They looked as if they had been expecting Tib Ame and
Gloon. Tib gave the pouch with the Elfstones to one, and two
others lifted her from Gloon and placed her inside the wagon.
No words were spoken. Wren twisted about in an effort to see,
but the canvas flaps had already been drawn and secured.

Lying in blackness and silence, she heard the sound of
Gloon's wings as he rose back into the air. Then the wagon gave
a lurch and started forward. Wheels creaked, traces jangled, and
horses' hooves clumped in steady rhythm through the night.

She was on her way to Southwatch and Rimmer Dall, she
knew, and felt as if a great hole had opened in the earth to
swallow her.

XXVII

^^•t was nearing dawn when Morgan Lean saw the wagon

I and nders come out of the grasslands west, slowing to
W begin the climb into the hills that led to Southwatch. He
stood on the bluff south, his watch post for three days pas*^
now, staring out across the awakening land. Stars and moon
were fading in a cloudless night sky, but the hills were thick;

with patches of mist that clung to the hollows and draws. The
earth was a repository for predawn shadows melting into the
gray of the disappearing night, still and lifeless husks that
would be swallowed whole when morning arrived.

Except, of course, for the wagon and the horsemen, shadows
of substance whose movements stood out against the froze"
dark. Morgan watched them silently, motionlessly, as if any
sound or movement on his part might cause them to vanish in
the haze. They were still a fair distance away, nearly lost in the
gloom, shimmering like dark ghosts against the night.

They were the first sign of life he had seen since he had be-
gun his vigil. They were, he knew instantly, what he had beer-
waiting for.

Three days gone, and no one had gone into or come out of
Southwatch. No one had even gone near. The land might have
been devoid of life but for a handful of birds that sped in and
out of view with single-minded concentration. There had been
skiffs upon the Mennidon and the Rainbow Lake, but all had
passed south, well clear of the Shadowen citadel, well away
from any contact. Morgan had watched long and carefully for
signs of life within the obelisk, but there had been none. He
had slept in snatches, staying awake a portion of the day and

318

The Talismans of Shannara                          319

nieht both so that he could minimize the chance that some-
thing might get by him. He had watched and waited, and noth-
ing had appeared.

But now there was a wagon and horsemen, and he was
certain already that they were bound for Southwatch.

He studied them further and knew as well that they were
Seekers. He could tell from the black cloaks and hoods, from
the way they held themselves, and from the dark secrecy of
their approach. They came in stealth and under cover of night,
and whatever they were about they did not want it known.
There were six riders, four in front and two behind, and there
were at least two drivers. In the odd hush of night's leaving,
they were a whisper across the empty land, creeping in and out
of the haze and shadows, inching toward the coming light.

He took a deep breath. They were, he repeated, what he had
been waiting for. He did not know why. He did not understand
their purpose or fathom their intent. They might be carrying
Par Ohmsford within the wagon. They might not. It didn't mat-
ter. Something inside him whispered that he must not let them
pass. It spoke in a voice so clear and certain that he could not
ignore it.

This is what you have been waiting for. Do something.

It had been five days since Damson Rhee and Many Roh
had departed in search of Par, following the brightening Skree
in hopes that it would lead them to the Valeman. The storm
had swept away all trace of what had gone before, so the Skree
was all they had to help them track. Morgan had remained at
Southwatch to wait for their return. But they were not yet
back, and there was no indication that they would be coming
anytime soon. It had been left to Morgan to determine if Par
was a prisoner of the Shadowen, a task that seemed virtually
impossible in the absence of an opportunity to enter and have
a look around.

But now ...

He took a deep breath. Now, it might be different.

But he would have to decide quickly what he was going to
do. He would have to act at once.

He was already tracing the wagon's route as it wound ahead
through the misted hills. He could intercept it if he chose. He
could reach it before it arrived at Southwatch, cut across its

320                         The Talismans of Shannara

path while it was still several miles away. With his eyes he fol-
lowed the rutted track it must stay on to reach the citadel, a
path that other wagons had worn before. He was close enough,
he decided. He could stop it.

If he chose.

One man against eight—and those eight Seekers, and prob-
ably Shadowen as well. His jaw tightened, and he smiled sar-
donically. He had better be sure.

East, the first faint tinges of silvery light began to peek out
from behind the forested honzon, sending gleaming spider-
webs across the flat, dark surface of the Rainbow Lake. The si-
lence deepened, a hush of expectation, waiting, waiting.

Standing motionless on the bluff, staring out across the hills
at the wagon and the horsemen, Morgan found himself looking
beyond the here and now into the past, seeing himself again in
Leah, in the Highlands in which his family had lived for cen-
turies, picturing what his life had been like such a short time
ago. He remembered how he had described it to Matty—
standing in place. He had spent his time nipping at the heels
of the Federation officials quartered in what had once been his
family home, content with creating annoying distractions, satis-
fied with causing mischief and discontent. He had come a long
way from that, gone north to the Hadeshom and the shade of
Allanon, gone beyond to Tyrsis and the Pit, to the Dragon's
Teeth and the Jut, to Padishar Creel and the free-bom, gone
farther still to Eldwist and the Stone King, to the Black
Elfstone and the Maw Grint. He had fought the Shadowen and
their minions and survived what no one should have. He had
taken himself out of one life and emerged changed forever in
another. He would never be the same again—but then he
would never want to be. A lifetime had passed since his depar-
ture from the Highlands, and his experiences had strengthened
him in ways that once he could only have imagined.

His vision cleared, the past fading back into memory, the
present a steady and certain conviction of what was needed.
He stared out at the wagon and the horsemen and listened to
the whisper in his mind. He knew what he must do.

He moved quickly then, the decision made. He left every-
thing behind but the Sword of Leah. Stripped of his pack and
great cloak, the Sword strapped securely across his back, he

The Talismans of Shannara                          321

slipped down through the trees on the bluff's north slope,
keeping his goal in sight as he went. He reached the hills be-
low and raced through them, pointing north to the narrows
through which the wagon and horsemen must pass to reach
Southwatch, thinking to himself that he could still change his
mind once he got there if it seemed wrong then, thinking as
well that he needed a plan if he was to have any chance of sur-
viving a fight against so many. The ground was hard and hol-
low feeling beneath his feet, but the grasses were damp with
morning dew and made a wet, slapping sound as he passed
through them. He smelled the earth and the trees in the wind-
less air, their scents thick and pungent. The haze deepened as
he wound ahead, reaching out to enfold him one moment, slip-
ping free again the next. He would have to be quick, he
thought to himself—as swift as thought and as certain as fate.
He would have to kill most of them before they knew he was
there. He would have to be darker than they were. He would
have to be more deadly.

He came out of a hollow into a stand of black walnut shot
through with cherry, bent heavy with dewy leaves, and he
stared out across the hills, listening. He could hear the wagon,
its creak and groan soft in the mist. He was well ahead of it,
close to where he would make his intercept, and the night's
gloom lingered on against the coming dawn. He glanced east
and found the sun still down within the trees, its light no more
than a faint brightening against the sky. Time enough remained
for him to act before the sunrise revealed him. He would have
his chance.

He started out again, keeping to cover where he could, stay-
ing silent in his passage. He had hunted the Highlands for
years before coming north, rising before dawn to set out with
his ash bow, alone in a world in which he was an intruder,
learning to make himself one with the animals he hunted.
Sometimes he shot them for food; more often, he simply
stalked them, not needing to kill them to teach himself their
ways, to discover their secrets. He became good at it; he was
good now. But the Shadowen were hunters, too. They could
sense what was out there better than he. He would have to re-
member that. He would have to be careful.

Because if they found him first ...

322                          The Talismans of Shannar'J

He breathed deeply through his mouth, steadying the pound-
ing of his heart as he moved ahead. What was his plan? What
was it that he intended to do? Stop them, kill them, have a.
look at what was in the wagon? What if nothing was in the
wagon? Did it matter? How much would he give away if this
was all for nothing?

But it wasn't for nothing. He knew it wasn't. The wagon
wasn't empty. There was no reason for Seekers to escort an
empty wagon to Southwatch. The wagon would carry some-
thing. The voice inside, the voice that urged him on, promised
him so.

This is what you have been waiting for.

For an instant it occurred to him that it might be Quicken-
ing's voice he heard, that spoke to him from out of some neth-
erworld or perhaps out of the earth into which she had
returned, guiding him, shepherding him, leading him on to
what she alone could see. But the idea seemed wishful and
somehow dangerous, and he discarded it immediately. The
voice was his own and no one else's, he told himself. The de-
cision and its consequences must be his.

He reached the draw through which the horsemen and their
wagon would pass, the place where he would stop them, and
he drew up sharply in the stillness to listen. Distantly, from
somewhere back in the haze, came the sounds of their ap-
proach. He stood in the center of the draw and tried to judge
the time that remained to him. Then he walked its length, stay-
ing in the shadows to one side so that his damp footprints
would not be visible against the light, breathing the hazy cool-
ness to clear his head. Plans came and went in a flurry, sorted
out and cast aside as quickly as dreams upon waking. None
suited him; none seemed right. He reached the end of the draw
and started back, then stopped.

He stood at the entrance to the narrowest part of the draw.

Here, he told himself. This is where it would begin, after the
wagon was within the draw, after the lead horsemen were
trapped in front and could not get back to help those behind.
That would give him precious moments to dispatch at least
two riders and perhaps those who drove the wagon as well,
reaching whoever or whatever lay within. If he found nothing,
he could be gone again swiftly ...

The Talismans of Shannara                         323

Yet he knew even as he thought it that he could not, for the
others would track him. No, he would have to stand and fight,
whatever he found within the wagon. He would have to kill
them or be killed. There would be no running, no escape.

He felt as if the pounding in his chest would explode his
heart within him, and there was a hollow place in his stomach
that lurched and heaved. He was dizzy with the thought of
what he was planning, terrified and excited both at once, un-
able to contain any of the dozen emotions that ripped through

him.

But still the voice whispered. This is what you have been

waiting/or. This.

The sound of the Shadowen approach grew louder. East, the
light remained faint and distant. Here, the haze hung thick and
unmoving in the draw. He would have cover enough, he de-
cided. He moved back into the trees, unsheathed the Sword of
Leah, and crouched down.

Please, be right. Please, don't be wrong. Let it be Par in
that wagon. Let this be for something good.

The words repeated themselves, a litany in his mind, mixing
with the whisper that held him bound to his course of action,
to the certainty that it was nght. He could not explain the feel-
ing, could not justify it beyond the belief that sometimes you
did not question, you simply accepted. He was torn by the
troth he sensed in it and the possibility of its fraud. Reason ad-
vised caution, but passion insisted on blind commitment. The
feelings warred within him as he waited, pulling and twisting
into knots.

Abruptly he sprang up again and sped back through the trees
and up the hill behind, keeping to the deepest shadows as he
went, breathing through his mouth to take in quick gulps of air.
At the summit he crept to where he could see west, his body
heated and tensed. The riders and their wagon appeared out of
a curtain of white frost, slow and steady in their coming,
strung out along the divide. They showed no hesitation or con-
cern; they did not glance about or ride alert. Too close to home
to worry, Morgan thought. He wished he could tell what was
in the wagon. He peered down at it as if by doing so he might
penetrate the canvas that wrapped its bed, but nothing revealed

324                         The Talismans of Shannon

itself. He felt a fire bum inside, the struggle between doubt and
certainty continuing.

He slid back into the shadows and hunched down there,
sweating. What was he to do? It was his last chance to change
his mind, to reconsider the wisdom of his decision. How true
was the voice that whispered to him? What were the chances
that it deceived?

Then he was up and moving, slipping down again through
the shadows to the narrows, all his thinking behind him, his
course of action fixed. Do something. Do something. The whis-
per became a shout. He embraced it, wrapping it about him
like armor.

He reached his concealment and dropped to his knees. Both
hands gripped the pommel of his Sword, the talisman he had
forsworn so often and must now rely upon once again. Hov>
quickly and easily he had come back to it, he thought in won-
der. Sweat ran down his brow, tickling him, and he wiped it
away. The cool dawn air did not seem to soothe his body's
heat, and he gulped air in deep breaths to slow his heart. He
felt as if he were coming apart at the seams. What would the
sword's magic do—save him or consume him? Which, this
time?

The sound of the wagon's approach was quite clear now,
wheels bumping and thudding over the uneven trail, horses
huffing in the silence. He froze in the shadows of his hiding
place, eyes fixed on the curtain of mist. One hand trailed down
the obsidian surface of the Sword of Leah, and he remembered
how the Sword's magic had come about, how his ancestor
Rone Leah had asked Allanon for magic to protect Brin
Ohmsford, how the Druid had granted his wish by dipping the
Sword's blade in the waters of the Hadeshom. So much had
come to pass in the wake of that single act. So many lives had
been changed.

He brought both hands to the carved handle and tightened
his grip until his knuckles were white.

The mist broke apart before him, and the black-cloaked rid-
ers appeared, hooded and faceless and somehow much larger
than he had expected. The horses' breath clouded the air, and
steam rose off their heated flanks. Down into the draw they
came, four leading, followed by the creaking, swaying wagon

The Talismans of Shannara                          325

and its drivers, and two trailing. Morgan Leah was calm now,
the anticipation behind him, the event at hand. The wraiths
hunched down atop their mounts and atop the wagon seat, si-
lent and motionless, showing nothing of their faces, nothing of
their thoughts. On each breast, the wolf's-head insignia
gleamed like white metal. Morgan counted them again, eight in
all But there might be more inside the canvas tent of the
wagon, the flaps to which remained drawn and tied. The
wagon might be filled with them.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Could he do
this? His jaw tightened. He had fought Federation Seekers and
Shadowen from one end of Callahom to the other and sur-
vived. He was no callow, inexperienced youth. He would do
what he must.

The horsemen passed and the wagon thudded by, entering
the narrows of the draw. Morgan rose, silent and fluid, and
brought up the Sword of Leah. Be swift. Be sure. Don't hesi-
tate.

He left his cover and moved in behind the trailing riders.
The leaders and the wagon had entered the narrows. He caught
the trailing riders at its mouth, brought his blade around in an
arc, the whole of his strength behind it, and cut them apart at
the waist. They toppled from their horses like logs falling,
soundless after a single surprised grunt, dead instantly. Their
blood was greenish and thick on their robes as they tumbled
down, and some of it smeared on Morgan's hands. The horses
shied, pulling to either side as the Highlander surged past,
springing for the wagon. Ahead, the draw was shadowed and
thick with brush and trees, and the procession did not slow.
Morgan reached the wagon, leaped for the canvas flaps, and
pulled himself aboard. He sliced through the ties and jumped
inside. The faint dawn light revealed a single figure lying mo-
tionless in the bed, hands and feet bound. He went past with-
out slowing, seeing the dark figures seated ahead beginning to
turn. His momentum carried him to the wagon front in a rush,
his body twisting as he brought back his Sword. Somebody
spoke, a cry of warning, and then he was ripping through the
canvas with a fury, shredding it as if it weren't there, slashing
the Seekers as they tried to free their weapons. They screamed

326 The Talismans of Shanna-a

and toppled from view, and in Morgan's hands the Sword of
Leah began to glow like fire.

He pushed past the shredded flaps onto the wagon seat
kicking off what remained of one Seeker. He snatched up tli:

reins, howled in fury, and whipped at the team. The horses
screamed and bolted ahead, charging into the lead riders, who
were in the process of turning about to see what was happen
ing. The wagon bore down'on them, still within the narrows
and there was no place for them to go. They tried to turn back
again, tried to spring out of the way, lunged and twisted in the
narrowing gap like contortionists, black robes flying. But the
wagon hammered into them, taking two down instantly, crush-
ing one Seeker beneath the wheels, slamming me other back
into the trees. The wagon lurched and bucked, and the horses
shied at the contact. Morgan rose in the seat as he swept past
the two riders who remained, the Sword of Leah lifting to
block the blows directed at him.

Thundering out of the draw and onto the flats beyond, he
yanked on the reins and brought the team about, nearly over-
turning the wagon in the effort. The wheels skidded on the
damp grass, and Morgan dropped his Sword into the boot to
free both hands to control the team. Behind, the remaining two
riders came at him, dark shapes materializing out of the mist.
One of the two riders who had fallen appeared as well, now
afoot. Morgan whipped the team toward them, building speed
Sweat ran down his face, and his vision blurred. He reached
back into the boot for the Sword of Leah and brought it up, the
magic racing down its length like fire. The mounted Seekers
reached him first, splitting to either side, blades drawn. He
pushed himself as far to the right as he could, concentrating on
the horseman closest, hammering past the other's defenses and
crushing his skull. He felt a red-hot searing in his shoulder as
the other Seeker leaped from his horse onto the wagon seat
and struck him a slashing, off-balance blow. He reeled away,
nearly falling off, kicking out with his boot to knock the other
back. The wagon swung wide and this time did not correct. It
snapped loose from its traces and tongue and went over, throw-
ing the combatants to the earth. Morgan landed hard, a red
mist sweeping across his vision, pain lancing through his body,
but came back to his feet instantly.

The Talismans of Shannara                          327

The Seeker who had wounded him was waiting, and the one
afoot was coming up fast. Both were reverting to Shadowen,
lifting from their black-robed bodies in a mist of darkness,
eyes red and chilling. They had seen the fire race the length of
his sword and knew Morgan possessed the magic. Shedding
their Seeker disguise, they were calling up magic of their own.
Crimson fire launched from their weapons at Morgan, but he
Mocked it, rushing them with single-minded determination, no
longer thinking, acting now out of need. He slammed into the
first and bowled him over. The Sword of Leah swept down,
shattering the other's weapon, and the fire burned from throat
to stomach, through one side and out the other. The Shadowen
screamed, shuddered, and went still.

Morgan went after the other without slowing, consumed by
the magic's elixir, driven by forces he no longer controlled.
The Shadowen hesitated, seeing his face, realizing belatedly
that he was overmatched. He threw up the fire, and it splin-
tered apart on Morgan's blade. Then Morgan was on top of
him, striking once, twice, three times, the magic racing up and
down the talisman, a sudden white heat. The Shadowen
shrieked, tearing to get free, and then the fire exploded through
him in a brilliant flash of light, and he was gone.

Morgan whirled about, searching the gloom—left, right, be-
hind, in front again. The land was still and empty. East, the sun
crested the horizon in a burst of silver gold, light streaming
through the trees to penetrate the shadows and mist. The draw
was a dark tunnel in which nothing moved. The Shadowen lay
lifeless about him. A single horse remained, a dark blur some
fifty feet off, reins trailing as it shook its head and stamped the
earth, uncertain of what to do. Morgan looked at it, steadied
his sweating hands, and slowly straightened. The magic of the
Sword faded, and the blade turned depthless black again.

Close at hand, a thrush called once. Morgan Leah listened
without moving, and his breath whistled harshly in his ears.
The Shadowen at Southwatch will have heard. They will come
for you. Move!

He sheathed the Sword of Leah and hurried over to the col-
lapsed wagon, remembering Par, anxious to discover if the
Valeman was all right. It was Par in there, he insisted to him-
self. It had to be. He was dazed and bleeding, his clothing torn

328                       The Talismans of Shamara

and soiled, his skin coated in dust and sweat. He felt light-
headed and dangerously invincible.

Of course it was Par!

He climbed into the upended wagon and moved to the
bound figure, who was slumped against one splintered side,
looking up at him. Shadows hid the other's face, and he bent
close, blinked, and stared.

It wasn't Par he had rescued.

It was Wren.

XXVIII

Wren was as surprised to see Morgan Leah as he was
to see her. Tall and lean and quick-eyed, he was ex-
actly as she remembered him—and at the same time
he was different. He seemed older somehow, more worn. And
there was something in the look he gave her. She blinked up at
him. What was he doing here? She tried to straighten up, but
her strength failed her and she would have fallen back again if
the Highlander hadn't reached down to catch her. He knelt at
her side, withdrew a hunting knife from his belt, and severed
her bonds and gag.

"Morgan," she breathed, relieved beyond measure, and
reached up to embrace him. "I'm sure glad to see you."

He managed a quick, tight smile, and a bit of the mischie-
vousness returned to his haggard face. "You look a wreck,
Wren. What happened? "

She smiled back wearily, aware of how she must appear, her
face all bruised and swollen. "I made a serious error in judg-
ment, I'm afraid. Don't worry, I'm all right now."

He picked her up anyway and carried her from the ruins of
the wagon into the dawn light, setting her gingerly back on her
feet. She rubbed her wrists and ankles to restore the circula-
tion, then knelt to wet her hands with dew from the still-damp
grasses and dabbed tentatively at her injured face.

She looked up at him. "I thought there was no hope for me
at all. How did you find me? "

He shook his head. "Blind luck. I wasn't even looking for
you. I was looking for Par. I thought the Shadowen were trans-
porting him in the wagon. I had no idea at all it was you."

329

330                         The Talismans of Sham i,

There had been disappointment in his eyes when he had
ognized her. She understood now why. He had been certa  ?
was Par he had rescued.

"I'm sorry I'm not Par," she told him. "But thanks anyway •'

He shrugged, and grimaced with the movement, and she "dvv
the mix of red and green blood on his clothing. "What are you
doing here. Wren? "

She rose to face him. "It's a long story. How much time do
we have? "

He glanced over his shoulder. "Not much. Southwatch is
only a few miles away. The Shadowen will have heard the
fighting. We have to get away as soon as we can."

"Then I'll keep it short." She felt stronger now, flushed with
urgency and renewed determination. She was free again, and
she intended to make the most of it. "The Elves have returned
to the Four Lands, Morgan. I found them on an island in the
Blue Divide where they've been living for almost a hundred
years, and I brought them back. It was Allanon's charge to me,
and I finally accepted it. Their queen, Ellenroh Elessedil was
my grandmother. She died on the way, and now I am queen."
She saw the astonishment in his eyes and gripped his arm to
silence him. "Just listen. The Elves are besieged by a Federa-
tion army ten times their size. They fight a delaying action just
south of the Valley of Rhenn. I have to get back to them at
once. Do you want to come with me? "

The Highlander stared. "Wren Elessedil," he said softly, try-
ing the name out. Then he shook his head, and his voice tight-
ened. "No, I can't. Wren. I have to find Par. He may be a
prisoner of the Shadowen at Southwatch. There are others out
looking for him as well. I promised to wait for them."

His voice had an edge to it that did not allow for argument,
but he added reluctantly, "But if you really need me ..."

She stopped him with a squeeze of her hand. "I can make
it back on my own. But there is something I have to tell you
first, and you have to promise me that you will tell the others
when you see them again." Her grip tightened. "Where are
they, anyway? What's become of them? What's happened with
Allanon's charges? Did the others fulfill mem as well? " She
was speaking too rapidly, and she forced hersetf to slow down,

The Talismans of Shannara                          331

calm, not to look off to the east and the brightening
w ,.ye^ sit down. Let me have a look at your wound."

She took his arm and led him to a moss-covered log where
die seated him, stripped off his shirt, tore it in strips, and
cteaned and bound the sword slash as best she could.

"par and CoU found the Sword of Shannara, but then they
disappeared," he told her as she worked. "It's too long a story
fomow. I've been tracking Par; he may be tracking Coll. I
don't know who has the Sword. As for Walker, I was with him
when he went north to recover a magic that would restore
Paranor and the Druids. He was successful, and we came back
together, but I haven't seen him since." He shook his head.
"Paranor's back. The Sword's found. The charges are all ful-
filled, but I don't know what difference it makes."

She finished tying up his wound and moved back around in
front of him. "Neither do I. But in some way it does. We just
have to find out how." She swallowed against the dryness in
her throat, and her hazel eyes fixed him. "Now, listen. This is
what you are to tell the others." She took a deep breath. "The
Shadowen are Elves. They are Elves who rediscovered the old
magic and thought to use it recklessly. They stayed behind
when the rest of the Elven nation fled the Four Lands and the
Federation. The magic subverted them as it does everything; it
made them into the Shadowen. They are another form of the
Skull Bearers of old, dark wraiths for which the magic is a
craving they cannot resist. I don't know how they can be de-
stroyed, but it must be done. AUanon was right—they are an
evil that threatens us all. The answers we need lie in the pur-
pose of fulfilling the charges that we were given. One of us
will discover the truth. We must. Tell them what I've told to
you, Morgan. Promise me."

Morgan rose. "I'D tell them."

A heron's cry pierced the morning stillness, and Wren jerked
about. "Wait here," she said.

She hobbled over to the fallen Shadowen and began rifling
through their clothing. One of them, she knew, had the
Elfstones, stolen from her by Tib Ame. Her anger at him
burned anew. She searched the closest two and found nothing.
She stirred the ashes of the one Morgan had burned through
and found nothing there either. Then she went back to the

332                         The Talismans of Shannara

driver and his companion, to their severed bodies, and ignoring
what had been done to them, she worked her way carefully
through their robes.

In the cloak pocket of one she found the pouch and the
Stones. Exhaling sharply, she stuffed the pouch into her tunic
and limped back toward Morgan.

Halfway there, she saw the Shadowen horse that hadn't run
grazing at the edge of the trees. She stopped, considered mo-
mentarily, then put her fingers to her mouth and gave a
strange, low-pitched whistle. The horse looked up, ears prick-
ing toward the sound. She whistled again, varying the pitch
slightly. The horse stared at her, then pawed the earth. She
walked over to the animal slowly, talking softly and holding
out her hand. The horse sniffed at her, and she reached out to
stroke his neck and flank. For a few moments they tested each
other, and then suddenly she was on his back, still talking
soothingly, the reins in her hands.

The horse whinnied and pranced at her touch. She guided
him back to where Morgan waited and climbed down.

"I'll need him if I expect to make any time," she said, one
hand still firmly gripping the reins. "What we find belongs to
us, the Rovers used to say. Guess I haven't forgotten every-
thing they taught me." She smiled and reached out to touch his
arm. "I don't know when we'll meet up again, Morgan."

He nodded. "You better get going."

"I owe you, Highlander. I won't forget." She vaulted back
into the saddle. "We've come a long way from the Hadeshom,
haven't we? "

"From the Hadeshorn, from everything. Farther than I
would have dreamed. Watch out for yourself. Wren."

"And you. Good luck to us both."

She met his eyes a moment longer, drawing on the strength
she found there, taking heart in the fact that she was not as
alone as she had believed, that help sometimes came from un-
expected sources.

Then she dug her boots into the horse's flanks and galloped
away.

She rode west after the retreating night until daylight over-
took her, then stopped to rest the horse and let him drink from

The Talismans of Shannara                          333

oool of water. She rubbed at her wrists and ankles some
rnore washing clean the deep cuts and dark bruises, and swore
to herself that when she caught up with Tib Ame she would
make him pay dearly. She had not eaten or drunk in almost
twelve hours, but there was no time to search for food or
drinking water now. Once the Shadowen discovered she had
escaped, they would be after her. They would be after Morgan
Lean as well, she thought, and hoped he knew a good hiding

place.
She remounted and rode on, following the grasslands out of

me hill country to the plains below Tyrsis that led into the
Tirfing. The day was turning hot and humid, the sky a cloud-
less blue and the sun a white-fire furnace. The trees thinned
into scattered groves and then into stands of two and three and
finally disappeared altogether. Midday arrived, and she crossed
the Mermidon at a narrows, the river's waters low and sluggish
here, dwindling away into the flats. Her body and face ached
from the beating and the trussing, but she ignored her discom-
fort, thinking instead of the havoc that her disappearance must
have caused. By now they would be searching for her every-
where. Perhaps they had found Erring Rift and Grayl and
thought her dead as well. Perhaps they had given up on her,
choosing to concentrate on the Federation army and the Creep-
ers. Some would surely recommend that she be forgotten.
Some would find her disappearance a blessing ...

She brushed the prospect aside. She had nothing to prove to
anyone. The fact remained that she needed to get back.
Barsimmon Oridio would be nearing the Rhenn with the main
body of the Elven army. With luck. Tiger Ty would be return-
ing with the Federation, ff she could reach them before any
fighting began ...

She stopped herself.

What?

What would she do?

She blocked the question away. ft didn't matter what she
did. It would be enough that she was there, that the Elves
knew they had their queen back, that the Federation must deal
with her anew.

She turned north to follow the Mermidon and found water
for the horse on the plains, but none for herself. The sun beat

334 The Talismans of Shanna

down overhead, and the air sucked the moisture from her boc
She was tired, and the horse was tiring as well. She could rot
keep on much longer. She would have to stop and wait out t"ie
heat. The thought made her grind her teeth. She didn't have
time for that! She didn't have time for anything but going ors'

She rested finally, knowing she must, finding a grove of c-i-
close to the riverbank where it was cool enough to escape i ,
worst of the heat. She found some berries that were more bit.
than sweet and a gum root that gave her something to chi
on. She stripped the horse of his saddle and tethered him. Re -
ing back within the trees, she watched the river flow past, ? ,1
though she did not mean to do so she fell asleep.

It was late in the afternoon when she woke again, start -;

out of a restless doze by the soft whicker of her horse. £,'. -
came to her feet instantly, seeing its shaggy head point M
south, and she looked off across the plains and river to f.;,1
horsemen coming toward her from several miles off—black
cloaked, hooded horsemen, whose identity was no secret.

She saddled her mount and was off. She rode several miles
along the riverbank at a quick trot, glancing back to see if her
pursuers were following. They were, of course, and she had
the feeling that more might be waiting ahead at Tyrsis. The
light faded west, turning silver, then rose, then gray, and when
the haze of early twilight set in, she turned away from the river
and headed west onto the plains. She would have a better
chance of losing her pursuit there, she reasoned. She was a
Rover, after all. Once it was dark, no one would be able to
track her. All she needed was a little time and luck.

She found neither. Shortly after, her horse began to falter
She urged him on with whispered promises and encouraging
pats about the neck and ears, but he was played out. Behind
her pursuers had fanned out across the horizon, distant still, bu
coming on. The haze was deepening, but the moon and firs
stars were out, and there would be light enough for a hunter t(
see by. She stiffened her resolve and rode on.

When her horse stumbled and went down, she rolled free
rose, went back to him, got him to his feet again, unstrappen
his saddle and bridle, and set him free. She began walking
limping because her injuries were sdll painful and inhibiting
angry and tired and determined not to be taken again. Sh-

The Talismans of Shannara                         -^

walked without looking back for a long time, until the night
had settled in completely, and the whole of the plains were
bathed in white light. The plains were silent and empty, and
she knew her pursuers were not close enough yet to worry
about or she would have heard them, and so she concentrated
on putting one foot in front of the other and simply going on.

When she finally did look back, no one was there.

She stared in disbelief. There wasn't one rider, not a single
horse, no one afoot, nothing. She took a deep breath to calm
herself and looked again—not just east, but all about this time,
thinking in sudden fear that she had been flanked. But there
was no one out there. She was alone.

She smiled in bewilderment.

And then she saw the dark shadow high overhead winging
its way toward her, slow and lazy and as inevitable as winter
cold. Her heart lurched in dismay as she watched it take shape.
Not for a second did she think it was one of the Wing Riders
come in search of her. Not for an instant did she mistake it for
a friend. It was Gloon she was seeing. She knew him instantly.
She recognized the blocky muscled body, the jut of the war
shrike's fierce crested head, the sharp hook of the broad wings.
She swallowed against her fear. No wonder the Seekers had
fallen back. There was no need to hurry with Gloon to hunt
her down.

Tib Ame would be riding him, of course. In her mind she
saw the boy's chameleon face, first friend, then foe; human,
then Shadowen. She could hear his grating laughter, feel the
heat of his breath on her face as he struck her, taste the blood
in her mouth from the blows ...

She looked about for a place to hide and quickly discarded
the idea. She was already seen, and wherever she hid she
would be found. She could either run or fight—and she was
tired of running.

She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones.
She balanced them in her hand, as if the weight of their magic
could be determined and so the outcome of her battle decided
early. She glanced west to the horizon, but there was nothing
to see, the forests still lost below the horizon. No one would
be searching for her anyway—not this far out and not at night.
She gritted her teeth, thinking of Garth again, wondering what

336 The Talismans of Shannara

he would do. She watched Gloon wing his way closer, taking
his time, riding the wind currents smoothly, easily, confident in
his power and skill, in what he could do. The war shrike
would try to take her on his first pass, she thought—quick and
decisive, before she could bring the magic of the Elfstones to
bear. And it would not be easy using the Elfstones against a
moving target.

She edged across the plains to put a small rise at her back.
Better than nothing, she told herself, keeping her eyes on
Gloon. She thought of what the war shrike had done to Grayl.
She felt small and cold and vulnerable, alone in the vastness of
the grasslands, nothing for as far as she could see, no one to
help her. No Morgan Leah this time. No reprieve from an un-
expected source. She would fight on her own, and how well
she fought—and how lucky she was—would determine
whether she lived or died.

Her hand tightened on the Etfstones. Come see me, Gloon.
Come see what I have for you. The war shrike soared and
dipped, sweeping out and back again, rising and falling in
careless disregard, a dark motion against the sky's blue velvet.
Wren waited impatiently. Come on! Come on!

Then abruptly Gloon dropped Hke a stone and was gone.

Wren jerked forward, startled. The night spread away before
her, vast and dark and empty. What had happened? She felt
sweat run down her back. Where had the shrike gone? Not into
the earth, it wouldn't have driven itself into the earth, that
didn't make any sense ...

And then she realized what was happening. Gloon was at-
tacking. He had dropped level with the ground so that his
shadow could no longer be seen, and he was coming at her.
How fast? How soon? She panicked, staggering backward in
fear. She couldn't see him! She tried to pick out the shrike
against the dark horizon, but could see nothing. She tried to
hear him, but there was only silence.

Where is it? Where ... ?

Instinct alone saved her. She threw herself aside on impulse
and felt the massive weight of the shrike rip past her, talons
tearing at the air inches away. She struck and rolled wildly,
tasting dust and blood in her mouth, feeling the pain of her in-
jured body rush through her anew.

The Talismans of Shannara                          337

She came back to her feet instantly, whirled in the direction
she thought the shrike had gone, summoned the magic of the
Elfstones, and sent it careening out into the night in a fan of
blue fire. But the fire blazed into the void and struck nothing.
Wren dropped into a crouch, desperately scanning the moonlit
blackness. It would be coming back—but she couldn't see it!
She had lost it! Below the horizon it was invisible. Despair
raced through her. Which way was it coming? Which way?

She struck out blindly, right and then left, and threw herself
down, rolling, coming up and striking out again. She heard the
magic collide with something. There was a shriek, followed by
Gloon's heavy passage as the shrike winged off to her left,
hissing like steam. She peered after the sound, wiping at the
dust in her eyes. Nothing.

She got up and ran. Forcing down all thoughts of pain, she
sprinted across the empty grasslands to a wash that lay some
hundred feet away. She reached it and dove into it on a dead
run. There was the now-familiar rush of wind and the passing
of something dark overhead. Gloon had just missed her again.
She flattened herself in the wash and peered skyward. The
moon was there, and the stars, and nothing else. Shades! She
came to her knees. The wash offered her some protection, but
not nearly enough. And the night was no friend, for the war
shrike's eyesight was ten times better than her own. It could
see her clearly in the wash, and she could see nothing of it.

She rose and sent the Elven magic stabbing out, hoping to
get lucky. The fire raced away, working across the flats, and
she felt the power rush through her. She howled in exhilara-
tion, unable to help herself, saw the war shrike coming just an
instant before it reached her, swung the magic about
furiously—too late—and threw herself down once more. But
her quickness saved her, the blue fire of the Elfstones forcing
the shrike to change direction at the last minute, causing it to
miss her once again.

She saw Tib Ame this time, just a glimpse as he streaked
past, blond hair flying. She heard his cry of rage and frustra-
tion, and she shrieked out after him, furious, taunting.

The skies went still, the land silent. She huddled in the
wash, shaking and sweating, the Elfstones clenched in her
hand. She was going to lose this fight if she didn't do some-

338 The Talismans of Shannara

thing to change the odds. Sooner or later, Gloon was going to
get through.

Then she heard a new cry, this one far off to the west, a wild
shriek that pierced the suffocating silence. She turned toward
it, recognizing it yet unable to place it. A bird, a Roc. It came
again, quick and challenging.

Spirit! It was Spirit!

She watched his dark shadow race out of the night, coming
down from high up, as swift as thought. Spirit, she thought—
and that meant Tiger Ty! Hope surged through her. She started
to rise, to cry out in response, then flattened herself again
quickly. Gloon was still out there, looking for an opportunity
to finish her off. Her eyes swept the darkness, searching in
vain. Where was the shrike?

Then Gloon rose out of the dark to meet this new chal-
lenger, thick black body gathering speed. Wren scrambled to
her feet, shouting in warning. Spirit came on, then at the last
possible moment veered aside so that the war shrike swept past
harmlessly and wheeled about to give chase. The giant birds
circled each other cautiously, feinting and dodging, working
for an advantage. Wren gritted her teeth, earthbound and help-
less. Gloon was bigger than Spirit and trained to kill. Gloon
was a Shadowen, and had the magic to sustain him. Spirit was
brave and quick, but what chance did he stand?

There was a flurry of movement as the birds came at eacb
other, locked momentarily in a shriek of rage, and then broke
apart again. Once more they began to circle, each trying to get
above the other. Wren came out of the wash and back onto the
flat of the plain. She moved after them as they edged away,
following because she did not want to lose contact, still deter-
mined to help. She could not leave this battle to Tiger Ty and
the Roc. This was not their fight. It was hers.

Again the birds dove at each other and locked, talons and
beaks tearing and ripping. Black shadows against the moonlit
sky, they twisted and turned, their wings flailing madly as they
spiraled down. Wren raced after them, Elfstones in hand. Just
let me get close enough! was all she could think.

At what seemed the last possible second the birds broke
apart, staggering rather than flying away from each other,
feathers and gristle and blood falling away from their tattered

The Talismans of Shannara                          339

bodies. Wren gritted her teeth in rage. Gloon shook himself
and rose, flattening out in a long slow spiral. Spirit arced up-
ward and fell back, wobbly and unsure. He tried to right him-
self shuddered once, dropped earthward, and vanished. Wren
gasped in dismay—then caught her breath in wonder as Spirit
suddenly reappeared, steady once more, miraculously recov-
ered. A feint! Directly under Gloon now, he rose from the
ground like a missile, hurtling through the night to slam into
the war shrike. It sounded like rocks crunching, a sharp grat-
ing. Both birds cried out and then broke apart, talons raking
the air.

Then one of the riders fell, dislodged by the impact. Arms
and legs flailing the air, shrieking in horror, he plummeted
earthward. He fell like a stone, unable to help himself, and
struck with an audible thud. Overhead, the struggle continued,
the Roc and war shrike battling on across the skies as if the
loss of a rider made no difference. Wren could not tell who
had fallen. She ran across the flats, her heart pumping wildly,
her throat closing in fear. She ran for a long time without see-
ing anything. Then all at once there was a crumpled heap in
front of her, a bloodied, ragged form trying to rise off the
ground, somehow still alive.

She slowed her rush, and a shattered, broken visage turned
toward her. She shuddered as the eyes met her own. It was Tib
Ame. He tried to speak, a thick gurgle that would not let the
words form, and she could hear his hatred of her in the sound.
He was a boy still beneath the leaking wounds, but it was the
Shadowen that broke free finally, rising like black smoke to
come at her. She brought up the Elfstones instantly, and the
blue fire tore through the dark thing and consumed it.

When she looked again, Tib Ame's blue eyes were staring
up at her sightlessly.

She heard a shriek from overhead then, either war shrike or
Roc, and looked up just in time to see Gloon descending with
Spirit in pursuit. The shrike had abandoned his sky battle and
was coining for her. She crouched beneath its shadow, no place
to hide now, the wash too far away to reach. She brought up
the Elfstones, but her movements were leaden, and she knew
she didn't have enough time to save herself.

And then Spirit gave a final surge and caught Gloon from

340 The Talismans of Shannai '

behind, hammering into the war shrike, knocking it off balanc--
and away. Gloon whipped about, tearing at the Roc, and in tha*
instant Wren unleashed the magic of the Elfstones a final time
It caught Gloon full on, enfolded the shrike, and began to bum
it apart, eating at it even as it tried to escape. Gloon shrieked
in rage, twisted wildly, and tried to fly. But the Elven rnagu
had set the bird afire, and. the flames were everywhere. Ii
rolled and straightened, wings beating. Wren struck it again,
the blue fire turning white hot. Down went the war shrike,
flames trailing from its body. It struck the earth, shud-
dered, and went still.
In seconds, the fire had turned it to ash.

In the hush that followed. Spirit made a silent descent to the
grasslands. Tiger Ty climbed down and came over to Wren,
walking in that shuffling, bowlegged gait, leathery face
streaked with sweat. She reached out her hands to clasp his.

"Are you all right, girl? " he asked quietly, and she could
see the deep concern in his sharp eyes.

She smiled. "Thanks to you. That's twice in one day I've
been saved by friends I'd thought I'd lost." And she told him
of Morgan Leah and the Shadowen at Southwatch.

"I found the free-bom in the Dragon's Teeth yesterday
morning." The gnarled hands would not release her, holding on
as if afraid she might fade away. "Their leader told me he
didn't send the boy, that he'd sent someone else. I knew what
had happened. I left them to follow when they could and came
back for you. Too late, I thought. You were already missing
We searched for you all day. Found Rift and Grayl, but ther'^
was no sign of you. I knew the boy had taken you. But I knew
as well that if there was a way, you'd escape. I took Spirit out
alone after the others gave it up for the night and kept look-
ing." He gave her a hard look. "Good thing I did."

"Good thing," she agreed.

"Confound it, what did I tell you about going up with any-
body but me? "

She leaned close, and for a moment the emotions were so
strong she couldn't speak. "Don't make me say it," she whis-
pered.

Perhaps he saw the pain in her eyes. Perhaps he heard it in

The Talismans of Shannara                          341

her voice. He held her gaze a moment longer, then released her
hands and stepped back. "Just so you don't ever do it again.
I've got a lot of time and effort invested in you." He cleared
his throat "Let me see to Spirit, make sure there's no real

damage."
He spent a few minutes checking the big Roc, hands moving

carefully over the dark feathered body. Spirit watched him with
a fierce eye. When the Wing Rider spoke to him, the Roc
dipped his beak, spread his great wings, and shook himself.

Satisfied, Tiger Ty beckoned her over. He gave the bird a
proud glare. "He would have won. you know," he said gruffly.

Wren didn't say anything for a moment. Then she smiled. "I

thought he did."

Tiger Ty helped her aboard and strapped her in. He stroked
Spirit appreciatively, nodded to himself, and joined her. Wren
glanced out across the night-frozen landscape, empty and still
save where Gloon's remains smoldered and steamed. She felt
light-headed and worn, but she felt alive, too. The effects of
the Elven magic lingered, racing through her like sparks of
fire.

She had survived again, she thought, and wondered how
long she could keep doing it.

"They're not going to win," she said suddenly. "I won't let
them."

He did not ask her what she meant. He did not speak at all.
He just looked at her and nodded once. Then he whistled Spirit
into the air, and the great bird rose and flew swiftly away into
the dark.

XXIX

<HQE3P organ Leah watched Wren disappear into night's re-
f I I treating darkness, his disappointment at not finding
LJLJI Par tempered by the satisfaction he felt in knowing
that his efforts hadn't been wasted. Imagine—finding Wren, of
all people! It made him think that the world was a smaller
place than it seemed, and that because it was, perhaps the chil
dren of Shannara and their allies had a chance against the
Shadowen after all.

He turned back east then, looking off to the brightening sky-
line, to the silver-gray light spilling down through the treetops
and mountain slopes in slowly widening pools. Daybreak was
upon him. The cover of night that had protected him was al-
ready gone, and he was at risk beyond what he had planned.

He glanced briefly at the shell of the toppled wagon and the
black tangle of the fallen Shadowen and could not help think-
ing, I did it. I stood up against them all.

But where was he to go now? The Shadowen at Southwatch
would be coming. They would have no trouble finding hi'
tracks, and they would hunt him down and repay him for wha'
he had done. He took a deep breath and looked about some
more, as if in looking he might find the escape he needed. He
could not go back to the bluff; that would be the first place
they would look. They would find his trail and retrace hi;-
steps, hoping he was stupid enough to return to wherever he
had been hiding.

He smiled faintly. He wasn't that stupid, of course, but it
wasn't a bad idea to make them think he was.

He recrossed the narrows to where he had first come in and

342

The Talismans of Shannara                          343

retraced his steps back through the trees and hills, not bother-
ing to hide his tracks but messing them up as best he could to
disguise how many of him there were, then turned and came
back again, more cautious now because the Shadowen might
have arrived in his absence. They had not, however; the nar-
rows and the flats beyond remained empty save for the dead.
He moved back up the trail that had brought me wagon in, us-
ing the ruts to hide his bootprints, following the wheel marks
for several miles through the hills before turning abruptly north
into high grass where he edged carefully away into the rocks
of a ridgeline. If he was lucky, they would not find where he
had broken off and would be forced to scour the countryside
blindly. That might give him the extra time he needed to get
to where he had decided to go.

Of course, none of this meant anything if the Shadowen
could track by smell. If they could hunt like animals, then he
was in trouble whatever he did short of rolling in mud and ap-
plying stinkweed, and he was not prepared for that. What
could these quasi-Elves do? He wished he knew more about
them, wished he had taken time to ask Wren, but there was no
help for it now. He would have to take his chances. He
breathed in the morning air and thought how lucky he was to
have the Sword of Leah's magic to protect him, then realized
that he had been given an answer to his question of whether
the power would save or consume him. Of course, it didn't
mean that he was safe with it, that he could relax in its use,
that he could even be assured things would turn out the same
way next time. It only meant he had survived for now, but it
was becoming increasingly clear that survival on any terms
was the most he could hope for—that any of them could hope
for—in their battle against the Shadowen.

One day it will be different, he told himself—but wondered
if it was so.

The country before him tightened into a mass of hills,
ndges, scrub-choked hollows, and dense forests backed up
against the Runne. He was moving over rock, taking his time,
working at stepping lightly where scuffed stones and bent
twigs might give him away. He had reasoned it through like
this. South lay the bluff where he had kept watch, and the
Shadowen, if hunting him, would start there. West was the di-

344 The Talismans of Shannara

rection in which Wren had ridden, and they would surely hunt
him there as well. North lay the cities of Callahom—Tyrsis,
Kem, and Varfleet—and that would be the next logical choice.
The last place they would look was east in the country sur-
rounding Southwatch, their fortress citadel, because it would
not seem likely to them that someone who had just destroyed
one of their patrols to rescup the Queen of the Elves would
head for the very same place the patrol had been going.

Queen of the Elves, he mused, interrupting his thinking,
Wren Elessedil. Little Wren. He shook his head. He had barely
known her when she was growing up with Par and Coil at
Shady Vale. It was hard to believe who she had become.

He grimaced. That was true, of course, he thought ruefully,
of all of them, and he shrugged the matter aside.

The sun was above the horizon now, night's shadows gone
back into hiding, the swelter of summer's heat rising up
through the grasses and trees with a thickening of fetid air and
dry earth. Morgan found a stream running down out of the
rocks, followed it to a rapids where the water was clean, and
drank. He had neither food nor water to sustain him, and he
would have to obtain both if he was to survive for very long.
He thought momentarily of Damson and Many, and he hoped
they did not choose this day to return from their search south
They would expect to find him on that bluff, but would likely
find the Shadowen waiting instead. Not a pleasant thought. He
would have to warn them, of course—but he would have to
stay alive to do so.

He left the stream and worked his way to high ground. From
the shelter of a stand of pine, he looked back across the hills
south, searching for signs of pursuit. He stayed there a long
time, scanning the countryside. Nothing showed itself. Finally
he went on, moving east now toward the mountains and the
river and Southwatch. He was above the citadel, deep enough
within the concealing trees to keep from being seen but close
enough so as not to lose contact. He made steady progress de-
spite his wound, the pain a dull throbbing he had relegated to
the back of his mind, working his way ahead with the practice
and determination of an experienced woodsman, able to sense
what was happening about him, to feel a part of the land. He

The Talismans of Shannara                          345

listened to the sounds of the birds and animals, sensing what
they were about, knowing that nothing was amiss.

The day edged on toward noon, and still there was no sign
of any pursuit. He began to hope that perhaps he had avoided
it completely. He found fruit and wild greens to chew on and
more drinking water, and when he reached the wall of the
Runne, he turned south again. He shifted the Sword of Lean to
take the strain off his wound and thought on its history. So
many years of dormancy, a relic of another time, its magic for-
gotten until his encounter with the Shadowen during the jour-
ney to Culhaven. Happenstance, and nothing more. Strange
how things worked out. He pondered the effect that the Sword
had had upon his life, of the ways it had worked both for and
against him, and of the legacy of hope and despair it had be-
queathed. He thought that it no longer mattered whether he ap-
proved of it or not, whether he believed his link with the magic
was a good or bad thing, because in the final analysis it didn't
matter—the magic simply was. Quickening, he thought, had
recognized the inevitability of it better than he, and she had
given back the Sword whole because she knew that if the
magic was to be his, it should be his complete and not dimin-
ished or failed. Quickening had understood how the game was
played; her legacy to him had been to teach him the rules.

He stopped to rest when the heat of the day was at its peak,
a scathing, burning glare that rose off the parched earth in a
white-hot shimmer. He sat in the shade of an aging maple,
broad-leaved boughs canopied above him like a tent, squirrels
and birds moving through the sheltering branches in apparent
disregard of his presence, bound up in their own pursuits. He
stared out through the trees to the hills and grasslands south
and east, the Sword of Lean propped blade down between his
legs, his arms folded across its hilt and grips. He wondered if
Wren was safe. He wondered where everybody was, all those
who had started out with him on this adventure and been lost
somewhere along the way. Some, of course, were dead. But
what of the others? He scuffed at the earth with his boot heel
and wished he could see things that were hidden from him,
then thought that maybe it was better that he couldn't.

Late afternoon brought the temperature back down to bear-
able, and he resumed walking. Shadows were lengthening

346 The Talismans of Shannara

again, easing away from the trees and rocks and gullies and
ridges behind which they had been hiding. Southwatch came
into view, its dark obelisk rising up out of the poisoned flats
that bridged the mouth of the Mermidon with the Rainbow
Lake. The lake ttself was flat and silvery, a mirror of the sky
and the land. and the colors of its bow were pale and washed
out in the fading light. Cranes and herons swooped and glided
above its surface, vague flashes of white against the gray haze
of an approaching dusk.

He stopped to watch, and it probably saved his life.

The birds went suddenly still, and there was movement
ahead in the trees, barely perceptible, but there nevertheless.
distant and indistinct in the failing light. Morgan eased back
into the brush, as silent as shadows falling, and froze. After a
moment, Shadowen appeared, one, two, then four more, a pa-
trol working its way soundlessly through the trees. They did
not seem to be tracking, merely searching, and the idea that
they might be using their sense of smell to hunt turned Morgan
cold. They were several hundred yards away still and moving
along the slope. Their path would take them below where he
hid—but across the trail he had left. He wanted to run, to fly
out of there as swiftly as the wind, but he knew he could not,
and forced himself to wait. The hunters were black-robed and
hooded and did not wear the emblem of Seekers. There was no
pretense here, and that meant they either did not feel threat-
ened or did not care. Neither prospect was reassuring.

Morgan watched them ease through the trees like bits of
coming night and disappear from view.

Instantly he was moving again, gliding forward quickly,
anxious to put as much distance as possible between himself
and the black-garbed hunters. Were they searching for him or
for someone else—for anyone, perhaps, after what had been
done to their patrol, worried that there were others in hiding?
It didn't matter, he decided quickly. It was enough that they
were out there and that sooner or later they were likely to find
him.

He revised his previous plan, thinking on his feet, not slow-
ing for an instant He would not stay on this side of the
Mermidon. He would cross the river and wait on the far bank
where he could watch the shoreline and the lake for Damson

The Talismans of Shannara                          347

and Matty to return, ft was unfortunate that he could not posi-
tion himself to keep an eye on Southwatch as well, but it was
too dangerous to sdck around. Best to wait for Damson to re-
port what the Skree had shown on her journey south. Let her
trv its magic out again if necessary then. That would have to

do.
He was very close to Southwatch now and saw that he could

not reach the Mermidon to try a crossing without coming
down out of the concealment of the trees. That meant he must
wait for darkness, and darkness was still several hours away.
Too long to stay in one place, he knew. He crouched in the
shadows and studied the land below, looking for a reason to re-
consider his assessment The trees thinned as they broke from
the Runne, melting away south so that there was no cover on
the plains that stretched east to the river. He ground his teeth
in frustration. It was too risky to try. He would have to back-
track into the mountains and try to find a pass leading east or
circle all the way back the way he had come. The latter was
impossible, the former chancy.

But as he pondered the alternatives, he caught sight of new
movement in the trees ahead. Again he froze, searching the
shadows. He might have been mistaken, he told himself. There
seemed to be nothing there.

Then the black-cloaked figure eased into the light momen-
tarily before fading away again.

Shadowen.

He scooted back into the deep cover, his mind made up for
him. He began to double back, working his way higher into the
rocks. He would look for a pass through the Runne and take
his chances with the river. If he failed to find a way through,
he would retrace his steps under cover of darkness. He did not
like the thought of being out there at night with the Shadowen
still searching for him, but his choices were being stripped
from him with alarming rapidity. He forced himself to breathe
deeply and slowly as he slipped back through me trees, trying
to stay calm. There were too many Shadowen hunting about
for it to be anything but a deliberate search. Somehow they
had found out where he was and were closing in. He felt his
throat tighten. He had survived one battle this day, but he did

348 The Talismans of Shannon

not feel comfortable with the prospect of having to survive an-
other.

Sunset was approaching, and the mountain forest was
cloaked in a windless hush. He kept his movements methodical
and noiseless, knowing that any small sound could give him
away. He felt the weight of the Sword of Leah pressing into
his back, and resisted the temptation to reach back for it. It
was there if he needed it, he told himself—and he'd better
hope the need didn't arise.

He was crossing a ridgeline when he saw the shadow shift
in the trees far ahead across a scrub-choked ravine. The
shadow was there and gone again in an instant's time, and he
had the impression that he had sensed it more than seen it. But
there was no mistaking what it was, and he went into a low
crouch and wormed his way into the deep brush to his right,
angling higher into the rocks. One of them, he concluded—
only one. A solitary hunter. The sweat on his face and neck
left his skin warm and sticky, and the muscles of his back were
knotted so tight they hurt. He felt his wound throb with fresh
pain and wished he had a drink of ale to soothe his parched
throat. He found the way up blocked by a cliff wall, and he
turned back reluctantly. He had the sense of being herded, and
he was beginning to think that eventually he would find walls
everywhere he looked.

He paused at the edge of a low precipice and looked back
into the velvet-cloaked trees. Nothing moved, but something
was there anyway, coming on with steady deliberation. Morgan
considered lying in wait for it. But any sort of struggle would
bring every Shadowen in the forest down on him. Better to go
on; he could always fight later.

The trees ahead were thinning as the rocks broke through in
ragged clusters and the slopes steepened into cliffs. He was as
high as he could go without leaving the cover of the trees and
still there was no pass to take him through the mountains. He
thought he could hear the sound of the nver churning along its
banks somewhere beyond the wall of rock, but it might have
been his imagination. He found a stand of heavy spruce and
took cover, listening to the forest about him. There was move-
ment ahead and below now as well. The Shadowen were all
about him. They must have found his trail. It was still light

The Talismans of Shannara                          349

enough to track, and they were coming for him. They might
not catch up to him before it grew too dark to follow his foot-
prints, but he did not think it would matter if they were this
close. They were more at home in the dark than he, and it
would just be a matter of time before they snared him.

For the first time he let himself consider the possibility that
he was not going to escape.

He reached back and drew out his Sword. The obsidian
blade gleamed faintly in the dusky twilight and felt comfort-
able in his hand. He imagined he could feel its magic respond-
ing to him with whispered assurances that it would be there
when he called for it. His talisman against the dark. He low-
ered his head and closed his eyes. All come to this? Another
fight in an endless series of fights to stay alive? He was grow-
ing tired of it all. He couldn't help thinking it. He was tired,
and he was sick at heart.

Let it go!

He opened his eyes, rose, and glided ahead through the
trees, south again toward the plains that led down to
Southwatch, changing his mind about staying hidden. He felt
better moving, as if movement was more natural, more protec-
tive in some way. He slipped down through the forest, picking
his way cautiously, listening for those who sought to trap him.
Shadows shifted about him, small changes in the light, little
movements that kept his heart pumping. Somewhere in the dis-
tance an owl hooted softly. The forest was a night river in
slow, constant flux that shimmered and spun.

He glanced back repeatedly searching for the solitary hunter
behind him and saw nothing. The Shadowen ahead were
equally invisible, but he thought they might not know his
whereabouts quite so surely as the other. He hoped they could
not communicate by thought, but he would not have bet
against it. There seemed to be few limitations to the magic
they wielded. Ah, but that was wrongheaded thinking, he
ehided. There were always limitations. The trick was in finding
out what they were.

He reached a clump of cedar backed up against a cliff and
turned into it, dropping again into a crouch to listen. He re-
mained as still as the stone behind him for long minutes and

350 The Talismans of Shaman

heard nothing. But the Shadowen were still out there, he knew
They were still searching, still scouring ...

And then he saw them, two close at hand, easing through
the trees less than a hundred yards below, black-cloaked shad-
ows, advancing on his concealment. He felt his heart drop. If
he moved now, they would see him. If he stayed where he
was, they would find him. A great set of choices, he thought
bitterly. He still held the Sword of Leah, and his hands tight-
ened on the grip. He would have to stand and fight. He would
have to, and he knew how it was likely to end.

He thought back to the Jut, Tyrsis, Eldwist, Culhaven, and
all the other places he'd been trapped and brought to bay when
trying to escape, and he thought in despair and anger. You
would think that just once ...

And then the hand closed over his mouth like an iron clamp,
and he was yanked backward into the trees.

XXX

<ST^ usk came to the country south of the Rainbow Lake in

P J a purple and silver haze that crept like a cat out of the
4—yAnar to chase a fiery sunset west into the Black Oaks
and the lands beyond. Twilight was smooth and silky as it
eased the day's swelter with a breeze out of the deep forest,
soothing and cool. Farms dotting the lands above the
Battlemound were bathed in a mixture of shadows and light
and assumed the look of paintings. Animals stood with their
faces pointed into the breeze, motionless against the darkening
green pastures. Tenders and hands came in from their work,
and there was the sound of water splashing in basins and the
smell of food cooking on stoves. There was a serenity in the
lengthening shadows and a relief in the cooling of the air.
There was a hush that gathered and comforted and promised
rest for those who had completed another day.

In a stand of hardwood on a low rise close against the fringe
of the Anar just north of the Battlemound, smoke rose from the
crumbling chimney of an old hunter's cabin. The cabin con-
sisted of four timbered walls splintered and aged by weather
and time, a shingled roof patched and worn, a covered porch
that sagged at one end, and a stone well set back into the deep-
est shadows in the trees behind. A wagon was pulled up close
to one side of the cabin, and the team of mules that pulled it
was staked out on a picket line at the edge of the trees. The
men who owned both were clustered inside, seated on benches
at a table with their dinner, all save one who kept watch from
the stone porch steps, looking off into the valley south and east.
They were five in number, counting the one outside, and they

352

352 The Talismans of Shannara

were shabby and dirty and hard-eyed men. They wore swords
and knives and bore the scars of many battles. When they
spoke, their voices were coarse and loud; and when they
laughed, there was no mirth.

They did not look to Damson Rhee and Matty Roh like any-
one who could be reasoned with.

The women crouched in a wash west where a covering of
brush screened their movements, and stared at each other.

"Are you sure? " the taller, leaner woman asked softly.

Damson nodded. "He's there, inside."

They went silent, as if both lacked words to carry the con-
versation further. They had been tracking the wagon all day,
ever since they had come upon its wheel marks while follow-
ing the Skree south from me Rainbow Lake. They had crossed
the lake three days earlier, sailing out of the mouth of the
Mermidon just ahead of the approaching storm after leaving
Morgan Lean. The winds fronting the storm had pushed them
swiftly across the lake, and the storm itself had not caught
them until they were almost to the far shore. Then they had
been swept away, buffeted so badly they had capsized east of
the Mist Marsh and been forced to swim to shore. They had
escaped with the better part of their supplies in tow, water-
logged and weary, and had slept the night in a grove of ash
that offered little shelter from the damp. They had walked from
there south, drawn on by the Skree's light, searching for some
sign of Par Ohmsford. There had been none until the wagon
tracks, and now the men who had made them.

"I don't like it," Many Roh said softly.

Damson Rhee took out the broken half of the Skree, cupped
it in her hand, and held it out toward the cabin. It burned Hke
copper fire, bright and steady. She looked at Many. "He's there."

The other nodded. Her clothing was rumpled from wear and
weather and torn by brambles and rocks, and washing it had
cleaned it but not improved its appearance. Her boyish face
was sun-browned and sweat-streaked, and her brow furrowed
as she considered the glowing half moon of metal.

"We'll need a closer look," she said. "After it gets dark."

Damson nodded. Her red hair was braided and tied back
with a band about her forehead, and her clothing was a mirror
of Matty's. She was tired and hungry for a hot meal and in

The Talismans of Shannara                          353

need of a bath, but she knew she would have to do without all

of them for now.

They eased back along the wash to where they had left their
gear and settled down to eat some fruit and cheese and dnnk
some water. Neither spoke as the meal was consumed and the
shadows lengthened. Darkness closed about, the moon and stars
came out, and the air cooled so that it was almost pleasant. They
were very unlike each other, these two. Damson was fiery and
outgoing and certain of what she was about; Matty was cool and
aloof and believed nothing should be taken for granted. What
bound them beyond their common enterprise was an iron deter-
mination forged out of years of working to stay alive in the ser-
vice of the free-born. Three days alone together searching for
Par Ohmsford had fostered a mutual respect. They had known
lime of each other when they had started out and in truth knew
little still. But what they did know was enough to convince each
that she could depend on the other when it counted.

"Damson." Matty Roh spoke her name suddenly. The si-
lence had deepened, and she whispered. "Do you know how
you sometimes find yourself in the middle of something and
wonder how it happened? " She seemed almost embarrassed.
"That's how I feel right now. I'm here, but I'm not sure why."

Damson eased close. "Do you wish you were somewhere
else? "

"I don't know. No, I suppose not." Her lips pursed. "But
I'm confused about what I'm doing here. I know why I came,
but I don't understand what made me decide to do it."

"Maybe the reason isn't important. Maybe being here is all
that counts."

Matty shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Maybe it's not all that difficult to figure out. I'm here be-
cause of Par. Because I promised him I would come."

"Because you're in love with him."

"Yes."

"I don't even know him."

"But you know Morgan."

Matty sighed. "I know him better than he knows himself.
But I'm not in love with him." She paused. "I don't think."
She looked away, distressed by the admission. "I came because
I was bored with standing around. That was what I told the

354                         The Talismans of Shannara

Highlander. It was true. But I came for something more. I just
don't know what it is."

"I think it might be Morgan Lean."

"It isn't."

"I think you need him."

"I need him? " Matty was incredulous. "It's the other way
around, don't you think? He needs me!"

"That, too. You need each'other. I've watched you, Matty—
you and Morgan. I've seen the way you look at him when he
doesn't see. I've seen how he looks at you. There is more be-
tween you than you realize."

The tall girl shook her head. "No."

"You care about him, don't you? "

'That's not the same. That's different."

Damson watched her for a moment without saying anything.
Matty's gaze was fixed on a point in space somewhere be-
tween them, the cobalt eyes depthless and still. She was seeing
something no one else could see.

When she looked up again, her eyes were empty and sad.
"He's still in love with Quickening."

Damson nodded slowly. "I suppose he is."

"He will always be in love with her."

"Maybe so, Matty. But Quickening is dead."

"It doesn't matter. Have you heard how he speaks of her?
She was beautiful and magic, and she was in love with him,
too." The blue eyes blinked. "It's too hard to try to compete
with that."

"You don't have to. ft's not necessary."

"It is."

"He will forget her in time. He won't be able to help it."

"No, he won't. Not ever. He won't let himself."

Damson sighed and looked away. The night was deep and
still about them, hushed with expectation. "He needs you," she
whispered finally, not knowing what else to say. She looked
back again. "Quickening is gone, Matty, and Morgan Lean
needs you."

They stared at each other in the darkness, measuring the
troth of the words, weighing their strength. Neither spoke.
Then Matty rose and looked back across the grassland toward
the cabin. "We have to go down for a look."

The Talismans of Shannara                          355

"I'll go." Damson rose with her. "You wait here."

Matty took her arm. "Why not me? "

"Because I know what Par looks like and you don't."

"Then both of us should go."

"And put both at risk? " Damson held the other girl's eyes.
"You know better."

Matty stared at her defensively for a moment, then released
her arm. "You're right. I'll wait here. But be careful."

Damson smiled, turned, and supped away into the dark. She
moved easily down the wash until she was north of the cabin.
Lamplight burned from within, a yellowish wash through the
shutterless side windows and open front door. She paused,
thinking. The sound of the men's voices came from within, but
the red glow of a pipe bowl and the smell of tobacco warned
that the sentry still occupied the porch steps. She watched the
dark shapes of the mules shifting on the line next to the cabin
wall, then heard the sound of breaking glass and swearing in-
side. The men were drinking and arguing.

She moved on down the wash to the forest and came around
behind the cabin, intent on approaching from the south wall,
afraid the animals might give her away if she went in from the
north. Clouds glided like phantoms overhead, changing the in-
tensity of the light as they passed across moon and stais. Dam-
son edged along the fringe of the trees, lost in shadow, placing
her feet carefully even though the voices and laughter likely
would drown out other sounds. When she was behind the cabin,
she left the trees and came swiftly to (he rear wall, then inched
along the back and started forward toward the south window.
She could hear the voces plainly now, could sense their anger
and menace. Hard men, these, and no mistake about it.

She moved to the window in a crouch, rose up carefully, and
looked inside.

Coil Ohmsford lay at the back of the musty, weathered cabin
and listened to the men arguing as they rolled dice for coins.
He was wrapped in a blanket and had turned himself toward
the wall. His hands and feet were chained together and to a
ring they had hammered into the boards. They had given him
food and water and then forgotten about him. Which was just
as well, he thought wearily, given their present unpleasant state

356 The Talismans of Shannara

of mind. Drinking and gambling had turned them meaner man
usual, and he had no desire to discover what the result might
be if they remembered he was there. He had been beaten twice
already since he had been captured—once for trying to escape
and once because one of them got mad about something and
decided to take it out on him. He was bruised and cut and sore
all over, and after being bounced about all day in the back of
the wagon he just wanted to be left alone to sleep.

The problem, of course, was that there was no sleep to be had
under these conditions. His fatigue and pain were not enough to
overcome the noise. He lay listening and wondering what he
could do to help himself. He thought again about escape. They
were traveling slowly with the wagon and mules, but they were
only three or four days out of Dechtera and once there he was
finished. He had heard of me slave mines, worked principally by
Dwarves. Morgan had described the mines after learning of them
from Steff. They were used as a dumping ground for Dwarves
who antagonized the Federation occupiers and most particularly
for those captured in the Resistance. The Dwarves sent to the
mines never returned. No one ever returned. Morgan had heard
rumors of Southlanders being sent to work the mines, but until
now CoU had never believed it could be so.

He stared at the cracked and splintered wallboards. It
seemed he was destined to learn a tot of truths the hard way.

He took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly, wearily.
Time was running out and luck had long since disappeared. He
was in better shape than he had a right to be, his training at
Southwatch with Ulfkingroh having seen him through the
worst. But that was of little consolation now, trussed up the
way he was. He saw no hope of gaining release from his
chains without a key. He had tried to pick the locks, but they
were heavy and strong. He had tried to persuade his captors to
take them off so he could walk around, but they had just
laughed. His plan to rescue Par from Rimmer Dall and the
Shadowen was a dim memory. He was as far from that as he
was from his home in Shady Vale, and he was so far from
there that he sensed he was almost beyond the point of return.

One of the men kicked over a chair, stood up, and walked
from the room. Coil risked a quick look out from his cover-
ings. The Sword of Shannara lay on the table. They were gam-

The Talismans of Shannara                          357

bling for it, or for one another's shares in it The three still at
the table snarled something ugly after the one leaving but did
not look away from each other.

Coil turned back to the wall again and closed his eyes. It
didn't help that these men had no idea of the Sword's real
value. It didn't help that only he could use the magic and that
so much might depend on his doing so. At this point, he
thought in despair, nothing short of a miracle would help.

He knotted his hands together beneath the blanket and de-
scended into a black place.

What am I going to do?

"Is it him? "

Moonlight reflected off Many Roh's smooth face, giving it
a ghostly look beneath the short-cropped black hair. Damson
drank from the water skin she offered and glanced back the
way she had come, half thinking she might have been fol-
lowed. But the night was still and the land empty and frozen
beneath the stars.

"Is it? " Many repeated, anxious, persistent.

Damson nodded. "It has to be. He was huddled in the back
of the room under a blanket and I couldn't see his face, but it
doesn't matter. The Sword of Shannara was lying on the table,
and there's no mistaking it. It's him, all right. They've got him
chained up. They're slavers. Many. I looked in the wagon on
my way back and it was full of shackles and chains." She
paused, uneasiness darting across her face. "I don't know how
he stumbled onto them or how^ie let them capture him, but it
shouldn't have happened. The magic of the wishsong should
have been more than a match for men like these. I don't under-
stand it. Something's wrong."

Matty said nothing, waiting.

Damson handed back the water skin and sighed. "I wish I
could have seen his face. He looked up once, just for a mo-
ment, but it was too dark to see clearly." She shook her head.
"Slavers—there won't be any reasoning with them."

Many shifted her feet. "Reasoning isn't something men like
this understand. We're women. If given half a chance, they'd
seize us, use us for their own pleasure, and then cut our
throats. Or if we were really unlucky, they'd sell us along with

358                          The Talismans of Shanna:

the Valeman." She looked out at the night. "How many did
you count'7"

"Five. Four inside, one standing watch. They're drinkir
and throwing dice and fighting among themselves." Sh-
paused hopefully. "When they sleep, we might be able to sl r
past them and free Par."

Matty gave her a steady look. "That would be chancy in tl a
dark. We wouldn't be able to tell them from us if it came s<
a fight. And if the Valeman is chained to the wall, it wou».
take too much time and make too much noise to try to frc>
him. Besides, they might be up all night the way things are g> •
ing. There isn't any way to know."

"We could wait a bit. A day or two if we must. There wiS
be a chance sooner or later."

Matty shook her head. "We don't have the time. We dor i,
know how long it will be until they get to where they're going
There may be more of them ahead. No. We have to do .'
now. Tonight."

Now it was Damson's turn to stare. "Tonight," she repeate"
"How? "

"How do you think? If they've found a way to capture tht
Valeman in spite of his magic, they're too dangerous to foe'
around with." Matty Roh seemed to be measuring her. "It
we're quick, they'll be dead before they know what happeneu
Can you do it?"

Damson took a deep breath. "Can you? "

"Just follow me in and stay behind me. Watch my back. Re
member how many there are. Don't lose count. If I go dow?'
get out of there." She straightened. "Are you ready? "

"Now? "

'The quicker we start, the quicker we finish."

Damson nodded without speaking, feeling distanced froni
what was happening, as if she were watching it from some
other vantage point. "I only have a hunting knife."

"Use whatever you have. Just remember what I said."

The tall girl dropped her cloak and reached down into her
gear for the slender fighting sword and strapped it over her
back, wearing it the same way Morgan Lean wore his. She fas-
tened a brace of throwing knives to her waist and slipped a
broad-bladed hunting knife down into her boot. Damson

The Talismans of Shannara                          359

watched and did not speak. Two against five, she was thinking.
But the odds were greater than that. These men were seasoned
fighters, cutthroats who would kill them without a second
thought. What are we to them? she wondered, and decided it
was a stupid question.

They moved off into the night, slipping across the grasslands
like ghosts. Damson leading Many back the same way she had
cone earlier, watching the light from the oil lamps hung within
the cabin grow brighter as they neared. The voices of the men
reached out to greet them, coarse and raucous. Damson could
no longer see the glow of the pipe on the porch steps, but that
didn't mean the sentry wasn't still there. They" moved north of
the cabin into the trees and came up from behind, flattening
themselves against the rough board wall. Inside, the sounds of
gambling and drinking continued.

They peered around the south side of the cabin toward the
front. There was no sign of the sentry. With Matty leading
now, her sword drawn and held before her, they eased up to
the window and took a quick look inside. The scene was un-
changed. The prisoner was still wrapped in his blanket and ly-
ing on the floor at the rear of the cabin. Four of the men still
sat at the table. Damson and Matty exchanged a quick glance,
then started toward the front. They reached the comer and
looked onto the sagging porch.

The sentry was gone.

Matty's face clouded, but she edged into the light anyway.
sword held ready, and moved for the open door. Damson fol-
lowed, glancing left and right, thinking. Where is he? They were
almost to me door when the sentry reappeared out of the dark,
come from checking me animals perhaps, looking off that way
and muttering to himself. He didn't see the women until he
stepped onto the porch, tfien grunted in surprise and reached for
his weapons. Matty was quicker. She shifted the sword to her
left hand, reached down with her right, brought out one of the
throwing knives, and flung it at the man. The blade caught him
in the chest and he went back off the porch with a hiss of pain.

Then they were through the door and inside the cabin, Matty
leading. Damson at her back. The room was small and smoky
and cramped, and it seemed as if they were right on top of the
slavers. Damson could see their faces clearly, the sweat on their

360                         The Talismans of Shannara

skin, the anger and surprise in their eyes. The men leaped up
from the table, weapons wrenched free of belts and sheaths.
Shouts and oaths rose up, glasses and tin cups tipped away, and
ate spilled onto the floor. Many killed the nearest man and went
for the next. The table flipped over, scattering debris every-
where. One of the men turned toward the captive, but Matty
was too close to be ignored, and he twisted back to meet her
rush. A second man went down, blood pouring from his throat,
clawing at the air and then tumbling away. The two who re-
mained rushed Matty Roh with swords and knives glinting
wickedly in the lamplight and forced her back toward the wall.
Damson stepped away, looking for an opening. Someone
grabbed her from behind, and the fifth man, blood leaking from
his chest wound, lurched through the doorway, clutching at her
with his fingers. She twisted away, slippery with his blood, then
shoved him back out the door and down the steps. Outside, the
mules brayed and kicked at the cabin wall in terror.

Matty darted and cut at the men before her, fighting to keep
from being cornered, yelling for Damson. A lamp shattered,
spilling oil everywhere, and flames spread across the cabin
floor. Damson threw herself onto the back of the man nearest,
tearing at his eyes. He howled in pain, dropped his weapons,
and fought with his bare hands to fling her away. She let
go, throwing herself clear, reaching for her knife. The man
went for her in a frenzy, heedless of everything else, tripped,
and went down in the fire. It caught on his clothing and began
to bum, and he ran screaming out the door and into the night.

The last man held his ground a moment longer, then bolted for
the door as well. Flames were racing up the walls now, streaking
across the rafters, eating hungrily at the dry wood. Damson and
Matty raced for the back of the cabin where the captive had risen
to his knees and was tearing at the ring that chained him to the
wall. Matty shoved him down wordlessly, brought the big hunt-
ing knife out from her boot, and hacked and cut and pried at the
wall until the ring broke loose. Then in a knot they rushed for
the cabin door, the flames all about them, the heat singeing their
hair and flesh. They were almost clear when the captive twisted
free and turned back, charging into the smoke and fire with the
chains trailing behind him, searching the debris on the floor until
he came up with the Sword of Shannara.

The Talismans of Shannara                          361

It wasn't until they were all outside, gasping for air and
coughing up smoke and dust as the cabin burned behind them,
that Damson realized it was not Par Ohmsford they had res-
cued after all, but his brother. Coll.

They took just long enough to break loose the shackles from
Coil's wrists and ankles, casting anxious glances over then-
shoulders into the night as they did so, then slipped quickly
away, leaving behind the smoking ruins of the cabin, the empty
wagon, and the bodies of the dead. The mules had long since
run off, the remaining slavers had vanished with them, and the
land was empty of life. The Valeman and the women smelled
of fire and ashes, their eyes watered from the smoke, and they
were smeared with the blood of the men they had killed. Matty
had received several minor cuts, and Damson was scratched
about the face, but both had escaped serious injury. Coil
Ohmsford walked like a man whose legs had been broken.

In the shelter of the trees where they had left their gear, they
cleaned themselves up as best they could, ate some food and
drank some water, and tried to figure out what had happened.
They discovered quickly enough that Coil carried the other half
of the Skree, the half he had stolen from Par while under the in-
fluence of the Mirrorshroud, and that explained why Damson
and Matty had thought they were fracking Par. It did not explain
why the Skree had brightened in two directions when Damson
had used it at Southwatch, although after hearing Coil's story of
what had befallen the brothers earlier it could be assumed that
Par's magic had affected the disk in some way. Par's magic
seemed to affect almost everything with which it came in con-
tact, Coil noted. Something was happening to the Valeman, and
if they didn't get to him soon and piece together what it was
that was tearing at him, they were going to lose him for good.
Coil couldn't tell Damson and Matty why that was so, but he
was convinced of it. His triggering of the magic of the Sword
of Shannara had revealed a good many truths previously hidden
from him, and this was one.

There was no debate about what they would do next. They
were of a common purpose, even Matty Roh. They packed up
what gear they had and set out across the grasslands north
again, heading for the Rainbow Lake and the country beyond,

362

The Talismans of Shannara

pointing themselves toward a confrontation with the Shadowen
and Rimmer Dall. Morgan Leah would be there waiting for
them, and together they would attempt another rescue. Four of
them, when it came time to stand against their enemies, sus-
tained by their talismans and their small magics, by their cour-
age and determination, and by little else. What they were doing
was more than a little mad, but they had left reason behind a
long time ago. They accepted'it as they did the approach of the
new day east, its first faint glimmerings painting the darkened
horizon with golden streaks. They accepted it as they did the
way in which the disparate directions of their lives had brought
them to a crossroads in which they would share a common des-
tiny. There were inevitabilities to life that could not be altered,
they knew, and this was surely among them.

They hoped, each in the silence of their unshared thoughts,
that this particular inevitability would result in something
good.

Morgan Leah barely had time to gasp.

The attack was so swift and unexpected that he was on the
ground before he could even think to act, the hand still
clamped tightly to his mouth, a dark-cloaked form swinging
about to pin him flat. He had lost his Sword, the one thing that
might have helped him, and he was so astonished to have been
caught off guard that even though his mind screamed at him to
move he froze in the manner of a small animal trapped in a
snare. His throat constricted, and he stopped breathing. He
knew he was dead.

A huge whiskered face pushed close to his own, as if curi-
ous to discover what manner of creature he might be, and the
luminous yellow eyes of a moor cat blinked down at him.

"Easy, Highlander," a familiar voice whispered in his ear,
soft and reassuring. "You're safe. It's only me."

The hand eased away, and Morgan began breathing again,
quick and uneven. He felt the knots in his body loosen and the
chill in his stomach fade. "Quiet, now," the voice whispered.
"They're still close."

Then the cat face eased away, and he was looking at Walker
Boh.

XXXI

Stresa did not come to Wren Elessedil until it was almost
dawn. Stars still lingered in the velvet black skies, and
the forest was thick with shadows. Only a faint brighten-
ing east through the trees revealed the approach of the new
day. She rose when he appeared, anxious and relieved. She had
been waiting for him all night, even though it could easily
have taken him another day to reach her. Her Elven hearing
picked up his movements before he emerged from the dark,
and she called out to him.

"Stresa," she whispered. "Over here."

He trundled forward obediently, spikes laid back against his
muscular body, snout lifted to test the air, eyes glittering like
candles.

"I can see you well enough. Elf Queen," the Splinter-scat
muttered as he came up to her. "And hear you well enough,
too."

Wren smiled at the sound of the familiar voice. It had not
been three days ago mat she thought she would never hear it
again. Her ordeal with Tib Ame and Gloon had given her a
new appreciation for the things she had once been too quick to
take for granted. It was strange how death's whisper suddenly
made you hear better. She wondered how many times she
would need to listen to it before she remembered its lesson.

"What did you find? " she asked him, dropping into a
crouch so that she could better see his face.

Stresa sniffed. "A way in for them and one out for us.
Phfrftt. It can be done." He glanced around. "Where's the
sstttpp Squeak? "

363

364 The Talismans of Shannara

She gestured. "Watching east, where the others wait. I didn't
want anyone to hear what we said. Funny how much better she
and I have become at communicating."

The Splinterscat's spines rose and fell back again. "That is
hardly an accomplishment. Squeaks haven't much to say.
Hsssttt. Keep your conversation brief. Elf Queen."

Wren refrained from smiling. No point in encouraging him.
"So we can do this, you and. I? "

"This isn't Morrowindl, and the Brakes aren't the In Ju. Of
course we can do it. Sppptt!" He spit. "Should have thought of
the idea myself."

Barely three days gone since her escape from the Shadowen,
and Wren was about to challenge them again. She had flown
into camp with Tiger Ty and been greeted with elation and as-
tonishment by the Elves of the advance guard, who had given
her up for lost. They were settled still within the fringes of
Drey Wood, watchingthe continuing advance of the Federation
army, shadowing the Southlanders from cover while they
awaited Barsimmon Oridio and the balance of the Elven army.
Desidio was effusive in his welcome, telling her straight out
that the Elves needed her leadership and he was hers to com-
mand, saying more in that single moment than he had said the
entire time they had been gone from Arborlon. Triss was furi-
ous with her, pointing out that her impulsiveness had caused
her abduction, warning her that she was not to go off without
the Home Guard ever, that in fact she was not to go off with-
out him personally. She greeted them both with a handclasp
and assurances that she would not take such a risk again—
already knowing that she intended to do so.

In her absence, the advance guard had been busy. Desidio
and Triss had put aside any differences on strategy to continue
what she had begun so successfully, sending a second raiding
party at the Federation the very night after she was taken, set-
ting fire to supplies and wagons, driving off stock, harassing
sleeping troops, doing everything they could think of to cause
their enemies discomfort and confusion and to keep them froffi
advancing. With the death of Erring Rift, command of the
Wing Riders had passed to Tiger Ty, the most experienced
among them and a leader with whom they felt comfortable. Ti-
ger Ty, gruff and abrasive, but up to the challenge, had sent the

The Talismans of Shannara                          365

Wing Riders in support of the Land Elves. The Federation
army had been better prepared than before, but still not well
enough to prevent considerable damage to supplies and stock.
The Elves had lost more than a dozen men this time, but the
Federation juggernaut had been brought to a halt once more,
forced to stay their march long enough to allow recovery of
horses, foraging for food and water, and treatment of their
wounded.

Barsimmon Oridio had reached the Valley of Rhenn and was
starting down to meet them. Messengers had arrived from the
old general to announce that help was on the way. Desidio and
Triss had dispatched the messengers back again with the
queen's greetings—unwilling to reveal just yet that the queen
herself was missing. Neither had been prepared to concede that
she was gone for good, despite what had happened to Erring
Rift and Grayl. Wren was pleased to discover that they had
kept her disappearance quiet.

But she had already decided that the advance guard must do
more than just wait for Bar and the rest of the army to reach
them. She had thought it through on the flight in from the
grasslands, her body weary from the battle with Tib Ame and
Gloon, but her mind strangely sharp and clear. She knew what
had to be done, and it had to be done regardless of anything
else that happened. The Creepers had to be stopped. They
would be gaining rapidly on the Federation army now, come
out of the luting and across the Mermidon and into the grass-
lands east of the Pykon. They would catch up in another few
days and join with their allies in the hunt for the Elves. When
that happened, it was all over. The Elves had no defense
against the Creepers, not in numbers, skills, or strength, and
the Shadowen machines would track them through the West-
land forests to Arborlon and put a quick end to them.

She was not going to let that happen, she had promised, and
she had thought back to Morrowindl and the things that had
hunted her there and then back to the things that had hunted
Ohmsfords down through the years in their service to the Dru-
ids, until surprisingly, unexpectedly, she had found the answer
she needed.

But once again it would put her at risk, and once again it
would require use of the Elfstones.

366 The Talismans of Shannara

She had told Tiger Ty, Triss, and Desidio of her plan that
very night, and all three were aghast. They had pleaded with
her to give it up, to think of something else, to try a different
tactic. They had beseeched her to consider what it would mean
to the Elves if she was lost again—this time for good. But she
had held them off with reason and hard fact, with strength of
will and argument, and in the end they had been forced to ac-
cept her decision, however reluctantly. They had managed to
wring one concession—Tiger Ty and Triss would go with her
for however long it was possible.

That had been two days ago. She had come south that same
day with Triss, Tiger Ty, fifty Home Guard, and half-a-dozen
Wing Riders. The Rocs had carried the Home Guard in the gi-
ant baskets, keeping well back within the shelter of the trees
and mountains where they could not be seen from the
plains, and Wren had ridden with Tiger Ty. She had held ev-
eryone in place just long enough to dispatch Faun into Drey
Wood to locate and bring back Stresa. She had told the
Splinterscat what she intended, and because so much depended
on him she had waited for his assurance that her plan could
work. When he had agreed that it might, she had scooped him
up, strapped him in place on Spirit's back, tucked Faun into
her pack, and off they had gone.

Desidio and the rest of the advance force had been sent
north to meet with Barsimmon Oridio to await her return.

Two days ago. They had traveled all night te get here and
spent the first of those two days without sleep. They had all
gone exploring instead.

She shook her head, looking off into the darkened trees,
smelling moss and bark mold and wildflowers and wondering
that so much could happen in such a little time. She heard
Stresa shift in the darkness before her, restless, and she looked
back again.

"Did you find the Thing?" she asked him, not knowing
what else to call it.

"Hssstt." Stresa was laughing. "Not Thing, Wren Elessedil.
Things! There have been some changes in three hundred years,
it seems. There are more than the one now."

And perhaps always were, and only one was ever seen, she
thought suddenly. She rose, contemplating the advent of the

The Talismans of Shannara                          367

new day. Before her, east, waited the Wing Riders and the
Home Guard, and beyond them, somewhere on the grasslands,
the Creepers. Behind her, west, lay the Matted Brakes.

More than one. Well, now.

"Wait for me, Stresa," she ordered, rising again, anxious
now to begin. "The valley opens into a draw that will bring
them right through here. It shouldn't be long."

Stresa turned and moved back into the shadows. "I'll take a
nap. I'm tired from all this rooting about. It stinks in the
Brakes, you know. Pfffttt. Watch yourself until you get back
here. Queen of the Elves."

She let him go without comment, then turned into the trees
east and made her way back toward the dawn's brightening
light. The forest was thin here, the draw she had described a
broad wash down out of the higher ground where runoff and
wind had swept away roost of the cover. She found Faun al-
most immediately, the little creature leaping onto her shoulder
and riding there as she slipped ahead through the trees. The
plan would work, she told herself, and to make certain, she
went over it again in her mind. The mechanics were simple
enough. It was the execution that would make the difference.
And the execution was almost entirely in her hands.

She moved down into the valley, following the north slope
where the shadows were deepest in the growing light, peering
out onto the plains beyond where a faint haze concealed what
lay there. They had scouted everything thoroughly the day be-
fore in preparation. The Home Guard knew the terrain well
enough to take advantage of it, and the Wing Riders had found
hiding places within the trees close by the Brakes. Games
within games, she thought. Wheels within wheels. She thought
back to Morrowindl, where she had learned to play cat and
mouse with the Shadowen creatures, to put into practice all
that Rover knowledge Garth had imparted to her. She thought
how farsighted her mother and father had been to give her into
Garth's keeping, knowing how life must one day be for her. It
was strange even now to think how much had been given up
for her, but it was no longer so difficult to accept. Life dele-
gated responsibility as need required and never in equal shares.
The trick was in not being afraid when you learned that this
was so.

368                         The Talismans of Shannara

Paun chittered softly in her ear, and she reached up to stroke
the warm, fuzzy face. We must look after each other, she
thought to herself. We must nurture and love, if life is to have
any real meaning. But first, unfortunately, we must find a way
to survive against the things that would prevent us from doing
so.

She found Triss and the Home Guard hidden at the mouth
of the valley within a cluster'of pine and heavy brush. It was
still and hazy on the plains beyond, the coming light diffuse
within the ground mist, giving it the look of snow. There was
a dampness in the air, and it had a pungent, coppery taste.

"They are no more than a mile below where we wait," Triss
advised quietly, calm and steady-eyed as he faced her. The way
Garth had once been. "Scouts screen their coming so that we
will not be surprised. Are you ready, my lady? "

She nodded, and tucked Paun down into the backpack she
had brought for her to ride in. Faun would not leave her either.
"Send someone to Tiger Ty and let's be off."

A messenger was dispatched, and the remainder of the
Home Guard, armed with longbows and quivers of arrows,
slipped out of their concealment and onto the plains, working
their way through the heavy grasses and scrub. The plains
were wet with dew, but the ground beneath as hard as stone.
They moved slowly, cautiously, dropping into a crouch when
the lead men signaled to do so, watchful for the monsters that
approached.

As it was, they heard them before they saw them, the heavy
armored bodies shaking the ground, more quiet nevertheless in
their movement than Wren would have thought. The forward
scouts dropped back to report that the Creepers were ahead
and to the east, not more than five hundred yards away, eight
strong, marching two abreast. There were Seekers with mem,
black-robed and bearing the wolf's-head marking so that there
could be no mistake. Wren was surprised. She had seen no
Seekers before. But their presence changed nothing, and so she
gave Triss the order to deploy. Silently, the Home Guard
slipped away into the haze, fanning out like ghosts.

Then they could only wait. The seconds slipped by, agoniz-
ingly slow. They listened to the sounds of the Creepers and to
the sudden silence of the land about that marked their coming.

The Talismans of Shannara                          369

Triss muttered something about the mist. He glanced at her,
and she smiled. Triss looked away. Even now, after all they
had been through together, he kept his distance. She was
queen, after all. She must always stand apart.

The sky continued to brighten and the mist to dissipate.

The first pair of Creepers appeared, materializing like spec-
tral apparitions, huge and monstrous, dwarfing the black-
cloaked figures that marched beside them. Twenty or so of the
latter. Wren counted rapidly.

She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones.
The Stones lay comfortably within her palm and glittered like
bits of blue fire. Mine alone to use, she thought. She closed her
fingers over them and waited.

When the second pair of Creepers was directly abreast, she
rose, held out the Elfstones, summoned the power within, and
sent the blue fire streaking out. It lanced through the half light
and mist and hammered into the closest of the Shadowen mon-
sters. The Creepers jerked in shock, and one went down,
smoking and burning. The others wheeled toward her, and in-
stantly the Home Guard attacked. A rain of arrows showered
down on the Creepers and the Shadowen, and shouts rose up
from the Elves. There were a few moments of confusion while
the Creepers and their tenders milled about uncertainly, and
then they counterattacked in a lumbering rush, pounding
across the grasslands in search of their assailants.

But the Home Guard were already falling back toward the
treeline, firing arrows, screaming oaths, and running for their
lives. The Creepers were huge, but very quick, and they began
to close the gap. Wren slowed them with a rush of blue fire
from the Stones, retreating as she did, Triss at her side. The
Creeper who had gone down was back up again, and all eight
were coming on. It was what she had hoped for, what she had
expected, but now that it was happening it was terrifying. As
they lurched through the mist she saw again the Wisteron on
Morrowindl, replicated eight times over, and she had to fight
down the fear that the memory engendered. She could hear the
scrape of claws and the click of mandibles and pincers. She
saw the trees west come into view, pocketed the Elfstones, and
made a dash for them.

They entered the valley ahead of the Creepers, not bothering

370                         The Talismans of Shannara

to slow yet to see if they were being followed because the
sounds of pursuit were unmistakable. Midway through the val-
ley, Wren turned, brought out the Elfstones once more, and
sent a wall of blue flame back across the entrance. She could
hear the Creepers scream in fury, the sound like the scrape of
rusting metal, shrill and inhuman. The Creepers came through
the wall with flesh smoking and armor steaming. She sent an-
other strike into them, rising up on her toes with the force of
it, so buoyed by the magic that she thought she could float on
air. Filled with its power, she began screaming in challenge.

"Enough!" Triss cried, yanking her back. "Run, now!"

Anger flared in her eyes at the intrusion. She closed her fin-
gers over the Elfstones and jerked around with a gasp, tearing
free. But she did as he urged, running with him into the draw
beyond, into the trees and cool shadows. She breathed as if she
could never again get enough air into her lungs, feeling the
magic race through her body, anxious and demanding, asking
to be freed, begging to be used. So much power! She clenched
her hands into fists and ran on.

They raced up through the draw and into the trees beyond,
the Elven Hunters leading the way for Wren and Triss and a
handful of rear guard. The Creepers came on, tearing apart ev-
erything in their path from brush to full-grown trees, the
sounds of the destruction frightening. It was working. Wren
thought. It was going as planned. But the Creepers were too
quick by half!

At a clearing ahead, the Wing Riders waited with their
carrying baskets. The Home Guard climbed in, all but Triss,
who had insisted he stay with Wren. The Rocs rose skyward
and disappeared west. Wren crossed the clearing into the trees
and brought out the Elfstones once again. When the Creepers
appeared, shouldering their way furiously through the under-
growth, a jumble of jagged metal and spiky limbs, she sent the
fire into them once more, burning everything across the clear-
ing, obliterating all traces of the Home Guard escape while
drawing the monsters on.

Then she was back within the trees, racing with Triss for the
darkness that lay ahead. Stresa appeared suddenly, cutting
across their path, taking the lead. He said nothing, did not even
look back at them, his blocky form moving far more swiftly

The Talismans of Shannara                         371

than seemed possible as he took them directly toward the
gloom that marked the eastern edge of the swamp they called
the Matted Brakes.

Wren glanced back once to make certain that the Creepers
were still following, and then ran on. In moments, they were
within the Brakes. Come after me, come after me, she repeated
over and over in her mind, willing that it should be so. The
plan she had devised to destroy the Creepers was simple. At-
tack them on the plains with enough men that they would think
it was the vanguard of the Elven army or a significant part
thereof, draw them into the trees and the Matted Brakes be-
yond, take them down a trail that Stresa had chosen and knew
and they did not, lead them into a trap they could not
escape—a trap where their strength and cunning would prove
useless.

Like so many things, the answers to the present lay rooted
in the past, and in this case in the songs of Par Ohmsford and
the legends of their Shannara ancestors.

With Stresa leading and Triss keeping pace, she drew the
Shadowen things deeper into the swamp, never letting diem
know that they no longer chased an army but only a girl, a
man, and a creature from another world. She sent the fire of
the Elfstones lancing into them, the earth over which they lum-
bered, the trees thick with vines and moss, and the fetid, green
waters surrounding. She used it to confuse and anger them, to
keep them off balance and intent on their chase. Once, she had
been afraid to use the Elven magic. But that seemed a long
time ago, as distant as the life she had known before her jour-
ney to Morrowindl and the discovery of her heritage. She had
been freed of her fears when she had accepted her birthright as
Queen of the Elves and brought her people out of Morrowindl.
The magic now was an extension of herself, a part of the trust
bequeathed to her by her grandmother, the fire come from the
blood of her ancestors to shield her against whatever threat-
ened. If she was strong, she beneved, she could not be harmed.

The day brightened and eased toward noon. They ate and
drank when they could, mostly when they paused in their
flight, brief stops to listen and make certain of their pursuit.
The Brakes thickened in a morass of tangled roots, trees whose
branches hung dowa like corpses, still, depthless waters, and

372                         The Talismans of Shannara

quicksand that would swallow you in an instant. Stresa chose
their path carefully, finding the solid ground, moving steadily
ahead. Twice the Creepers caught up with them unexpectedly,
once on a flanking maneuver that almost trapped them, the
second time in a rush that brought the iron-clad horrors barrel-
ing through the trees so quickly mat they barely escaped being
trampled. The swamp seemed to offer no deterrent; the Creep-
ers crossed it as if it were all solid ground. Wren could not tell
if any had been lost or had turned back. She hoped not. She
hoped she had them all with her still, hunting. They were
formed for that purpose and no other, and she prayed that their
instinct for it would lead them on when more reasonable, less
powerful creatures would turn back.

It was just after midday when they reached the lake.

They slowed as they came up to it, changing their move-
ments so that they approached with as little noise as possible.
Behind, the sounds of pursuit echoed through the cavernous
trees, rough and heedless, closing rapidly. The lake was huge
and stagnant green and as silent as a tomb. It stretched away
into a cloud of mist that hung across it like a shroud. The near
shoreline faded to either side into the mist. The far shoreline
was hidden entirely. Vines and moss hung from the surround-
ing trees in curtains of lacy green, and roots tangled and
twisted down into the waters Hke feeding snakes. Everywhere
there was silence; no birds, no insects, no fish, not even me
whisper of a breeze to disturb the hush. There was me sense
of time having come to a standstill here, of life having frozen
in place, of everything waiting expectantly.

Here, Wren thought, catching her breath involuntarily. Here
is where it will end.

But there was no time to contemplate further. The Creepers
were coming, rolling on through the swamp, slashing and
hacking and crushing what would not give way. Stresa was al-
ready moving right, down the shoreline to a narrow strip of
land formed of earth and roots that angled its way out into the
center of the vast lake. Wren and Triss hurried after. They
turned onto the bridge and began moving toward the wall of
mist. Wren glanced skyward once, allowing herself to do so
for the first time since they had begun running. But the sky
was empty. Too soon yet. They hurried on, stepping lightly, si-

The Talismans of Shannara                         373

lendy, listening to the sound of the Creepers. She looked out
across the lake, looking for the Things, but there was nothing
to be seen but the flat, opaque surface of the frozen waters.

They were almost into the mist when the Creepers appeared
from out of the trees, lurching to a stop, their iron-plated bod-
ies trailing vines and branches and steaming with the heat.
They flattened everything close to them as they pushed to-
gether at the lake's edge. The Seekers were with them. Catch-
ing sight of Wren, they moved swiftly to follow after her.

"There," Stresa hissed suddenly, head swinging left.

She looked and saw the ridge that lay within the waters—
what appeared to be crusted rock grown thick with moss and
lichen until you saw the twin jets of steam that rose from one
end and realized you were looking at breathing holes. There
were two of them, and beyond, almost lost in the haze, an-
other. Still here, just as they had been in the time of Wil
Ohmsford, monsters from the deep waters of the Matted
Brakes, the Things.

Stresa was moving again, and she hurried after, trying to
keep from rushing, trying to keep her passage as silent as that
of a cloud across the sky. Do nothing to disturb them, she told
herself. Let them sleep a little while more. The haze billowed
about, but it was not thick enough to hide them from the crea-
tures following. The Creepers were on the bridge as well, she
saw, glancing hurriedly back.

But only two of them!

She stopped abruptly, hissing Stresa and Triss to a stop with
her. Two were not enough! She needed them all! She wheeled
back, brought out the Elfstones, and held them forth. 'Wo/"
she heard Stresa cry out harshly, hissing the word. But she sent
the fire forth anyway, flying over the still swamp waters, lanc-
ing into the Creepers that hunched down upon the shores, scat-
tering flames into them like arrows, burning and singeing. The
Creepers reared back, tearing at the earth. She felt something
in the lake stir. Not yet! The Creepers on the shore milled
about, their black-cloaked tenders trying to calm them. One of
the Seekers disappeared under a flurry of iron claws, scream-
ing.

Ripples spread slowly across the mirrored green waters.
Wren took a deep breath. Steady, steady.

The Talismans of Shannara

Then she struck again, the Elven fire exploding into the
Creepers, and this time they all came for her, thundering onto
the bridge in a furious rush.

There was movement everywhere in the lake now, a slow
shifting of the ridges, a gathering of dark shapes. She saw it
out of the comer of her eye as she raced on behind Triss and
Stresa—saw it on either side and then ahead and behind, too,
and she realized the danger she was in. If the Things attacked
now, none of them would escape. Monsters of the swamp,
older than the Snadowen spawn and as implacable as time,
these were what she had brought the Creepers to face. They
had been there when Wil Ohmsford and Amberle Elessedil had
passed through the Brakes more than three hundred years
earlier in search of the Bloodfire. They had devoured two of
the Elven Hunters sent to keep the Valeman and the Chosen
safe. She hoped now they would devour the Creepers as well.

Ahead, there was an island, little more than a flat stretch of
rock-encrusted earth dotted with scrub and a small stand of cy-
press. The bridge ran to it and then wound away again beyond.
It stood alone in the haze, empty of life.

"Hurry!" she heard Stresa hiss.

She looked back again and saw the Creepers, all eight of
them, clawing their way across the root-entangled strip of land
that stretched away behind her. The Seekers ran after, some
crying out, most struggling to keep from being crushed. The
Creepers were out of control, seeing their prey so close at
hand, sensing that they would have them in moments. They
were closing quickly, heedless of me dangers about, confident
of their strength and armor. The Elven magic might bum, but
it could not destroy. Hunters, they thought only to hunt, never
to hide, never to turn back. One slipped and fell, floundering
momentarily in the stagnant lake waters before struggling back
out again.

Come after me, she hissed soundlessly at them. Come see
what I have planned for you.

Then she was on the island and turning back once more, me
fire from the Elfstones already building in her hand. She went
cold as she realized that she might have waited too long, that
the closest of the Creepers was less than fifty yards away. She
willed forth the magic quickly, and sent the fire not into the

The Talismans of Shannara                          375

Creepers but into the lake about them, into the ridges with
their breathing holes, into the Things.

The lake exploded in geysers that shot hundreds of feet
into the air as dark shapes lifted skyward like whales breach-
ing. On the bridge, the Creepers slowed, confused by what was
happening, iron jaws clicking, claws scraping. The lake boiled
and churned about them, and then the Things attacked. They
swept out of the stagnant green, out of the depthless shadowed
dark, and tore the Creepers from the bridge. The Creepers
thrashed and flailed but could find no purchase in the waters
and were dragged from sight. The Seekers went with them,
screaming. It happened so fast that it was over almost before
it had begun. It took only seconds, a vast roiling of the lake,
a rising up of darkness, a thrashing of iron and flesh, and the
Creepers were gone.

Save one—the one that had been closest to the island. That
one came on, thundering across what remained of the narrow
bridge, shaking the earth with the fury of its attack. Wren
shifted me fire to meet it, but it came through the flames as if
they were nothing more than gold and scarlet leaves. It was on
the island an instant later, so huge that it blocked away the
whole of the swamp behind where the last ripples were dying
back into stillness across the empty surface. Triss cried out and
leaped to Wren's defense, sword drawn. Stresa was shouting
wildly, and even Faun had appeared, working free of the back-
pack, screaming in fear.

Then a dark shape flashed down out of the haze, swifter
than thought, and Spirit's claws tore at the Creeper's head and
back and knocked the beast aside. The Creeper lurched to its
feet and twisted away in rage. Spirit swept past, banked,
swung around, and struck the Creeper a second time, knocking
it farther back. Triss caught Wren about the waist, flung her
over his shoulder and raced across the island and back onto the
bridge. No! she wanted to warn him. The Things are still out
there! But the breath had been knocked from her lungs, and
she could only claw futilely at him. Faun skittered ahead with
Stresa, the bunch of them strung out like mice on a rope.

In the lake's deep shadows, there was new movement.

But Tiger Ty had not forgotten the task Wren had assigned
him, and Spirit swept back a third dme, ignoring the Creeper

376

The Talismans of Shannara

and coming for the bridge. Tracking them ever since they had
come into the Brakes, Spirit was ready now to fly them to
safety. Claws reached down to secure a grip on the causeway,
and the great Roc clung there long enough for Triss to toss
Wren like a sack of feathers to Tiger Ty and follow her up, for
Paun to scurry after, and even for Stresa to be hauled aboard.
Then Spirit rose again, just avoiding the monstrous jaws that
rose from the swamp to sweep across the bridge in their wake,
snapping at the empty air.

They ascended slowly, and Wren righted herself, secured her
safety straps, and looked down. The last of the Creepers
crouched upon the island, trapped on all sides by the horrors in
the lake. Shadows dappled it like a sickness. It could not es-
cape. It would die there in the swamp like the others. Wren
stared fixedly at it and felt nothing.

Spirit broke clear of the mist and into the sunlight above,
causing Wren to blink from the sudden brightness. The Matted
Brakes and what lay hidden within the mist and gloom receded

below.

Like Morrowindl, relegated to the past ...
Wren turned her face to the sun and did not look back.

XXXII

Twilight shadows lengthened into night, and the sky over
Southwatch grew thick with clouds that screened away
the stars and moon and promised showers before dawn.
The day's heat cooled, the dust and grime settling back to earth
in motes mat danced like fairies as the air lost some of its
thickness. Improbably, the barest trace of a breeze wafted
down out of the Runne. Silence fell across the land, as smooth
as satin and as fragile as glass. Mist clung to the earth in long
tendrils that snaked through gullies and across ridges and
turned the poisoned grasslands surrounding the Shadowen keep
into a vast white sea.

Foaming and swirling, the sea began to roil.
It was a time for phantoms, for ghosts that sailed on the
wind like ships at sea, for things that could walk and leave no
footprints with their passing. It was a time for the day's hopes
and expectations and fears and doubts to take shape and come
forth, searching for a voice with which to speak, seeking re-
demption out of newfound belief. It was a time for reason to
give way to what imagination alone would permit. It was a
time for dreams.

Walker Boh summoned his and watched it come, swift and
certain, a hawk sweeping down, and when it reached him he
stretched to meet it, rising up out of his body as light as air,
catching hold and lifting away. Voiceless, invisible, as one with
the wraiths of the night, he went down out of the forests on the
slopes of the Runne, speeding through the dark trunks and
leafy boughs, through the silence and the black with the grim
certainty of death's coming. He held himself as still as ice in

377

378                         The Talismans of Shannara

winter, easing out onto the blasted, empty flats beyond, cross-
ing through the brume toward the waiting black obelisk. He
went in the manner of the Druids, in the way Allanon had
taught him, a spirit out of flesh. His memories twisted and
tugged at him, those of Allanon and those of the man he had
been. He remembered both at once, and saw himself again as
the outcast who would not believe,^ who had fought against the
transition that the Druid magic had inevitably wrought. And
again, too. Walker Boh saw himself as the Druid shade who
had set in motion the events that would culminate in that tran-
sition by bestowing on Brin Ohmsford the blood trust that ul-
timately would find its purpose in him. It was strange to be
more than one, and yet it was fitting, too. He had never been
at peace with himself, and his dissatisfaction came in large part
from feeling incomplete. Now he was fulfilled, one man made
out of many, one formed of all. He was still learning to be
what he had become, to be comfortable with what he was, but
it began with feeling whole, and he thought he was that at least

if nothing else.

The earth beneath was blackened and bare, stripped of life,
burned away and scorched, empty and razed. The Shadowen
had done that, but he did not understand yet the nature of their
poison. Tonight, he thought, he might.

Southwatch loomed ahead, its black pinnacle towering over
him, its knife-edged spire reaching for the sky. He could feel
the life within it. He could feel its pulse. Southwatch was
alive. There was magic in its walls, magic that had formed and
now sustained and protected it. The magic was powerful, but
reluctant He could sense that. He could feel the strain of its ef-
fort to be free. Deep inside the black stone it crouched, an an-
imal caged. Shadowen walked within and without, barely
visible against the black, keeping watch. The magic fled from

them.
A part of me mist, a part of the night, as silent as drifting

ash, he came up to the walls. Oblivious, the Shadowen did not
sense him passing close and moving on. He came to the gates
of the keep and slid swiftly away. They were too well pro-
tected to venture through, even as a spirit. He waited for one
of the dark things to enter through a crack in the stone skin
and followed. He felt the weight of the tower close about him

The Talismans of Shannara                         379

as he did so, a palpable thing. He hugged himself against the
evil that raged through the air, a mix of terrible anger and ha-
tred and despair. Where, he wondered in surprise, did it come

from?

He hesitated in his choice of directions, and then impul-
sively followed the magic toward its source. Just for a mo-
ment, just to have a look. The magic emanated from below,
from deep within the earth beneath the keep, all darkness and
blind fury. He slipped along the corridors of the fortress, care-
ful not to brush against the walls, against anything of sub-
stance, for even in his spirit form he might be sensed. The
wards were powerful here, greater than had been those of Uhl
Betk at Eldwist, greater even than those of the Druids in the
Hall of Kings. The magic was powerful beyond belief, a great
crushing force that could destroy anything.

Anything, he corrected, but the bonds that secured it and
made it serve the Shadowen.

He followed a stairwell down, winding and twisting through
the black, hearing for the first time the sound of something
grinding and huffing, the sound of something at labor. It had
the feel of a dragon chained. It had the taste and smell of
sweat. It strained and lifted like a bellows at work within a
forge—and yet it was nothing so simple as that. It was from
here that the magic took its life, he sensed. It was from here
that it was given birth.

Then he reached wards that even a spirit could not pass un-
detected, and he was forced to turn aside. He was close to
what lay trapped within the cellars of Southwatch, close to the
source of the magic, to the secret the Shadowen kept so care-
fully hidden. But he could go no closer, and so the secret
would have to keep.

He turned back up the stairway, speeding quickly through
the gloom, a brief glimmer of thought and nothing more. He
passed more of the Shadowen wraiths as he went, and one or
two slowed before going on, but none discovered him. He
went now in search of Par, knowing the Valeman was a pris-
oner, anxious to discover where he was being kept and whether
he was still himself. For there was reason to believe he might
not be. There was reason to believe that he had been subverted
and was lost.

380                         The Talismans of Shannara

Walker Boh's heart was as stone as he considered the pos-
sibility. The signs were there that it was happening. It had be-
gun with the changing of Par's magic, the evolution of the
wishsong into something more than what it had been when he
had begun his journey to the Hadeshom and Allanon. It had
continued with the breaking down of his confidence in its use,
the sense that somehow the magic was getting away from him.
It would terminate here, in the Shadowen keep, if Par em-
braced their cause, if he accepted that he was one of them.

As he was. Walker Boh thought darkly.

And yet wasn't.

Games within games. He knew some of their rules, but not
yet all.

He ascended the stairwells of the keep in steady search of
the Valeman, seeking down the dark corridors and into the
darker rooms, swiftly and silently. He remembered how Par
had convinced him to come to the Hadeshom to speak with the
shade of Allanon. He remembered how Par had believed. The
magic is a gift. The dreams are real. Well, yes and no. It was
so. And not. Like so many things, the truth lay somewhere in
between.

Old memories triggered new, and he saw himself as Allanon
leading Cogline down the corridors of Paranor when the Dru-
id's Keep was still locked in the mists between worlds, ban-
ished by the magic to the nether reaches. He felt Cogline's mix
of fear and determination, and in those emotions found mir-
rored anew the conflict within himself. Cogline had understood
that conflict. He had tried to help Walker leam to balance the
weight of it. Human and Druid—the parts that formed him
would struggle with each other forever, the demands and needs
of each at constant war. It would never change. It was the bar-
gain he had struck with himself when he had agreed to accept
the blood trust. The last of the old Druids or the first of the
new—which was he? Both, he thought. And thought, too, that
maybe this was the way it had been for Allanon and Bremen
and Galaphile and all the others.

He rose high within the dark tower, and suddenly there was
the barest whisper of a familiar presence. It emanated from
down the corridor he faced at the head of the stairwell, a gos-
samer thread. He went toward it, cautious because there was a

The Talismans of Shannara                          381

second presence as well, and this one familiar, too. He smelled
Rimmer Dall as he would a swamp, vast and depthless. The
leader of the Shadowen filled the air with his dark magic, the
scent of it a toxic perfume. Just beneath its veil and barely rec-
ognizable, Par's own magic crouched, suppressed and raging.

Walker coasted to the door behind which they faced each
other, paused without where he would not be sensed, and bent
to listen.

"It would help," Rimmer Dall said softly, "if you were not
so frightened of the word."
Shadowen.

"What you are will not be changed by what you are called.
Or even by what you call yourself. It is your fear of accepting
the truth about yourself that threatens you."

Shadowen.

Par Ohmsford heard the whisper in his mind, a repetition
that would not cease, that haunted him now both on waking
and in sleep. And Rimmer Dall was right—he could not escape
his fear of it, his growing certainty that he was the very thing
he had been fighting against from the beginning, the enemy
that the shade of Allanon had sent the children of Shannara to
destroy.

He rose from the edge of his bed and walked to the window
to stare out into the night The sky was clouded and the land
was misted and still, a ragged shadowed playground for the
phantoms of his mind. He was coming apart, he knew. He
could feel it happening. His thoughts were scattered and inco-
herent, his reasoning cluttered with roadblocks, and his con-
centration fragmented to the point of uselessness. Each day it
grew worse, the darkness that surrounded him filling him up
like a bowl that now threatened to overflow. He could not
seem to escape it. His nights were haunted by dreams of con-
frontations with himself as a Shadowen, and his days were
ragged and weary and empty of hope. He was wracked with
despair. He was slipping steadily into madness.

All the while Rimmer Dall continued to come to him, to
speak with him, to offer his help. He knew how bad it was, he
assured the Valeman. He understood the demands of the magic.
Time and again he had warned Par that he must confront

382

The Talismans of Shannara

who and what he was and take the steps necessary to pro-
tect himself. If he failed to do so—and failed now to do so
immediately—he would be lost.

The dark-cloaked figure moved to stand beside him, and for
an instant Par wanted to seek comfort within the other's shad-
owy strength. The urge was so strong that he had to bite his lip
to keep himself from doing so.

"Listen to me. Par," the whispery voice urged, low and per-
suasive. 'Those creatures within the Pit in Tyrsis were like you
once. They had use of the magic—not as you do, for their
magic was of a lesser sort, but like you in that it was real.
They denied who and what they were. We tried to reach
them—or as many of them as we could find. We urged them
to accept that they were Shadowen and to embrace the help
that we could offer. They refused."

A hand settled lightly on Par's shoulder, and he flinched
from it. The hand did not move. 'The Federation found them
all, one by one, and took them to Tyrsis and put them into the
Pit, caging them like animals. It destroyed them. Trapped in
the darkness, deprived of hope and reason, they became vic-
tims quickly. The magic consumed them and made them the
monsters you found. Now they live a terrible existence. We
who are Shadowen can walk among them, for we can under-
stand them. But they can never be free again, and the Federa-
tion will leave them there until they die."

No, Par thought. No, I do not believe you. I do not.

But he wasn't sure, just as he wasn't sure about much of
anything now. Too much had happened for him to be sure. He
knew he was being eaten up by magic, but he did not know
whose it was. He had determined that he would stall until he
could find out, but he had made no progress. He was as im-
prisoned as the creatures in the Pit, and though Rimmer Dall
had offered him help repeatedly, he could not accept that the
First Seeker's help was what he needed.

Demons wheeled before his eyes, sharp-eyed monsters that
teased and laughed and danced away. They followed him ev-
erywhere. They lived within him like parasites. The magic
fostered them. The magic gave them life.

Down in the depths of Southwatch, the thrumming contin-
ued, steady and inexorable.

The Talismans of Shannara

383

He wheeled away from the window and the big man's
touch. He wanted to bury his face in his hands. He wanted to
cry or scream. But he had resolved to show nothing and he
was determined to keep that promise. So much had happened
to him, he thought. So much that he wished had not. Some of
it was beginning to fade, dim memories lost in a haze of con-
fusion. Some of it lingered like the acrid taste of metal on his
tongue. It felt as if everything inside was roiling about like
windswept clouds, shaping and reshaping and never showing
anything for more than an instant.

"You must allow me to help you," Rimmer Dall whispered,
and there was an urgency to his voice that Par could not ig-
nore. "Don't let this happen. Par. Give yourself a chance.
Please. You must. You have gone on as long as you can alone.
The magic is too great a burden. You cannot continue to carry
it by yourself."

The big hands settled on his shoulders once more, holding
him firm, filling him with strength.

And Par felt all his resolve crumble in that instant, cracking
and falling away like shards of shattered glass. He was so
tired. He wanted someone to help. Anyone. He could not go
on. The demons whispered insidiously. Their eyes gleamed
with anticipation. He brushed at them futilely, and they only
laughed. He gritted his teeth at them in fury. He felt the magic
build within him and with an effort he forced it back.

"Let me help you. Par," Rimmer Dall pleaded, holding him.
"It won't take a moment for me to do so. Remember? Let me
come into you just long enough to see where the magic threat-
ens. Let me help you find the protection you need."

Enough of Allanon. Enough of the Druids and their warn-
ings. Enough of everything. Where are those who said they
would help me now that I need them? All gone, all lost. Even
Coll. I am so tired.

"If you wish," Rimmer Dall whispered, "you can come into
me first. It is not difficult. You can lift out of yourself quite
easily if you try. I can show you how. Par. Just look at me.
Turn around and look at me."

The Sword of Shannara lost. Wren and Walker and Morgan
disappeared. Where is Damson? Why am I always alone?

There were tears in his eyes, blinding him.

384

The Talismans of Shannara

"Look at me. Par."

He turned slowly and started to look up.

But in that instant a shadow passed between them, swift as
light, come and gone in the blink of an eye, and in its wake
Par Ohmsford thrust out violently.

No!

Fire exploded between them, generated by the friction of
their contact, sparking and flying out into the shadows. Rim-
mer Dall wheeled away, the features of his rawboned face
knotted in rage. His black robes billowed out and his gloved
hand lifted in a blaze of red fury. Par, still unsure about what
had happened, gasped and fell back, throwing up his own pro-
tection, feeling the blue fire of the wishsong's magic rise to
shield him. In an instant, he was sheathed in light, and now it
was Rimmer Dall's turn to draw back.

They faced each other in the gloom, the fires of their magics
gathered at the tips of their fingers, eyes mirroring anger and

fear.

"Stay away from me!" Par hissed.

Rimmer Dall remained unmoving before him for an instant
more, huge and black and unyielding. Then he drew back his
fire, lowered his gloved hand, and stalked from the room with-
out a word.

Par Ohmsford let the fire of his magic die as well. He stood
staring into the shadows that surrounded him, wondering at

what he had done.
All about him, his demons danced in seeming glee.

"How long is he going to stay like that? " Many Roh finally

asked.

Morgan Leah shook his head. Walker Boh hadn't moved for
more man an hour. He was in some sort of trance, a self-
induced half sleep. He sat wrapped in his dark cloak, his eyes
closed, his breathing slow and barely discernible. He had told
them to keep watch and wait for his return. He hadn't told
them where he was going. In truth, it didn't appear that he had
gone anywhere, but Morgan knew better than to question the

Dark Uncle.

They were gathered in a stand of spruce high within the for-
ests bordering the cliffs of the Runne—Morgan, Matty, Dam-

The Talismans of Shannara 385

son Rhee, Coil Ohmsford, and Walker Boh. In the darkness
beyond where they waited. Rumor's eyes gleamed watchfully.
The night was deep and still, the sky a blanket of clouds from
horizon to horizon, the air fresh with the smell of a north wind
out of the trees. Five days had passed since Walker had found
Morgan and saved him from the encircling Shadowen. He had
tricked the dark things by cloaking one of them in Morgan's
image and letting the others tear it to pieces. It had satisfied the
Shadowen that the intruder they were tracking was destroyed,
and they had drifted back into Southwatch. Yesterday the
Valeman and his rescuers had reappeared, crossing the Rain-
bow Lake in a small skiff. Walker and Morgan had intercepted
them at the mouth of the Mermidon and brought them here.

"What do you think he is doing? " Matty persisted, her
voice anxious and uneasy.

"I don't know," Morgan confessed.

He leaned forward for a closer look but moved quickly back
again when he heard Rumor growl. He looked at Matty and
shrugged. The other two sat silent, faceless in the gloom. They
were better rested and fed than they had been in a while, but
they were all emotionally drained and physically worn from
the long struggle to stay alive. What kept them going was their
common determination to find Par Ohmsford and the sense
they got from Walker Boh that their journey from the
Hadeshom was coming to a close.

"He's looking for Par," Damson said suddenly, her voice a
low whisper in the silence.

He was, of course. He was following the secondary trail of
the Skree to Southwatch to see if the Valeman was a prisoner
there. Coil had always been certain his brother was in
Shadowen hands, and so were the rest of them by now. But
Walker was searching for something more, Morgan sensed. He
would not talk about it yet, had been careful to keep it to him-
self, in fact. He knew something he wasn't telling them, but
then that was the way it was with the Druids, and that was
what Walker was now. A Druid. Morgan breathed deeply and
relaxed, staring off into the dark. How strange. Walker Boh
had become the very thing he had once abhorred. Who would
have believed it? Well, they had all come from different worlds

386

The Talismans of Shannara

than this one, he thought philosophically. They had all lived

different lives.

He was staring right at Walker when the other's eyes
opened, and it startled him so he jumped. The pale face lifted
within the cloak's hood, ghostly white, and the lean body shiv-
ered.

"He is alive," the Dark Uncle whispered, coming back to
himself as they stared at him. "Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen
have him imprisoned."

He rose tentatively, hugging himself as if cold. The others
rose with him, exchanging uncertain glances. Rumor moved in
from the dark.

"What did you see? " Coil asked anxiously. "Did you have

a vision? "

Walker Boh shook his head. He reached down absently to
stroke Rumor's broad head as the cat nuzzled up against him.
"No, Coll. I used a Druid trick and went out of my body in
spirit form to enter the Shadowen keep. They could not sense
me so easily that way. I found Par locked within the tower.
Rimmer Dall was with him. The First Seeker was trying to
persuade Par to let him take control of the wishsong's magic.
He says that Par is a Shadowen like himself."

"He has told Par that before," Damson said quietly.

"It is a lie," Coil insisted.

But Walker Boh shook his head. "Perhaps not. There is
some truth to what he says. I can sense it in the words. But the
troth is an elusive thing here. There is more of it than is being
told. Par is confused and angry and frightened. He is on the
verge of accepting what the First Seeker tells him. He was
close to letting the other have his way."

"No," Damson whispered, white-faced.

Walker breathed the night air and sighed. "No, indeed. But
time is running out for Par. His strength is fading. I risked a
small intrusion to disrupt the acceptance and for now it will
not happen. But we have to get to him quickly. The secret to
destroying the Shadowen lies with Par. It always has. Rimmer
Dall ignores everything in his efforts to win Par over. He
knows of my return, of Wren's return, of our escapes from
other Shadowen. He knows we draw steadily closer to him.
The Shadowen are threatened, but he concentrates only on Par.

The Talismans of Shannara                          387

Par is the key. If we can free him of his fear of the wishsong,
we may have all the pieces to the puzzle. AUanon sent us to
find the talismans and we have done so. He sent us to bring
back the Elves and Paranor and we have done that as well. We
have everything we require to defeat the Shadowen; we just
need to discover how to use it. The answer lies down there."

He looked off into the valley, down through the trees to
where the dark obelisk of Southwatch rose against the horizon.

"The Sword of Shannara will free Par," Coil promised, step-
ping forward determinedly. "I know it will."

Walker didn't seem to hear him. "There is one thing more.
The Shadowen keep something locked within the cellars of the
keep, something living, chained by magic and held against its
will. I don't know what it is, but I sense that it is powerful and
that we have to find a way to set it free if we are to win this
fight. Whatever it is, the Shadowen guard it with their lives.
The wards protecting it are very strong."

He looked back at them again. "The Shadowen are Elven-
bom and use Elven magic out of the time of faerie. Their
strengths and weaknesses all derive from that. Par may be one
of them in some sense because he is of Elven blood. I can't be
sure. But I think the question of what he will become has not
yet been settled."

"He would never turn against us," Damson whispered, and
looked away.

"What do we do, Walker? " Coil asked quietly. He held the
Sword of Shannara in both hands, and his blocky face was set
like a piece of granite.

"We go down after him, Valeman," the other answered. "We
go after him now, before it is too late."

"Not all of us," Morgan interjected hastily, and glanced at
the women.

Walker looked at him. "They are resolved to go, High-
lander."

Morgan refused to back off. He didn't want Damson and
Matty going down into the Shadowen den. The men all pos-
sessed magic of one sort or another to protect themselves. The
women had nothing. It seemed a mistake.

"You're not leaving me," Damson interjected quickly, and
he saw Matty nod in agreement.

388 The Talismans of Shannara

"It's too dangerous," he heard himself object. "We can't
protect you. You have to stay here."

They glared at him, and he faced them down. For a moment
no one spoke, the three of them standing toe to toe in the dark-
ness, daring one another to say something more.

Then Walker lifted one hand and brought Damson and
Matty before him and in the same motion moved Morgan
and Coil back. He was taller than Morgan remembered, and
broader as well, as if he had grown and put on weight. It
wasn't possible, of course, but it seemed that way. It appeared
as if he were more than one man. He filled me space between
them, huge and forbidding, and the night about them was
hushed suddenly with expectation.

"I cannot give you magic with which to fight," he told the
women softly, "but I can give you magic with which to shield
yourselves from the Shadowen attack. Stand quiet now. Don't
move."

He reached out then and swept the air about them with his
hand. The air filled with a brightness that seemed to spread
and fall like dust, burning and fading away as it touched them.
He brought his hand up one side and down the other, glazing
them with the brightness from head to foot, leaving them mo-
mentarily shimmering and then cloaked once more in black-
ness.

"If you are resolved to go," he said, "this will help keep you
safe."

He brought them all back about him, gathering them in like
small children to a father's embrace. He looked suddenly tired
and lost, but he looked determined as well. "We will do what
we must and what we can," he told them. "Everything we
have fought for, every road we have traveled, every life given
up along the way, has been for this. I was told so by Allanon
after the return of Paranor, after my own transformation, after
Cogline had given up his life for me. The end of the Shadowen
or the end of us happens here. No one has to go who doesn't
choose to. But everyone is needed."

"We're going," Damson said quickly. "All of us."

The others, even Morgan Leah, nodded in agreement.

"Five, then." Walker smiled faintly. "We go to Par first to
set him free, to give him back the use of his magic. If we suc-

The Talismans of Shannara                          ^gg

ceed in that, we go down into the cellars. We leave now, so
that we can enter Southwatch at dawn." He paused as if
searching for something more to say. "Look out for yourselves
Stay close to me."

In the darkness of the grove, the five faced one another and
gave voiceless acquiescence to the pact. They would try to fin-
ish what so many had begun so long ago, and while they might
have wished it otherwise, they were all that were left to do so.

Silent shadows, the three men, the two women, and the
moor cat slipped out from the trees and down the mountainside
ahead of the coming light.

XXXIII

Two days following the destruction of the Creepers in the
Matted Brakes, the Elves attacked the Federation army
on the flats below the Valley of Rhenn. They struck just
before dawn when the light was weak and sleep still thick in
the eyes of their enemy. The skies were clouded from a rain
that had fallen all through the night, the air damp-smelling and
cool, the ground sodden and treacherous underfoot, the land
filled with a low-lying blanket of nrist that stretched away
from the Westland forests toward the sunrise. The grasslands
had the look of some phantasmagoric netherworld, shadows
shifting within the haze, skies black and threatening and press-
ing down against the earth, sounds muted and indistinct and
somehow given to suggest things not really there. Everything
took on the look and feel of something else. The timing was

perfect for the Elves.

They had not intended to attack at all. They had planned a de-
fense that would begin at the Valley of Rhenn and give way as
required back toward the home city of Arborion. But Barsim-
mon Oridio had arrived the day before, linking up at last with
Wren Elessedil and the advance column, bringing the Elven
army up to full strength for the first time, and after Elf Queen
and General huddled with Desidio, Tiger Ty, and a handful of
high-ranking commanders from the main army, it was decided
that there was no point in waiting on a Federation attack, that
waiting only gave the Federation time to dispatch further rein-
forcements, and that the best defense was an unexpected offense.
It was Desidio's suggestion, and Wren was surprised to hear him
offer it and even more surprised to hear Bar accept. But the old

390

The Talismans of Shannara 391

general, though conservative by nature and set in his ways, was
no fool. He recognized the precariousness of their situation and
was sharp enough to understand what was needed to offset the
Federation's superior numbers. Handled in the right manner, an
attack might succeed. He organized its execution, scouted it out
personally, and at dawn of the day following set it in motion.

The Federation was still waking up, having crossed the better
part of the flats south to reach the head of the valley, intent on
covering the last few miles after sunrise and entering the valley
at noon. They could not camp safely within the Rhenn, knowing
that the Elves had settled their defenses there, and they were
reasonably sure that the Elves would await them there. Once
again they guessed wrong. The Elves crept out of the forest
west while it was still dark, setting their bowmen in triple lines
along the Federation flank and backing them with a dozen ranks
of foot soldiers equipped with spears and short swords. A sec-
ond set of archers and foot soldiers and all of the cavalry were
sent down out of the valley east to organize a second line of at-
tack at me northeast front of the Federation camp. It was all car-
ried out in absolute silence, the Elves employing the stealth
tactics they had perfected while still on Morrowindl—every-
thing done in small increments, the army broken down into
squads and patrols that were dispatched separately and reassem-
bled at the point of attack. The Elves had fought together for
ten years against odds as great as these. They were not deterred
and they were not frightened. They were fighting for their lives,
but they had been doing so for a long time.

The archers on the west flank struck first, raining arrows
down into the waking camp. As the Federation soldiers sprang
up, snatching for armor and weapons, the call to battle ringing
out, the Elven Hunters started forward, spears lowered, passing
between the archers and down into the midst of the enemy. As
they carved their way through the melee, the archers above the
Federation army launched a second front. By now the South-
landers were convinced they were surrounded and were at-
tempting to defend on all sides. The Elven cavalry, a relatively
small body, swept down out of the haze to rake the still-
disorganized Federation defense and send it reeling back. The
whole of the flats where the Federation was encamped was a
sea of struggling, surging bodies.

392                         The Talismans of Shannara

The Elves pressed the attack for as long as they were able
to do so without risking entrapment, then fell back into the
mist and gloom. Barsimmon Oridio commanded personally on
the west flank, Desidio on the northeast. Wren Elessedil, Triss,
.and a body of Home Guard watched through the shifting haze
from a promontory at the mouth of the valley. Faun sat on
Wren's shoulder, wide-eyed, and shivering. Stresa was scouting
the forests west of the valley on his own. Tiger Ty was with
the Wing Riders, who were being held in reserve.

The attack broke off as planned, and the Elves shifted their
positions, taking advantage of the gloom and the confusion,
moving swiftly to re-form. They had been settled down in the
valley for almost two weeks now, and their scouts had studied
the terrain thoroughly. Callahom might belong to the Federation,
but the Elves knew this particular part of it better than the sol-
diers of the Southland army. The west flank moved to the front
and the northeast moved directly east. Then they struck again,
this time bringing archers forward to point-blank range, then
sending swordsmen in their wake. The Federation army was
driven backward, and men began to break and run. The center
held firm, but the edges were being systematically destroyed.
Men lay wounded and dying everywhere, and the chain of com-
mand of the Southland juggernaut was in almost total disarray.

It might have ended then and there, the front ranks of the
Federation army falling back across the flats in confusion, but
for one of those quirks of battle that seemingly always crop up
to affect the outcome. Riding in the thick of the east flank's
strike, Desidio had his horse shot out from under him and went
down in a tangle of bodies. His arm and leg were broken, and
he was pinned beneath his horse. As he watched helplessly, the
foremost of the Federation defenders, encouraged by his fall,
launched a counterattack. The attacked pressed back toward the
injured Elven commander, and the Elves abandoned their battle
plan and rushed to protect him. Freeing him from his horse,
they pulled him to safety, but the whole of their front collapsed.

Hearing shouts of victory from the right, the Federation re-
grouped and counterattacked Barsimmon Oridio. Without a
second front, the Elven commander was forced to fall back as
well or risk being overwhelmed. The Federation surged toward
him, disorganized still, but numbering thousands and regaining

The Talismans of Shannara                          393

lost around through sheer weight of numbers. When it seemed
as if Bar would not reach the safety of the Rhenn without hav-
ing to stand and fight again. Wren sent the Wing Riders into
the fray, sweeping down out of the clouds to rake the foremost
ranks of the Federation assault and stall it out long enough for
the balance of Bar's forces to escape.

The attack broke off then as both armies paused to regroup.
The Elves entrenched anew along the slopes and at the head of
the Rhenn, there to await the Federation advance. The Feder-
ation, for its part, sent its dead and wounded to the rear, and
began to reassemble the bulk of its fighting men for a massive
strike. Their plan was not complicated. They intended to come
right at the Elves and simply overwhelm them. There was no
reason to think they could not do so.

Wren visited Desidio and found him in severe pain, his leg
and arm splinted and wrapped, his face as gray as ash. He was
furious at being hurt and asked to be carried back to his sol-
diers. She refused his request, and bolstered by orders from
Barsimmon Oridio she dispatched him back to Arborlon, his
involvement in the battle ended.

Bar huffed up to her and announced that a commander
named Ebben Cruenal would take over Desidio's command.
Wren nodded without comment. Both knew that no one would
adequately replace Desidio.

The day brightened, but the clouds and the haze hung on,
leaving the land in a swelter of damp and heat. Morning edged
toward midday. The Elves sent scouts east and west to check
for flanking maneuvers but found none. The Federation, it
seemed, was confident that a direct attack would succeed.

The attack came shortly after midday, the drums booming
out of the haze as the army advanced, wave upon wave of
black-and-scarlet-garbed soldiers marching to the beat, spears
and swords gleaming. Archers guarded the flanks, and cavalry
patrolled out along the fringes to warn against surprise attacks.
But the Elves did not have enough men to chance splitting
their forces, and they were forced to concentrate on holding the
Rhenn. The Federation marched into the valley as if oblivious
to what waited, into the teeth of the Elven weaponry.

The Elves struck from all sides. Entrenched above and under
cover, the archers raked the Federation ranks until the South-

394                         The Talismans of Shannara

landers were forced to march over the bodies of their own men.
But still they came on, carving their way forward, using their
own bowmen to screen their advance. Wren watched with Bar
and Triss from the head of the valley, listening to the cries and
screams of the fighting men and the clash of their weapons and
armor. She had never experienced anything like this, and she
shrank from the fury of it. Bar stood apart, observing dispas-
sionately, issuing orders to messengers who carried them for-
ward, and exchanging comments with members of his staff and
occasionally with Triss. The Elves had seen a lot of fighting and
had fought a lot of battles. This was nothing new for them. But
for Wren, it was like standing at the center of a maelstrom.

As the battle wore on, she found herself thinking of the
senselessness of it all. The Federation was seeking to destroy
the Elves because they believed Elven magic was destroying
the Four Lands. While Elven magic was indeed at fault, it had
not been conjured by the Elves under attack but by renegades
Yet the Elves under attack were responsible for allowing their
magic to be subverted and the Shadowen to come into being IP
the first place. And the Federation was responsible for perpet-
uating the misguided witch hunt that would place all blame
with the Westland Elves. Mistakes and contradictions, miscon-
ceptions and false beliefs—they knotted together to make the
madness possible. Reason had no place' here. Wren thought
disgustedly. But then in war, she supposed, it seldom did.

For a time me Elves held their ground and me Federation at-
tack stalled. But gradually the pressure of so many on so few
began to tell, and the Elves were driven back, first along the
slopes of the valley and then on its floor. They gave ground
grudgingly, but steadily. The attack was beginning to roll them
up like leaves before a broom. Bar committed the last of his re-
serves and left to join the fight. Triss sent the bulk of the Home
Guard forward to a position on the slopes several hundred yaros
below where he stood with Wren. The orders he gave were sim-
ple. There was to be no retreat unless he called for it. The Home
Guard would stand and die where it was to protect the queen.

Overhead, the Wing Riders were using their Rocs to carry
logs and boulders to drop into the center of the Federation
ranks. The damage was fearful, but the enemy archers had
wounded two of the giant birds, and the others were being kept

The Talismans of Shannara

395

at a distance. From out of the haze south marched further re-
inforcements for the Southland army. There were just too
many, Wren thought dismally. Too many to stop.

She had agreed to remain clear of the fighting, to save the
Elfstones for when they were needed most, either against the
Creepers and their Shadowen masters or against anything else
the dark magic might conjure up. So far nothing of that sort
had joined in the Federation attack. Even the black-cloaked
Seekers had not shown themselves. It appeared they felt they
were not needed, that the regular army could manage well
enough alone. It appeared that they were right.

The afternoon lengthened with agonizing slowness. The
Federation army now held the mouth of the valley and was
moving steadily toward its head. All efforts to slow the ad-
vance had failed. The Elves were giving way before it, se-
verely outnumbered, desperately tired, fighting for the most
part on heart alone. Wren watched the black and scarlet hordes
inch closer, and her hand closed over the bag that contained
the Elfstones and drew it forth. She had hoped not to have to
use the Stones. She was not sure even now that she could.
These were not Creepers she would be destroying; they were
men. It seemed wrong to use the magic against humans. It
seemed unconscionable. Using the Elfstones drained her of
strength and willpower; she knew that much from her encoun-
ters with the Shadowen here and on Morrowindl. But using
them drained her of humanity as well, threatening each time to
diminish her in a way that would not let her ever be herself
again. Killing of any sort did that to you, but it would be
worse if she was forced to kill human beings.

Triss moved up beside her. "Put them away, my lady," he
said quietly. "You don't have to use them."

It was as if he had read her mind, but that was the way it
was between them, the way it had been since Morrowindl.

^1 can't let the Elves lose," she whispered.

"You can't help them win if you lose yourself either." He
put his hand over hers. "Put them away. Dusk approaches. We
may be able to hang on until then."

He did not mention what would happen when tomorrow ar-
rived and the Federation juggernaut came at them again, but

396 The Talismans of Shannara

she knew that there was no point in dwelling on it. She did as
he suggested. She slipped the Elfstones away again.

Below, the fighting had intensified. In places, the Federation
soldiers were breaking through the Elven lines.

"I need to send Home Guard to help them," Triss said
quickly, already moving away. "Wait here for me." He called
to the knot of Home Guard surrounding her to keep the queen
safe, and moved quickly down the slope and out of view.

Wren stood staring down at the carnage. She was alone now
with Faun and eight protectors. Alone on an island of calm
while all about the seas raged. She hated what she was seeing.
She hated that it was happening. If she survived this, she
swore, she would spend what remained of her life working to
revive the Elven tradition of healing, carrying the tenants of
that skill back into the Four Lands to the other Races.

Faun stirred on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek. "There,
there, little one," she whispered soothingly. "It's all right."

The valley was awash with men surging back and forth
along the slopes and down the draw, and the sound of the
fighting had grown louder with its approach. She glanced at
the sky west in search of the darkness that would bring the bat-
tle to a close, but it was still too far removed and distant to
give hope. The Elves would not last until, then, she thought
bleakly. They would not survive.

"We've come so far to lose now," she murmured to hersel*',
so low that only Faun could hear. The Tree Squeak cluttered
softly. "It's not fair. It's not ..."

Then Faun shrieked in warning, and she wheeled about to
find a wave of black-cloaked Seekers breaking from cover be
hind her, emerging from the trees where the shadows and mist
cast their deepest gloom. The Seekers came swiftly, purpose-
fully toward her, weapons glinting wickedly in me half-light,
wolf's-head insignias gleaming on their breasts. The Home
Guard rushed to defend her, springing to intercept the attack
ers. But the Seekers were quick and merciless, cutting dov/n
the Elves almost as quickly as they reached them. Cries ct
warning rang out, shouts for help to those below, but the
sounds of battle drowned them out completely.

Wren panicked. Six of the Home Guard were down and thr
last two were on the verge of falling. The Seekers must ha\ e

The Talismans of Shannara                          397

worked their way past the scouts and into the deep forest to
reach her. She was surrounded on three sides and the circle
was closing Once they had her trapped, there was no question
as to what would happen. They had lost her once. They would
not risk it again.

She turned to run, tripped, stumbled, and fell. The Seekers
had killed the last of the Home Guard and were coming for
her. She was all alone now. Faun sprang clear of her shoulder,
hissing. She reached into her tunic for the bag that contained
the Elfstones, her fingers closing on it, dragging it free, lifting
it up. Everything took so long. She tried to breathe and found
her throat frozen shut. Blades lifted before her, sweeping up as
the Seekers came for her. She scrambled backward through the
long grass as she fought to free the Elfstones from the bag. No!
No! She couldn't move fast enough. She was cast in molten
ore and cooling to iron. She was paralyzed. Red eyes gleamed
within the hoods of the attackers who were nearest. How could
they have slipped through? How could this have happened?

Her hands tore apart the drawstrings, frantic, wild, dig-
ging, and then digging harder. The first of the Seekers reached
her, and she kicked out with her boot and knocked him aside.
Grasping the bag, she scrambled to her feet, weaponless as she
faced the rest. She screamed in fury, giving up on the Stones,
her hand closing over the leather pouch in a fist, swinging at the
Seeker closest, deflecting the blade from her throat so that it
sliced down the side of her arm, shredding her cloak and draw-
ing blood. She spun and kicked, and another of her attackers
flew aside. But there were too many, too many to face alone.

Then Faun was leaping into the fray, launching her tiny body
at the closest attacker, spitting and tearing with her claws and
teeth. The Seekers behind slowed, not certain what it was they
faced, surprised by the Tree Squeak's sudden reappearance.
Wren stumbled backward again and struggled to her feet. Faun!
she tried to call out, but her throat constricted on the cry. The
Seeker Faun had attacked ripped out furiously, tearing the small
body away from its face and throwing it to the ground. "No!"
Wren howled, bringing up the arm that held the Elfstones. Faun
struck the rocky earth and the Seeker brought down his boot.

There was the sound of breaking bones and a high-pitched
shriek.

398                         The Talismans of Shannara

And everything shattered inside Wren Elessedil, a whirlwind
of fury and anguish and despair, and from out of its core rose
the magic of the Elfstones. It exploded inside her fist, disinte-
grating the leather pouch, ripping through the cracks of her fin-
gers like water squeezed through sand. It caught the Seeker
standing over Faun and consumed him. It raced on to the others
who were trying to reach her and hammered into them. They
went down as if formed of paper, as if cut and pasted together,
then hung on strings in the air and left to withstand the force
and violence of a windstorm. Some got past and reached her,
hands groping, tearing for her. Some fastened on her and sought
to bring her down. But Wren was beyond their power, beyond
feeling, beyond anything but the Elven magic as it surged
through her. She was given over to its need and nothing could
bring her back until that need was satisfied. The magic swung
back to catch those clinging to her and ripped them away, loose
threads from her clothing. She turned to destroy them, and they
burned like fall leaves in the magic's flames. She made no
sound as she fought them, all her words forgotten, her face
twisted in a death mask. The battle between the Elves and the
Federation disappeared in a haze of red. She could no longer
see anything beyond the ground over which she fought. Seekers
came at her and died in the fiery wake of the Elfstone magic,
and the smell of their ashes was all she knew.

Then suddenly she was alone again, the last of the Seekers
racing for the trees, fleeing in terror, black robes shredded and
smoking. She gathered up the fire and sent it racing after them
and with it went the last of her strength. Her arm dropped, and
the fire faded. She fell to her knees. The grass about her was
charred black and stinking. There were ash piles everywhere
amid the bodies of the Home Guard. She heard shouts from the
slopes below, where Triss and the balance of the Home Guard
had taken up their stations to face the Federation. Don't touch
me, she said in response. Don't come near me. But she wasn't
sure if she had spoken the words or not. The shouts grew, re-
sounding now from all across the Valley of Rhenn. Something
was happening. Something unexpected.

She dragged herself back to her feet and looked out through
the fading, misty light.
Far east, beyond where the mouth of the valley opened onto

The Talismans of Shannara 399

the grasslands below, an army of men had appeared. They
came out in a rush, brandishing their weapons and howling
their battle cries. They were mostly afoot, armed with swords
and bows. They did not join the Federation forces as she had
first thought they might, but instead attacked the Southlanders
with unmatched fury and determination, driving into them like
a rock into damp earth. The cries they gave were audible even
where she stood. "Free-bom! Free-born!" They rolled across
the madness like a fresh wind across a swamp. Then over the
slopes of the valley where the Elves had stood and died and
been driven backward came wave upon wave of massive
armored bodies that seemed chiseled from stone. Rock Trolls,
bearing eight-foot spears, maces, axes, and great iron-bound
shields, marched in cadence out of the gloom and down into
the ranks of the Federation.

Joined together as one, free-bom and Rock Troll swept into
the Southland army. For several minutes the Federation sol-
diers held their ground, still vastly outnumbering their attack-
ers. But this fresh onslaught was too much for men who had
been fighting since sunrise. The Southland soldiers fell back
slowly at first, then more quickly, and finally turned and ran.
The whole of the Valley of Rhenn emptied of Southland troops
as the Federation attack fell apart. Elves joined in the pursuit,
and the combined armies of free-bom. Trolls, and Elves drove
the Federation juggernaut back into the mist and gloom south,
leaving in their wake fresh carnage and destruction, soaking
the ground anew in blood.

Wren turned to find Faun. She heard Triss calling to her as
he scrambled up the slope from behind, heard as well the
sounds of the Home Guard who accompanied him. She did not
respond. She jammed the Elfstones into her tunic pocket as if
they were riddled with plague and left them there, her hands
still tingling with the magic's fire, her mind still loud with a
strange buzzing. Faun lay crumpled amidst the piles of ashes,
unmoving. There was blood all over. Wren knelt beside the
Tree Squeak and lifted the shattered form in her hands.

She was still cradling the tiny creature when Triss and the
Home Guard finally reached her. She did not look up. In a way
she could not explain, she felt as if she were cradling the
whole of the Elven nation.

XXXIV

The assault on Southwatch began with less than an hour
remaining before dawn.

The approach was uneventful. Clouds continued to
blanket the sky, shutting out the light of moon and stars, wrap-
ping the earth below in a soft, thick blanket of gloom. Beneath
the clouds, mist rose off the ground into the air and clung to
trees and brush and grasses like wood smoke. The night was
sdll and deep, empty of sound and movement, and nothing
stirred on the parched and barren land thai surrounded the keep.

Walker Boh led the way, easing them down out of the high
country and onto the flats, taking them through the mist and
shadows, using his Druid magic to cloak them in silence. They
passed as phantoms through the black, as invisible as thought
and as smooth as flowing water. The Shadowen were not abroad
this night, or at least not where the five humans and the moor
cat walked, and the land belonged only to them. Walker was
thinking of his plan. He was thinking that they would never
have enough time to reach Par, free him of his bonds, and de-
scend into the cellar. The Sword of Shannara would be needed
to break the wishsong's strange hold on him, and the Shadowen
would be all over them the moment the Sword was used. What
they needed was to bring Par out of his prison and down to the
cellar before using the Sword. He was thinking of a way they

might do that.

Coil Ohmsford was thinking, too. He was thinking that per-
haps he was wrong in his belief that the Sword of Shannara
could help his brother. It might be that the truth he sought to
reveal would not free Par but drive him mad. For if the truth

400

The Talismans of Shannara                          401

was that Par was a Shadowen, then it was of precious little
use. Perhaps Allanon had intended the Sword for another pur-
pose, he worried—one he had not yet recognized. Perhaps
Par's condition was not something that the Sword could help.

A step behind and to one side, Morgan Leah was thinking
that even with all the talismans they carried and magics they
wielded, their chances of succeeding in this venture were slim.
The odds had been great at Tyrsis when they had gone after
Padishar Creel, but they were far greater here. They would not
all survive this, he was thinking. He did not like the thought,
but it was inescapable, a small whisper at the back of his mind.
He wondered if it was possible that after surviving so much—
the Pit, the Jut, Eldwist, and all the monsters that had inhabited
each—he might end up dying here. It seemed ridiculous
somehow. This was the end of their quest, the conclusion of a
journey mat had stripped them of everything but their determi-
nation to go on. That it should end with them dying was
wrong. But he knew as well that it was possible.

Damson Rhee was thinking of her father and Par and won-
dering if she had traded one for the other in making her deci-
sion to let Par go on alone in search of Coil when his brother
had unexpectedly reappeared among the living. She wondered
if the cost of her choice would be both their lives, and she de-
cided that if her dying was the price exacted for her choice,
she would pay it only after seeing the Valeman one more time.

At her side Matty Roh was wondering how strong the magic
was that the Druid had given her, if it was enough to withstand
the black things they would face, if it would enable her to kill
them. She believed it was. She wore about her an air of invin-
cibility. She was where she was meant to be. Her life had been
leading to this time and place and a resolution of many things.
She looked forward to seeing what it would bring.

Ranging off in the dark, a lean black shadow padding
through the damp predawn grasses. Rumor thought nothing,
untroubled by human fears and rationalizations, driven by in-
stincts and excited by the knowledge that they were at hunt.

They passed through the gloom and came in sight of the dark
tower, not pausing to consider, not even to look, but pressing on
quickly so mat it might be reached before fears and doubts
froze them out. Southwatch rose out of the mist, faint and hazy,

402                          The Talismans of Shannara

a dark wall against the clouds, looking as if it were something
born of the night and in danger of passing back into it with the
coming of dawn. It loomed immutable and fixed, the blackest
dream that sleep had ever conjured, a thing of such evil that
even the closeness of it was enough to poison the soul. They
could feel its darkness as they approached, the measure of its
purpose, the extent of its power. They could feel it breathing
and watching and listening. They could sense its life.

Walker took them to its walls, to where the obsidian surface
rose smooth and black out of the earth, and he placed his
hands against the stone. It pulsed like a living thing, warm and
damp and stretching upward as if seeking release. But how
could this be so? The Dark Uncle pondered the nature of the
tower again, then pressed on along its walls, anxious to find a
way in. He reached out tendrils of his magic to seek the tow-
er's dark inhabitants, but they were all busy within and not
aware yet of his presence. He drew back quickly, not wanting
to alert them, cautious as he continued on.

They came to an entry formed by an arched niche that shel-
tered a broad wedge of stone that was a door. Walker studied
the entry, feeling along its borders and searching its seams. It
could be breached, he decided, the locks released and the por-
tal opened. But would the breach give them away too quickly?
He looked back at the others, the two women, the Highlander,
the Valeman, and the moor cat. They needed to reach Par with-
out being discovered. They needed to gain at least that much
time before having to fight.

He bent close to them. "Hold me upright. Do not let me go
and do not move from this spot."

Then he closed his eyes and went out from himself in spirit
form to enter the keep.

Within the dark confines of his prison cell Par Ohmsford sat
hunched over on his pallet, trying to hold himself together. He
was desperate now, feeling as if another day within the tower
would mark the end of him, as if another day spent wondering
if the magic was changing him irreparably would unhinge him
completely. He could feel the magic working through him all
the time now, racing down his limbs, boiling through his blood,
nipping and scratching at his skin like an itch that could never

The Talismans of Shannara                         403

be satisfied. He hated what was happening to him. He hated
who he was. He hated Rimmer Dall and the Shadowen and
Southwatch and the black hole of his life to which he had been
condemned. Hope no longer had meaning for him. He had lost
his belief that the magic was a gift, that Allanon's shade had
dispatched him into the world to serve some important purpose,
that there were lines of distinction between good and evil, and
that he was meant to survive what was happening to him.

He hugged his knees to his chest and cried. He was sick at
heart and filled with despair. He would never be free of this
place. He would never see Coil or Damson or any of the others
again—if any of them were even still alive. He looked through
the bars of his narrow window and thought that the world be-
yond might have akeady become the nightmare that Allanon
had shown him so long ago. He thought that perhaps it had al-
ways been like that and only his misperception of things had
let him believe it was anything else.

He was careful not to fall asleep. He didn't dare sleep at all
anymore because he couldn't stand the dreams that sleep
brought. He could feel himself beginning to accept the dreams
as fact, to believe that it must be true that he was a Shadowen.
His sense of things was fragmented on waking, and he could
not escape the feeling that he was no longer himself. Rimmer
Dall was a dark figure promising help and offering something
else. Rimmer Dall was the chance he dared not take—and the
chance that he eventually must.

No. No. Never.

There was a stirring in the air where the door to his cell
stood closed and barred. He sensed it before he saw it, then
caught a glimpse of shadows passing across the night. He
blinked, thinking it another of his demons come to haunt him,
another vestige of his encroaching madness. He brushed at the
air before his eyes in response, as if that might clear his vision
so that he could see better what he knew wasn't there. He al-
most laughed when he heard the voice.

Par. Listen to me.

He shook his head. Why should he?

Par Ohmsford!

The voice was sharp-edged and brittle with anger. Par's
head snapped up at once.

404                         The Talismans of Shannara

Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Who am I? Speak my

name.

Par stared at the black nothingness before him, thinking that
he had gone mad indeed. The voice he was listening to was
Walker Boh's.

Speak my name!

"Walker," he whispered.

The word was a spark in the blackness of his despair, and
he jerked upright at its bright flare, legs dropping back down
to the floor, arms falling to his sides. He stared at the gloom
in disbelief, hearing the demons shriek and scatter.

Listen to me. Par. We have come for you. We have come to
set you free and take you away. Coil is with me. And Morgan.

And Damson Rhee.

"No." He could not help himself. The word was spoken be-
fore he could think better of it. But it was what he believed.
It could not be so. He had hoped too many times. He had
hoped, and hope had failed him repeatedly.

The stirring in the air moved closer, and he sensed a pres-
ence he could not see. Walker Boh. How had he reached
him? How could he be here and not be visible? Was he be-
come ... ?

/ am. I have done as I was asked, Par. I have brought back
Paranor and become the first of the new Druids. I have done
as Allanon asked and carried out the charge given to me.

Par came to his feet, breathing rapidly, reaching out at the

nothingness.

Listen to me. You must come down to where we wait. We
cannot reach you here. You must use the magic of the
wishsong, Par. Use it to break through the door that imprisons
you. Break through and come down to us.

Par shook his head. Use the wishsong's magic? Now, after
taking such care to prevent that use? No, he couldn't. If he did,
he would be lost. The magic freed would overwhelm him and
make him the thing he had struggled so to prevent himself
from becoming. He would rather die.

You must. Par. Use the magic.

"No." The word was a harsh whisper in the silence.

We cannot reach you otherwise. Use the magic. Par. If you
are to be free of your prison, of the one you have constructed

The Talismans of Shannara 405

for yourself as well as the one in which the Shadowen have
placed you, you must use the magic. Do it now. Par.

But Par had decided suddenly that this was another trick, an-
other game being played by either his or the Shadowen magic,
a conjuring of voices out of memory to torment him. He could
hear his demons laugh anew. Wheeling away, he clapped his
hands over his ears and shook his head violently. Walker Boh
wasn't there. No one was there. He was as alone now as he
had been since he had been brought to the keep. It was foolish
to think otherwise. This was another facet of his growing mad-
ness, a bright polished surface that mirrored what he had once
dreamed might happen but now never would.

"I won't. I can't."

He clenched his teeth as he spoke and hissed the words as
if they were anathema. He swung away from the perceived
source of the false hope, the voice that wasn't, moving into
deeper shadow, taking himself further into the dark.

Walker Boh's voice came again, steady and persuasive.

Par. You told me once that the magic was a gift, that it had
been given to you for a reason, that it was meant to be used.
You told me that I should believe in the dreams we had been
shown. Have you forgotten?

Par stared into the black before him, remembering. He had
said those things when he had first encountered Walker at
Hearthstone, all those weeks ago, when Walker had refused to
come with him to the Hadeshom. Believe, he had urged the
Dark Uncle. Believe.

Use your magic. Par. Break free.

He turned, the spark visible again in the darkness of his
hopelessness, of his despair. He wanted to believe again. As he
had once urged his uncle to believe. Had he forgotten how? He
started across the room, gaining a measure of determination as
he went. He wanted to believe. Why shouldn't he? Why not
try? Why not do something, anything, but give up? He saw the
door coming toward him out of the gloom, rising up, the bar-
rier he could not get past. Unless. Unless he used the magic.
Why not? What was left?

Walker Boh was beside him suddenly, close enough that he
could feel him even though he was not really there. Walker
Boh, come out of his own despair, his own lack of belief, to

406                         The Talismans of Shannara

accept the charges of Allanon. Yes, Paranor and the Druids
were back. Yes, he had found the Sword of Shannara. And yes,
Wren had found the Elves as well—must have, would have.

Use the magic, Par.

He did not hear the admonition this time. He walked
through it as if it wasn't there, the only sound the rush of his
breathing as he closed on the door. Inside, something gave
way. I won't die here, he was thinking. I won't.

The magic flared at his fingertips then, and he sent it hurtling
into the door, blowing it off its hinges as if it had been caught
in a thunderous wind. The door flew all the way across the hall
and shattered on the wall beyond. Instantly Par was through the
opening and moving down the hall toward the stairs, hearing
Walker Boh's voice again, following the directions and urgings
it was giving, but feeling nothing inside but the fire of the
magic as it wheeled and crashed against his bones, released
anew and determined to stay that way. He didn't care. He liked
having it free. He wanted it to consume him, to consume every-
thing that came within reach. If this was the madness he had
been promised, then he was anxious to embrace it,

He went down the stairs swiftly, leaving the magic's fire in
his wake, fighting to control the buildup of its power within.
Dark shapes darted to meet him, and he burned them to ash.
Shadowen? Something else? He didn't know. The tower had
come awake in the predawn dark, its inhabitants rising up in
response to the magic's presence, knowing they were invaded
and quick to seek out the source of the intrusion. Fire burned
down at him from above and from below, but he sensed it long
before it struck, and deflected it effortlessly. There was a dark
core forming within him, a dangerous mix of casual disregard
and pleasure bom of the magic's use, and its coming seemed
to generate a falling away of caring and worry and caution. He
was shedding his humanity. He could do as he pleased, he
sensed. The magic gave him the right.

Walker Boh was screaming at him, but he could no longer
hear the words. Nor did he care to. He pressed on, moving
steadily downward, destroying everything that came into his
path. Nothing could challenge him now. He sent the fire of the
wishsong ahead and followed gleefully after.

The Talismans of Shannara                         407

Walker Boh thrashed awake again, body jerking, arms yank-
ing free. His companions stepped back from him quickly.
"He's coming!" he hissed, his eyes snapping open. "But he's
losing himself in the magic!"

They did not have to ask who he was talking about. "What
do you mean?" Coil still gripped his cloak, and he pulled
Walker about violently.

Walker's eyes were as hard as stone as they met the
Valeman's. "He has used the magic, but lost control of it. He's
using it on everything. Now, get back from me!"

He shrugged free and wheeled away, put his hands on the
stone door, and pushed. Light flared from his palms and
streaked out of his fingertips into the seams of the massive por-
tal, racing down through the cracks. Locks snapped apart and
iron bars splintered. The time for stealth and caution was past.
The doors shuddered and gave way with a crunch of metal.

They were inside at once, moving into a blackness even
more intense than the night, feeling cold and damp on their
skin, breathing dust and staleness through their nostrils. It
wasn't age and disuse they found waiting, but a terrible foul-
ness that spoke of something trapped and dying. They choked
on it, and Walker sent light scurrying to the darkened comers
of the room in which they stood. It was a massive entry to a
series of halls that passed beneath a catwalk high above. Be-
yond, through an arched opening, stood an empty courtyard.

Somewhere in the distant black, they could hear screams
and smell burning and see the white flare of Par's magic.

Rumor was already moving ahead, loping down the entry
and through the opening to the courtyard. Walker and the oth-
ers went after him, grim-faced and voiceless. Shadows moved
at the fringes of the whirl of light and sound, but nothing at-
tacked. They crossed the courtyard in a crouch, glancing left
and right guardedly. The Shadowen were there, somewhere
close. They reached the far side of the yard, still following the
noises and flashes within, and pushed through into a hall.

Before them, a stairway climbed into the dark tower, wind-
ing upward into a blackness now stabbed with the bright flare
of magic's white fire. Par was coming down. They stood fro-
zen as he neared, unsure what they would find, uncertain
what to do. They knew they had to reach him somehow, had

408 The Talismans of Shannara

to bring him back to himself, but they also knew—even Matty
Roh, for whom the magic was something of an enigma—that
this would not be easy, that what was happening to Par
Ohmsford was harsh and terrifying and formidable. They
spread out on Walker's silent command. Morgan drew free
the Sword of Leah and Coil the Sword of Shannara, their tal-
ismans against the dark things, and when Matty saw this she
freed her slender fighting sword as well. Walker moved a step
in front of them, thinking that this was his doing, that it was
up to him to find a way to break through the armor that the
magic of the wishsong had thrown up around Par, that it was
his responsibility to help Par discover the truth about himself.

And suddenly the Valeman came into view, gliding
smoothly down the stairs, a phantom ablaze with the magic's
light, the power sparking at the ends of his fingers, across his
face, in the depth of his eyes. He saw them and yet did not
see them. He came on without slowing and without speaking
Above, there was chaos, but it had not yet begun to descend
in pursuit. Par came on, still floating, still ephemeral, moving
directly toward Walker and showing no signs of slowing.

"Par Ohmsford!" Walker Boh called out.

The Valeman came on.

"Par, draw back the magic!"

Par hesitated, seeing Walker for the first time or perhaps
simply recognizing him, and slowed.

"Par. Close the magic away. We don't have—"

Par sent a ribbon of fire whipping at Walker that threatened
to strangle him. Walker's own magic rose in defense, brush-
ing the ribbon back, twisting it to smoke. Par stopped com-
pletely, and the two stood facing each other in the gloom.

"Par, it's me!" Coil called out from one side.

His brother turned toward him, but there was no hint of rec-
ognition in his eyes. The magic of the wishsong hissed and sang
in the air about him, snapping like a cloak caught in a wind.
Morgan called out as well, pleading for him to listen, but Par
didn't even look at the Highlander. He was deep in the magic's
thrall now, so caught up in it that nothing else mattered and
even the voices of his friends were unrecognizable. He turned
from one to the other as they called to him, but the sound of
their voices only served to cause the magic to draw tighter.

The Talismans of Shannara                          409

We can't bring him back. Walker was thinking in despair. He
won't respond to any of us. Already he could sense the pursuit
beginning again, could feel the Shadowen drawing near down
the connecting halls. Once Rimmer Dall reached them ...

And then suddenly Damson Rhee was moving forward,
brushing past Walker before he could think to object, mounting
the stairs and closing on Par. Par saw her coming and squared
himself away to face her, the magic flaring wickedly at his fin-
gertips. Damson approached without weapons or magic to aid
her, arms lowered, hands spread open, head lifted. Walker
thought momentarily to rush forward and yank her back again,
but it was already too late.

"Par," she whispered as she came up to him, stopping when
she was no more than a yard away. She was on a lower step
and looking up, her red hair twisted back from her face, her
eyes filling with tears. "I thought I would never see you
again."

Par Ohmsford stared.

"I am frightened I will lose you again. Par. To the magic. To
your fear that it will betray you as it did when you believed
Coil killed. Don't leave me. Par."

A hint of recognition showing in the maddened eyes.

"Come close to me. Par."

"Damson7 " he whispered suddenly.

"Yes," she answered, smiling, the tears streaking her face
now. "I love you. Par Ohmsford."

For a long moment he did not move, standing on the stairs
in the gloom as if carved from stone while the magic raced
down his limbs and about his body. Then he sobbed in re-
sponse, something coming awake within him that had been
sleeping before, and he squeezed his eyes shut in concentra-
tion. His body shook, convulsed, and the magic flared once
and died away. His eyes opened again. "Damson," he whis-
pered, seeing her now, seeing them all, and swayed forward.

She caught him as he fell, and instantly Walker was there,
too, and then all of them, reaching for the Valeman and bring-
ing him down into the hall, holding him upright, searching his
ravaged face.

"I can't breathe anymore," he whispered to them. "I can't
breathe."

410 The Talismans of Shannara

Damson was holding him close, whispering back that it was
all right, that he was safe now, that they would get him away
But Walker saw the truth in Par Ohmsford's eyes. He was wag-
ing a battle with the wish&ong's magic that he was losing.
Whatever was happening to him, he needed to confront it now,
to be set free of the fears and doubts that had plagued him for
weeks.

"Coil," he said quietly as' they lowered Par to his knees and
let him collapse against Damson. "Use the Sword of Shannara.
Don't wait any longer. Use it."

Coil stared back at the Dark Uncle uncertainly. "But I'm not
sure what it will do."

Walker Boh's voice turned as hard as iron. "Use the Swora,
Coll. Use it, or we're going to lose him!"

Coil turned away quickly and knelt next to Par and Damson.
He held the Sword of Shannara before him, both hands knot-
ting on its handle. It was his talisman to use, but the conse-
quences of that use his to bear.

"Morgan, watch the stairs," Walker Boh ordered. "Matty
Roh, the halls." He moved toward Par. "Damson, let him go."

Damson Rhee stared upward with stricken eyes. There was
unexpected warmth in Walker's gaze, a mix of reassurance and
kindness. "Let him go. Damson," he said gently. "Move
away."

She released Par, and the Valeman slumped forward. Coil
caught him, cradled him in his arms momentarily, then took
his brother's hands and placed them on the handle of the
Sword beneath his own. "Walker," he whispered beseechingly.

"Use it!" the Dark Uncle hissed.

Morgan glanced over uneasily. "I don't like this. Wal-
ker ..."

But he was too late. Coil, persuaded by the strength ot
Walker Boh's command, had summoned forth the magic. The
Sword of Shannara flared to life, and the dark well of the
Shadowen keep was flooded with light.

Wrapped in a choking cloud of paralyzing indecision and
devastating fear. Par Ohmsford felt the Sword's magic pene-
trate like fire out of darkness, burning its way down into him
The magic of the wishsong rose to meet it, to block it, a white

The Talismans of Shannara                          411

wall of determined silence. Protective doors flew closed
within, locks turned, and the shivering of his soul rocked him
back on his heels. He was aware, vaguely, that Coil had sum-
moned the Sword's magic, that the power to do so was some-
how his where it had not been Par's, and there was a sense of
things being turned upside down. He retreated from the mag-
ic's approach, unable to bear the truth it might bring, wanting
only to hide away forever within himself.

But the magic of the Sword of Shannara came this time with
the weight of his brother's voice behind it, pressing down
within him. Listen, Par. Listen. Please, listen. The words eased
their way past the wishsong's defenses and gave entry to what
followed. He thought it was Coil's words alone at first that
breached his defenses, that let in the white light. But then he
saw it was something more. It was his own weary need to
know once and for all the worst of what there was, to be free
of the doubt and terror that not knowing brought. He had lived
with it too long to live with it longer. His magic had shielded
him from everything, but it could not do so when he no longer
wished it. He was backed to the wall of his sanity, and he
could not back away farther.

He reached for his brother's voice with his own, anxious
and compelling. Tell me. Tell me everything.

The wishsong spit and hissed like a cornered cat, but it was,
after all, his to command still, his birthright and his heri-
tage, and nothing it might do could withstand both reason and
need. He had bent to its will when his fear and doubt had un-
dermined him, but he had never broken completely, and now
he would be free of his uncertainty forever.

Coil, he pleaded. His brother was there, steadying him. Coll.

Holding on to each other and to the Sword, they locked their
fingers tight and slipped down into the magic's light. There Coil
soothed Par, reassuring him that the magic would heal and not
harm, that whatever happened, he would not abandon his
brother. The last of Par's defenses gave way, the locks releasing,
the doors opening, and the darkness dispelling. Shedding the last
of the wishsong's trappings, he gave himself over with a sigh.

And then the truth began, a trickle of memories that grew
quickly to a flood. All that was and had ever been in Par's life,
the secrets he had kept hidden even from himself, the shames

412 The Talismans of Shannara

and embarrassments, the failures and losses he had locked
away, marched forth. They came parading into the light, and
while Par shrank from them at first, the pain harsh and unend-
ing, his strength grew with each remembering, and the task of
accepting what they meant and how they measured him as a
man became bearable.

The light shifted then, and he saw himself now, come in
search of the Sword of Shannara at Allanon's urging, anxious
for the charge, eager to discover the truth about himself. But
how eager, in fact? For what he found was that he might be
the very thing he had committed against. What he found was
Rimmer Dall waiting, telling him he was not who he thought,
that he was someone else entirely, one of the dark things, one
of the Shadowen. Only a word, Rimmer Dall had whispered,
only a name. A Shadowen, with Shadowen magic to wield,
with power no different than that of the red-eyed wraiths, able
to be what they were, to do as they did.

What he saw now, in the cool white light of the Sword's
truth, was that it was all true.

One of them.

He was one of them.

He lurched away from the recognition, from the inescap-
ability of what he was being shown, and he thought he might
have screamed in horror but could not tell within the light. A
Shadowen! He was a Shadowen! He felt Coil flinch from him.
He felt his brother jerk away. But Coil did not let go. He kept
holding him. It doesn't matter what you are, you are my
brother, he heard. No matter what. You are my brother. It
kept Par from falling off the edge of sanity into madness. It
kept him grounded in the face of his own terror, of his fright-
ening discovery of self.

And it let him see the rest of what the truth would reveal.

He saw that his Elven blood and ancestry bound him to the
Shadowen. who were Elven, too. Come from the same lineage,
from the same history, they were bound as people are who share
a similar past. But the choice to be something different was
there as well. His ancestry was Shannara as well as Shadowen,
and need not be what his magic might make him. His belief that
he was predestined to be one of me dark things was the lie
Rimmer Dall had planted within him, there within the vault that

The Talismans of Shannara                          413

held the Sword of Shannara, there when he had come down into
the Pit for the last time with Coil and Damson. It was Rimmer
Dall who had let him try the Sword, knowing it would not work
because his own magic would not let it, a barrier to a truth that
might prove too unpleasant to accept. It was Rimmer Dall who
had suggested he was Shadowen spawn, was one of them, was
a vessel for their magic, giving him the uncertainty required to
prevent the warring magics of Sword and wishsong from find-
ing a common ground and thereby beginning the long spiral of
doubt that would lead to Par's final subversion when the possi-
bility of what he might be grew so large that it became fact.

Par gasped and reared back, seeing it now, seeing it all. Be-
lieve for long enough and it will come to pass. Believe it
might be so, and it will be so. That was what he had done to
himself, blanketed in magic too strong for anything to break
down until he was willing to allow it, locked away by his fears
and uncertainties from the truth. Rimmer Dall had known.
Rimmer Dall had seen that Par would wrestle alone with the
possibilities the First Seeker offered. Let him think he killed
his brother with his magic. Let him think the Sword of
Shannara's magic could never be his. Let him think he was
failing because of who he might be. As long as he unwittingly
used the wishsong to keep the Sword's magic at bay, what
chance did he have to resolve the conflict of his identity? Par
would be savior of the Druids and pawn of the Shadowen
both, and the twist of the two would tear him apart.

"But I do not have to be one of mem," he heard himself say.
"I do not have to!"

He shuddered with the weight of his words. Coil's under-
standing smile warmed him like the sun. As it had been for his
brother when the Sword's truth tore away the dark lie of the
Mirrorshroud, recognition became the pathway by which Par
now came back to himself. Had Allanon known it would be like
this? he wondered as he began to rise out of light. Had Allanon
seen that this was the need for the Sword of Shannara?

When the magic died away and his eyes opened, he was sur-
prised to find that he was crying.

XXXV

Shadows and mist tangled and twisted down the length of
the Valley of Rhenn, a sea of movement that rolled
across me bodies of the dead and beckoned in grim invi-
tation for the living to join them. Wren Elessedil stood at the
head of the valley with the leaders of the army of me Elves
and their newfound allies and pondered the lure of its call
From out of the corpses still strewn below, mostly Southland-
ers abandoned by their fellows, arms rose, cocked in death,
signposts to the netherworld. The carnage spread south onto
the flats until the dark swallowed it up, and it seemed to the
Queen of the Elves that it might very well stretch away for-
ever, a glimpse of a future waiting to claim her.

She stood apart from the others—from Triss and Barsimmon
Oridio, from the free-bom leader Padishar Creel and his gruff
friend Chandos, and from the enigmatic Troll commander
Axhind. They all faced into the valley, as if each was consid-
ering the same puzzle, the mix of mist and shadows and death
No one spoke. They had been standing there since news had
arrived that the Federation was on the march once more. It was
not yet dawn, the light still below the crest of the horizon east,
me skies thick with clouds, the world a place of blackness.

Despair ran deep in Wren. It ran to the bone and out again,
and it seemed to have no end. She had thought she had cned
her last when Garth had died, but the loss of Faun had brought
the tears and the grief anew, and now she believed she might
never be free of them again. She felt as if the skin had been
stripped from her body and the blood beneath allowed to run,
leaving her nerve endings exposed and raw. She felt as if the

414

The Talismans of Shannara                         415

purpose of her life had evolved into a testing of her will and
endurance. She was sick at heart and empty in her soul.

"She was just a Squeak," Stresa had hissed to her uncon-
vincingly when he had found her toward midnight. She had
told him of Faun's death, but death was nothing new to Stresa.
"They grow up to die. Wren of the Elves. Don't trouble your-
self about it."

The words were not meant to hurt, but she could not help
challenging them. "You would not be so quick with your ad-
vice if I were grieving for you."

"Phhffft. One day you will." The Splinterscat had shrugged.
"It is the way of things. The Squeak died saving you. It was
what she wanted."

"No one wants to die." The words were bitter and harsh.
"Not even a Tree Squeak."

And Stresa had replied, "It was her choice, wasn't it? "

He had gone off again, deep into the forests west to keep
watch for what might come that way, to bring warning to the
Elves if the need arose. They were drifting apart, she sensed.
Stresa was a creature of the wild, and she was not. He would
go out one day and not come back, and the last of her ties with
Morrowindl would be gone. Everything would be consigned to
memory then, the beginning of who she was now, the end of
who she had been.

She wondered that her life could evolve so thoroughly and
she feel so much the same.

Yet perhaps she lied to herself on that count, pretending she
was unchanged when in fact she was and simply could not ad-
mit it. She frowned into the gloom, searching the killing
ground below, and she wondered how much of herself had sur-
vived Morrowindl's horror and how much had been lost. She
wished she had someone of whom she could ask that question.
But most of those she might have asked were dead, and those
still living would be reticent to answer. She would have to pro-
vide her own answer to her question and hope her answer was
true.

Padishar Creel's lean face glanced in her direction, search-
ing, but she did not acknowledge him. She had not spoken
with any of them since rising, not even Triss, wrapped in her
solitude as if it were armor. The free-bom had come finally,

416                         The Talismans of Shannara

bringing with them Axhind and his Rock Trolls, the reinforce-
ments she had prayed for, but she suddenly found it difficult to
care. She did not want the Elves to perish, but the killing sick-
ened her. Yesterday's battle had ended in a draw, settling noth-
ing, and today's did not promise a new result. The Federation
had stopped running and regrouped and were coming on again.
They would keep coming, she thought. There were enough that
they could do so. The addition of the free-bom and Trolls
strengthened the Elven chances of surviving, but did not give
reason to hope that the Federation could be stopped. Reinforce-
ments would be sent from the cities south and from Tyrsis. An
unending stream, if necessary. The invasion would continue,
the push into the Elven Westlands, and the only thing left un-
decided was how long the destruction would go on.

She bit back against the bitterness and the despair, angry at
her self-perceived weakness. The Queen of the Elves could not
afford to give up, she chided. The Queen of the Elves must al-
ways believe.

Ah, but in what was there left to believe?

That Par and Coil Ohmsford were alive and in possession of
the Sword of Shannara, she answered determinedly. That Mor-
gan Leah followed after them. That Walker Boh had brought
back Paranor and the Druids. That Allanon's charges had been
fulfilled, that the secret of the Shadowen was known, and that
there was hope for them. She had these to believe in, and she
must find her strength there.

She wondered if her uncle and her cousins and Morgan
Leah still found strength in their beliefs. She wondered if they
had any beliefs left. She thought of the losses she had suffered
and wondered if they had suffered as much. She wondered fi-
nally if they would have given heed to the charges of Allanon
had they known from the start the price that pursuing them
would exact. She did not think so.

Light broke east where the sun crested the lip of the world,
a faint silver glow that outlined the Dragon's Teeth and the for-
estland below. The light seeped down into the valley and
chased the shadows from the mist, separating the two and turn-
ing the landscape stark and certain. The sound of drums and
marching feet grew audible in the distance, faint still, but rec-
ognizable in its coming. Padishar Creel was arguing with

The Talismans of Shannara                          417

Barsiminon Oridio. They did not agree on what the combined
army's strategy should be when the attack commenced. They
were both strong-willed men, and they mistrusted each other.
Axhind listened without saying anything, impassive, expres-
sionless. Triss had moved away. The leader of the free-bom re-
sented Bar's insistence that overall command should be his.
She had separated them once already. She might have to do so
again and resented it. She did not want any part of what was
happening, not anymore. She stood watching and did not move
as the argument grew more heated. Triss looked over, waiting
for her to step in. South, the drums grew louder.

Then suddenly Stresa appeared, bursting unexpectedly from
the brush, quills lifting to shake away the dust and leaves, hur-
rying to reach her. Wren turned, everything else forgotten.
There was an urgency to the Splinterscat's coming that was un-
mistakable.

"Elf Queen," he hissed, his voice ragged and dry. "They've
brought Creepers!"

She felt her heart stop and her throat constrict. "We left
them all in the swamp," she managed.

"They've found more! Sssttt!" The wet snout lifted, the dark
eyes dilated and hard. "From Tyrsis, it seems. Phhffttt! Sol-
diers, too, but it is the Creepers who matter. Five at least. I
came as soon as I saw them."

She wheeled back to the others. Padishar Creel and Bar had
stopped arguing. Axhind and Chandos stood shoulder to shoul-
der like stone figures. Triss was already next to her.

Creepers.

The light was brightening and the haze diffusing as the army
of the Federation marched out of the gloom toward the Valley
of Rhenn. It came with its divisions of black and scarlet spread
wide across the valley mouth and up its broadening slopes, the
columns of men deep and long. Cavalry rode the flanks, and
there were rolling, timbered buttresses behind which their arch-
ers could hide, with slits for firing through. There were shield
walls and fire catapults, and there were black-cloaked Seekers
anew at every command.

But it was toward the very center of the army that all eyes
turned. There were the Creepers, glinting black metal and jag-
ged, hairy limbs, a mesh of machine and beast, lurching to-

418                          The Talismans' of Shannara

ward the Elves and their allies, toward the men they had been
sent to destroy.

Wren Elessedil stared at them and felt nothing. Their com-
ing marked the end of the Elves, she knew. Their coming
marked the end of everything.

She reached into her tunic for the Elfstones and stepped for-
ward to make her final stand.

"Get up. Par!"

Coil was shouting at him, pulling on his arm and dragging
him to his feet. He scrambled up obediently, still in shock from
what had happened to him, stunned by the revelations of the
Sword. There was a whirl of movement in the stairwell as
those who had come for him—Walker, Damson, Coil, Morgan,
and the tall, slight, black-haired woman whose face he did not
recognize—hurried to surround him. Rumor prowled the room
anxiously. There was a whisper of something coming down the
stairs, but the gloom hid what crept there. The doors leading
from the well were all closed save one that led back across a
courtyard to walls and an opening to the land beyond. That
way, at least, was clear, and in the distance he could see mom-
ing's light edging above the Runne's horizon.

Walker was looking that way as well, he saw. Walker, all in
black now, bearded and pale, but looking somehow stronger
than he had ever looked, filled with a fire that burned just be-
neath the surface. Like Allanon, Par thought. As Allanon had
once been. Walker stared momentarily toward the opening, un-
decided, the others crouching close to Par, but facing back to-
ward the closed doors and the open stairwell, weapons held
ready.

"Which way!" hissed the dark-haired girl.

Walker turned and moved swiftly to join them, decided now.
"We came for Par and to set free what they keep imprisoned
in the castle depths. We're not finished."

Damson's arms came around Par and she was holding him
as if she might never let go. Par hugged her back, telling her
it was all right, that he was safe now, wondering if he really
was, wondering still what had happened. The magic of the
wishsong was his again, but he remained uncertain even so of
what it might do.

The Talismans of Shannara                          419

But at least I am not a Shadowen! At least I know that!

Cell was standing close to Walker. "The door with the
crossbars—over there—leads down a corridor to the cellar
steps. Do we go? "

Walker nodded. "Quickly. Stay together!"

They went across the room in a rush, and as they did so, a
black shape flung itself down the stairs and onto the dark-
haired girl. She sidestepped the attack, and the thing turned on
her instantly, hissing and red-eyed, flinging up hands with
claws of fire. But Rumor caught it before it could strike, tear-
ing it down the middle and throwing it aside.

Walker flung open the door with the crossbars, and they
surged through, leaving the stairwell and their pursuers to fol-
low. The corridor was high and dark, and they slipped down it
cautiously, eyes skittering through the shadows. Rumor was
back in front, cat eyes sharper than their own, leading the way.
From somewhere below came the sound of grinding, then a
long sigh, a breathing out. The castle of the Shadowen shud-
dered in response, like the skin of something living that
flinched with a skip in the beating of its heart. What was down
there? Par wondered. Not the crashing of waves on the rocks
as Rimmer Dall had told him—another lie. Something more.
Something so important that Walker would risk everything
rather than leave it. Did he know what it was? Had Allanon
given him the answers they had all been searching for?

There was no time to find that out now. Shadows filled the
opening behind them, and Morgan whirled back and sent the
fire of the Sword of Lean surging into them. They scattered
and disappeared, but were back in a moment. Coil was whis-
pering urgently to Walker, giving him directions to the corridor
leading down, but Walker seemed to know where he was go-
ing, pulling Coil after him, keeping him close. The others fol-
lowed in their wake, hugging the walls. Shadows spun out of
the darkness ahead, but they were merely reflections of what
followed. Par clutched Damson against him and ran on,

They reached a landing that opened onto stairs winding
down into the fortress depths, and now the sounds of what was
kept below became clear and distinct. It was the breathing of
some great animal, rising and falling, wheezing as if the air
passed through a throat parched and constricted from lack of

420

The Talismans of Shannara

water. The grinding was the sound of movement, like the
weight of stones shifting in an avalanche.

Black-cloaked forms appeared on the stairs below, and
Shadowen fire burned toward them in sharp red spears. Walker
threw up a shield that shattered the attack and struck back.
Other shadows came out of halls intersecting the one that
brought them. The Shadowen were all around, black and
soundless and frenzied in their attack. Morgan turned to protect
the rear while Walker led the way, the others crouching in be-
tween. They moved quickly down the steps, feeling the castle
shudder as if in response to what was happening. The breath-
ing of the thing below quickened.

Suddenly there were flames everywhere. Coil went down,
struck a glancing blow, and the Sword of Shannara fell from
his hand. Without thinking. Par reached down for it and
snatched it up. The Sword did not bum him as it had in the Pit.
Had it all been in his fear of who he might be? He stared at
the Sword in wonder, then turned to help Damson, who was
pulling Coil back to his feet, and shoved the blade into his
brother's hands once more. Rumor had leaped down the stairs
and into the closest of their attackers. His sleek coat was
singed and smoking, but he ripped into the Shadowen as if the
wounds meant nothing. Walker threw white Druid light from
his hands in a shroud that blanketed everything, shielding
them, thrusting back the Shadowen, clearing the way for their

descent.

Then Par saw Rimmer Dall. The First Seeker was below
them on a catwalk across a chasm that dropped away from a
landing through which the stairway passed. He stood alone, his
hands gripping the railing of the walk, his rawboned face a
mask of rage and disbelief. The gloved hand smoldered as if in
response. He looked at Par and Par at him, and something
passed between them that Par might have described as an un-
derstanding, but seemed to transcend even that.

In the next instant he was gone, and Par was struggling on
through the Shadowen assault. His magic had revived, and he
could feel it building within him. He would use it now, he
thought. He would take his chances because at least he knew
that using it would not make him one of them. The Shadowen
were closing from behind, and Morgan had turned back to face

The Talismans of Shannara                          421

them, yelling at the others to go on. The dark-haired girl stood
with him, pressed against his shoulder protectively, the two of
them holding the stairs against the monsters that followed.

Walker reached the landing and looked over its edge. Par
joined him, then jerked hurriedly away again. Something huge
was down there, something that heaved and writhed and pulsed
with light.

A raging black form slammed into Rumor when he passed
down the stairs below the landing, and the moor cat tumbled
from view. Walker and the others raced after him. Par's magic
flaring to life now, burning through him as he summoned it
forth with a cry. He remembered his fear of what it would do,
but the fear was only a memory now, and he banished it al-
most as quickly as it came. Facing across to the catwalk and
the Shadowen crouched there, he tried to keep their fire from
reaching Damson and Coll. Coil was hurt again, but he stum-
bled on, still holding the Sword of Shannara before him, still
keeping Damson in his shadow.

They heard Rumor shriek, that spitting, furious cry that sig-
naled pain and fear. Then he rose before them in a leap, the
black thing clinging to him. Walker spun and sent the Druid
fire lancing forth, caught the black thing's midsection, and tore
it from Rumor's back. The moor cat spun in midair, locked
again with its attacker, and fell from view.

Smoke rose from the walls and floor where the magic
burned, and the air grew thick with ash. The depths of
Southwatch were as black as pitch save for the light given off
by the thing below. Gloom pressed in about the humans, and
the Shadowen darted in and out at them, looking for a place to
attack. Damson was struck and burned and knocked aside so
quickly that Par could not prevent it. She rose and fell back
again. Coil reached down for her without slowing, heaved her
over one shoulder, and hurried on.

Then part of the stairs gave way, and Walker Boh disap-
peared in a tumbUng slide of dust and rock and ash. For an in-
stant Par, Coil, and a semiconscious Damson were alone on the
crumbling stairs, staring down into the void where the light
pulsed, pressed back against the wall in shock. They heard Ru-
mor snarl below, heard Walker howl in fury, and saw the flare
of the Druid magic.

422                          The Talismans of Shannara

"What are you doing? Move!"

It was Morgan Lean screaming at them as he appeared sud-
denly from out of the smoke and fire above, the Sword of
Leah dark and fiery in his hand. He was limping badly and his
left arm was clutched to his side. The dark-haired woman was
still with him, as battered as he was, blood smeared down the
side of her face. They surged out of the haze and herded the
others toward the slide. Par went tumbling down the broken
rock into the gloom. He landed on his feet, and was set upon
instantly. Black forms closed about, but the magic of the
wishsong saved him. It flared like armor all about him, then
exploded outward into his attackers. The black things were
thrown back into the haze. Rumor surged past, striking out, a
shadow appearing and fading away again. He heard the sound
of the others following him down, and in seconds they were
together once more.

Ahead, the light pulsed and the sound of its breathing was
a terrifying groan of frustration and pain.

They went forward once more, searching the dust and ash-
filled gloom for Walker and the moor cat. The Shadowen came
at them repeatedly, but Morgan and Par fought them off, keep-
ing Coil and the women between them. Damson was stirring
again, but Coil continued to carry her. The other woman stum-
bled forward on her own, teeth gritted, fire in her eyes. They
passed down a high, narrow corridor that opened overhead into
the stairwell, and suddenly they were in the room with the
light.

The room was cavernous and craggy, carved out of the
earth's rock long ago by time and the elements, a vast chamber
from which tunnels ran in all directions. At its center rested the
light. The light was a bulbous, pulsing mass wrapped all about
with cords of red fire. It strained and heaved against the cords,
but could not break free. It seemed to be part of the cavern
floor, welded to the rock and risen from its core into the
gloom. It had no shape or identity, yet something in the way
it moved reminded Par of an animal snared. The breathing
sound came from that movement, and the whole of the cham-
ber rising up into Southwatch seemed to be connected to it. It
would shudder, and the cavern and the walls of the keep would

The Talismans of Shannara                          423

shudder in response. It would sigh, and the cavern and the
keep would sigh as well.

"What is it? " Par heard Coil whisper next to him.

Then they saw Walker Boh. He was across the cavern floor,
locked in combat with Rimmer Dall, the two dark-cloaked
forms straining against each other with desperate intent. Rim-
mer Dall's gloved hand was red with Shadowen fire, and
Walker's was sheathed in Druid white. The rock beneath them
steamed with heat, and the air about them pulsed. Rimmer
Dall's eyes were spots of blood, and his big, rawboned face
was skinned back with fury.

To one side. Rumor fought desperately to reach Walker,
Shadowen closing about to finish him.

Morgan went to their aid without pausing, howling out his
battle cry, bringing up the dark blade of his talisman in a trail
of fire. The dark-haired woman went with him. Coil started in-
stead toward the chained light, thinking to strike there, then
was forced to turn aside to meet an attack from Shadowen
launching themselves off the catwalk. He dropped Damson,
and Par racing up from behind caught her up. The Shadowen
closed on Coil and forced him back. The Sword of Shannara
offered no threat to them, and Coil had no other magic. Par
screamed at him to get out of the way, but instead Coil bulled
into the cloaked melee. Par laid Damson down hurriedly and
went after him. Coil stumbled and went down, rose again mo-
mentarily, and then went down for good. The Shadowen were
all over him. Par howled in fury and sent the magic of the
wishsong hammering into them, thrusting them aside. Fire
burned back at him from above and on all sides, but from be-
neath his magic's armor he shrugged it away.

Coli was on his hands and knees when Par reached him,
bloodied and torn. He lifted his face so that he could see Par
and then shoved the Sword of Shannara at him.

"Go on!" he said, and collapsed.

Par snatched up the Sword and started forward, the acrid
smell of ash and fire thick in his nostrils. Go on and do what?
He was aware of Morgan standing alone now, the dark-haired
girl fallen as well. He could no longer see Walker or Rimmer
Dall. He felt his strength beginning to fail, the consequence of
sustained use of his magic. He would have to be quick, what-

424                         The Talismans of Shannara

ever he did. He stumbled ahead, nearing the light, wondering
anew what it was and what he was supposed to do with it.
Should he free it? Wasn't that what Walker had said they had
come into Southwatch to do? If it was a prisoner of the
Shadowen, then it should be freed. But what was it? He was
not certain of anything. He was barely free himself, and his
own confusion still dragged at him with chains of its own.

He looked down at the Sword of Shannara, suddenly aware
that he was carrying it, that he had taken it from Coll. Why
had he done that? The Sword was not meant for him. It was
meant for Coll. He wasn't even able to use it.

And then suddenly Rimmer Dall was standing before him,
wolf's head gleaming in the light, dark robes shredded and
falling away. His hood was thrown back, and his red-bearded,
craggy face was washed in blood. He blocked Par from the
light, rising up before him. The gloved hand pulsed with crim-
son fire. When he smiled, it was a terrifying grimace.

"Come down to find what we keep hidden here? " he asked,
his voice whispery and rough.

"Get out of my way," Par ordered.

"Not anymore," the other said, and Par suddenly realized
that the gloved arm was no longer gloved at all, that the fire
he was seeing was all there was of the arm, was what had laid
beneath the glove all along. "I've given you all the chances
you get, boy."

There was no pretense of friendliness or concern now.
Loathing glittered in Rimmer Ball's eyes, and his body was
knotted with rage. "You belong to me! You've always be-
longed to me! You should have given yourself to me when you
had the chance! It would have been easier that way!"

Par stared openmouthed.

"You're mine!" Rimmer Dall swore in fury. "You still don't
understand, do you? You're mine. Par Ohmsford! Your magic
belongs to me!"

He came forward in a lunge, and Par barely had time to cry
out and throw up the wishsong's magic to slow him. And slow
him was all it did. The First Seeker came through the shield as
if it were paper, and his hands locked on Par's shoulders like
iron clamps. Par was vaguely aware of thinking that this was
what Rimmer Dall had wanted all along—the magic of the

The Talismans of Shannara

425

wishsong and Par's body in which to wield it. All the pretenses
of wanting to help him control the magic had been a screen de-
signed to hide his ambition to own it. Like all the Shadowen,
Rimmer Dall craved the magic in others, and few had the
magic of Par.

He was thrown back by the other's weight, bent down, and
forced to his knees. The Sword of Shannara dropped from his
nerveless fingers. He brought his hands up to fight the other
off. summoning the magic to his defense, but it was as if all
his strength had been leeched from him. He could barely
breathe as the other's shadow enfolded him. Rimmer Dall be-
gan to come out of his body and enter Par's. The Valeman saw
it happening, felt it beginning. He screamed and fought to free
himself, but he was helpless.

Not this! he thought in terror. Don't let it happen!

He twisted and kicked and tore at the other, but Rimmer
Dall's Shadowen self was pressing into him, entering through
his skin. The feeling was cold and dark and filled him with
self-loathing. Once, he could have prevented this, he sensed.
Once, when the magic was out of control and driven by his
fear and doubt, he would have been strong enough to keep the
other away. Rimmer Dall had known this. The First Seeker's
thoughts brushed up against his own, and he shrank from what
they revealed. Someone help me! He caught a glimpse of
movement to his left, and Morgan Leah surged forward, howl-
ing. But Rimmer Dall struck out with his gloved hand, releas-
ing Par for the barest instant, and Morgan disappeared in a
flash of red fire, tumbling away again into the dark. The hand
returned, fastening on Par anew. The Valeman had retreated
down inside himself where his magic was strongest, gathering
it into an iron core. But Rimmer Dall closed on it relentlessly,
pressing in, squeezing. Par could feel even that part of himself
giving way ...

Then abruptly the First Seeker was jerked backward, and his
Shadowen self tore free of Par. Par gasped and blinked and
saw Walker Boh with his good hand closed on Rimmer Dall's
throat, the Druid fire racing down its length. He was singed
and scraped, and his face was as white as chalk beneath the
black beard and streaks of blood. But Walker Boh was a study
in raw determination as he brought the force of his magic to

426 The Talismans of Shannara

bear on his enemy. Rimmer Dall surged upward with a roar,
flailing with his gloved hand, the Shadowen magic scattering
everywhere. Something in what W?lker was doing to him was
keeping Rimmer Dail separated from his corporeal body, his
Shadowen self held just outside and beyond. Both parts strug-
gled to reunite, but Walker was between them, blocking them
from each other.

Par staggered backward and then came to his feet again.
Walker's fingers closed into a fist, squeezing something within
the Shadowen. Rimmer Dall thrashed and screamed, his rangy
form surging upward and shuddering with fury. Shadowen fire
burned downward into the floor, coring into the stone. Other
Shadowen raced to give aid, but Rumor lunged between them,
tearing and ripping.

"Use the Sword!" Walker Boh hissed at Par. "Set it free!"

Par snatched up the blade and raced for the light. He
reached it in seconds, unchallenged now, all eyes on the battle
between the Druid and the First Seeker. He came up to it, this
vast, pulsing mass with its scarlet-ribboned chains, and holding
the Sword of Shannara in both hands, he laid it flat against me
light.

Then he summoned its magic, willing it forth, praying it
would come.

And come it did, rising up smoothly, easily, free of the con-
straints the wishsong's mag;c had imposed when his fears and
doubts and Rimmer Dall's trickery had convinced him he was
a Shadowen. It came swiftly, a white beacon that speared into
the light before it, then raced back again to swallow Par whole.
Par saw anew the truths of his life, the truths of his magic, of
his Shannara and Shadowen heritage, and of his Elven ances-
try. He breathed them in like the air that gave him life and did
not flinch away.

Then he saw finally the truth of the light before him. He
saw what the Shadowen had done, how they had used their
magic to subvert the Four Lands. He saw the meaning behind
the dreams of Allanon, and the reason for the summoning of
the children of Shannara to the Hadeshom. He saw what it was
that he must do.

He drew back the magic of the Sword and dropped the blade
to the cavern floor. Behind him, Rimmer Dall and Walker Boh

The Talismans of Shannara 427

sail thrashed in a combat that seemed to have no end. The First
Seeker was shrieking—not in pain at what was being done to
him, but in fury at what Par was about to do. There were
Shadowen closing from everywhere, fighting to get past Morgan
Lean, back on his feet once more, and Rumor, who seemed in-
destructible. But it was too late for them. This moment be-
longed to Par and his friends and allies, to all those who had
fought to bring it about, to the living and the dead, to the brave.

He summoned the magic of the wishsong one final time,
brought all of it to bear, the whole of what burned within
him, evolved out of his birthright into the monster that had
nearly consumed him. He summoned it forth and shaped it
once more into that shard of blue fire that had first appeared
when he had fought to escape the Pit, that shard that seemed
a piece of azure lightning come down from the sky. He raised
it overhead and brought it down on the crimson cords of magic
that bound the light, shattering them forever.

Par shuddered with the force of the blow and with what the
effort took from him, a tearing, a rending, a draining away.

The light exploded in response, blazing forth into the cav-
ern's darkest comers and from there upward into Southwatch.
It chased the shadows and the gloom and turned what was
black to white. It shrieked with glee at finding its freedom, and
then it sought retribution for what had been done to it.

It took Rimmer Dall first, sucking out the First Seeker's life
as if drawing smoke into its lungs. Rimmer Dall shuddered vi-
olently, collapsed in a scattering of ashes, and ceased to exist.
The light went after the other Shadowen then, who were al-
ready fleeing in hopeless desperation, and swallowed them up
one after the other. Finally it rose to consume Southwatch, rac-
ing up the black walls, into the pulsing obsidian stone. Par was
dragged to his feet by Walker, who bent to snatch up the
Sword of Shannara. Walker called to Morgan, and in seconds
they were gathering the others as well, hauling them up, carry-
ing those who could not stand. Rumor led the way as they
surged toward a tunnel at the chamber's far end, racing to es-
cape the cataclysm.

Overhead, Southwatch exploded into the morning sky in a
geyser of fire and ash.

428 The Talismans of Shannara

Stresa was the first to feel the tremors and hiss in warning
at Wren, "Elf Queen. Phffit! Do you feel it? Hsst! Hsst! The
earth moves!"

Wren stood slightly apart from Triss, the Elfstones clutched
in her hand as she watched the coming of the Federation army,
awaiting her confrontation with the Creepers. They had
reached the mouth of the Valley of Rhenn, and with the front
lines of me Elves and their allies less than three hundred yards
away, the battle she dreaded was about to commence.
Barsimmon Oridio, Padishar Creel, Chandos, and Axhind had
dispersed to their various commands. Tiger Ty had gone to be
with the Wing Riders. Home Guard surrounded the queen on
all sides, but she felt impossibly alone.

She turned at the Splinterscat's words, then felt the tremors
herself. Triss," she whispered.

For the earth was shuddering more deeply with each series
of quakes that passed through it, as if a beast coming awake to
the rising of the sun, to the coming of the light. It shook itself
from sleep, and its growl rose above the beating of the Feder-
ation drums and the marching of the soldiers' feet.

Wren caught her breath in dismay.

What was happening?

Then fire and smoke erupted far to the east and south, rising
up against the sunlight in a wild conflagration, and the quaking
turned to a desperate heaving. The men of the opposing armies
paused in their confrontation and turned to look, eyes scanning
the horizon, cries beginning to ring out. The fire and smoke
grew into a cloud of black ash, and then suddenly there was a
tremendous burst of white light that filled the sky with its
brightness, pulsing and alive. It rose in a wild sweep, racing
across the sun and back again, running with the wind and the
clouds.

When it flew down into the earth again, the shudders began
anew, rising and falling, filling the air with sound.

Then the light burst forth within the valley, spears of it
breaking through the earth's crust, rising up through the terri-
fied men. Wren gasped at its brightness and felt the Elfstones
digging into the flesh of her palm as she gripped them tightly
in response.

The light sped this way and that, yet not at random as she

The Talismans of Shannara 429

had first believed but with deadly intent. It caught the Creepers
first, tore them asunder, and left them smoking and ruined and
lifeless. It caught the Seekers next, enfolding them in shrouds
of death, draining them of life, and leaving them in piles of
smoking ash. It raced through the Federation army, weeding its
ranks of Shadowen-kind, and in doing so stole away its pur-
pose and courage, and the soldiers who remained turned and
fled for their lives, throwing down their weapons, abandoning
their fortifications and assault machines, giving up any hope
but that of staying alive. Within seconds it was finished, the
Creepers and the Shadowen destroyed, the soldiers of the Fed-
eration army in flight, the grasslands littered with the discards
and leavings of battle. It happened so fast that the Elves, free-
born, and Rock Trolls did not even have time to respond, too
stunned to do anything but stare after and then to glance hur-
riedly through their own ranks to make certain that the light
had not touched them.

On the bluff at the head of the valley where she had
watched it all happen. Wren Elessedil exhaled slowly into the
following hush. Triss stood next to her openmouthed. Stresa's
breathing was a rasp at her boot. She swallowed against the
dryness in her throat and then looked out across the Valley of
Rhenn in astonishment as one final miracle came to pass.

All across the parched and barren plains, for as far as the
eye could see, wildflowers were blooming in the sunlight.

XXXVI

What was inside the light. Walker? " Coil asked.
It was midmoming, and they were gathered in the
shade of the trees on the slopes leading down from
the Runne north of the ruins of Southwatch. Below, the
Shadowen keep continued to steam and smoke and bum, its
walls collapsed into rubble, the once-smooth black stone
turned brittle and dull. Walker sat alone to one side, wrapped
in the torn remnants of his dark robes. Par and Coil sat acrosh
from him. Morgan was leaning against the broad trunk of a red
maple, chewing on a bit of grass and looking at his boots.
Matty Roh was propped up next to him, her shoulder touching
his. Damson lay sleeping a few yards off. They were battered
and worn and covered with blood and dust, and Coil had bro-
ken an arm and ribs. But the tension had left their bodies and
the wariness had faded from their eyes. They weren't running
anymore, and they weren't afraid.
"It was magic," Par said with quiet conviction.
They had fled the cellars of the Shadowen keep through the
tunnel Walker had chosen, stone crumbling and falling in
chunks all about them as they raced through the underground
gloom with only the Druid fire to guide them. The tunnel
twisted and wound, and it seemed that they would never get
clear in time. They could hear me sounds of the keep's de-
struction behind them, feel the thrust of stale air and dust
against their backs as the walls collapsed inward. They feared
they would be trapped, but Walker seemed certain of the way,
so they followed without question. At last the tunnel opened
out through a cluster of brush onto a low hillside above the

430

The Talismans of Shannara                          431

keep, and from there they scrambled upward into the shelter of
the trees to watch the conflagration of fire and smoke that
marked the keep's demise. Damson was unconscious again,
and Walker labored over her intently, using the Druid magic,
healing her as he had healed Par weeks earlier when the
Valeman had been poisoned by the Werebeasts. Her injuries
made her feverish, but Walker brought the fever down, cooling
her so that she could sleep. While he worked, the others
washed and bound themselves as best they could.

Now, the sunlight stretching toward the hills west, they sat
looking back across the flats where Southwatch smoldered. Ev-
erywhere they looked, there were wildflowers, come into
bloom with the collapse of the Shadowen keep and the return
of the light to the earth. A profusion of color, the blossoms
blanketed the whole of the land for as far as the eye could see,
covering even those areas that had been sickened and ravaged.
Their smell drifting lightly on the morning air seemed to signal
a new beginning.

"Stolen magic," Walker Boh amended.

What Par had been shown by the magic of the Sword of
Shannara, Walker had been able to intuit with his Druid in-
stincts. Walker's dark eyes were ringed in ash and dirt and his
face was drawn, yet there was strength in his steady gaze.
They had finished sharing their separate stories and were now
considering me reasons behind everything that had happened to
them.

Walker's face lifted. "The light was the magic the Shadowen
stole from the earth. It was how they gained their power. Elven
magic in the time of faerie borrowed from the elements, most
particularly from the earth, for the earth was its greatest
source. When the Elves recovered that lost magic after
Allanon's death, the Shadowen were the renegades among
them who sought to use it in ways for which it was not in-
tended. Like the Skull Bearers and the Mord Wraiths before
them, the Shadowen came to rely on the magic so heavily that
eventually it subverted them. They became addicted to it, reli-
ant on it for their survival. Eventually it was their sole reason
for being. They stole it in small doses at first, and when the
need grew stronger, when they wanted power enough to con-
trol the destiny of the races and the Four Lands, they built

432                         The Talismans of Shannara

Southwatch to drain the magic off in massive amounts. They
found a way to leach it from the core of the earth and chain
what they had stolen beneath the keep. Southwatch, and the
magic they gathered within, became the source of their power
everywhere. But as they used it to propagate, to create things
like the Creepers, to strengthen themselves, they weakened the
earth from which the magic had been taken. The Pour Lands
began to sicken because ihe magic was no longer strong
enough to keep them healthy."
"The dreams of Allanon," Par said.
'They would have come to pass in time. There was nothing
to prevent it unless the magic was set free again."
"And when it was, it destroyed its jailers."
Walker shook his head. "Not in the way you think. It did not
deliberately destroy them. What happened was more basic.
Once it was freed, it pulled back into itself the whole of what
had been stolen. It took back the power that had been drained
away. When it did, it left the Shadowen and their monsters be-
reft of the life that had sustained them. It left them as hollow
as sea shells left to dry on the beach. The magic kept them
alive. When it was taken away, they died."

They were silent a moment, thinking it through. "Was
Southwatch a living thing, too? " Coil asked.

Walker nodded. "Alive, but not in the sense that we are. It
was an organism, a creature of the Shadowen that served to
feed and protect them. It was the mother that nurtured them, a
mother they had created out of the magic. They fed on what
she gave to them."

Matty Roh made a face and scuffed at the earth. "Their sick-
ness come back into themselves," she murmured.

"I don't understand why there were so many different kinds
of Shadowen," Morgan said suddenly. "Those at Southwatch,
like Rimmer Dall and his Seekers, seemed in control of them-
selves. But what about those poor creatures in the Pit? What
about the woodswoman and the giant we encountered on our
way to Culhaven? "

'The magic affected them differently," Par answered, glan-
cing over. "Some did better with it than others."

"Some adapted," Walker said. "But many could not, though
they tried. And some of those in the Pit were men who had

The Talismans of Shannara 433

been drained of their small magics by the Shadowen, the weak
subverted by the strong. Remember how the Shadowen kept
trying to come into you and become part of you? Like the
woodswoman and the child on Toffer Ridge? "
Like Rimmer Dall, Par thought to himself but did not say

so.

'They needed to feed to survive, and they fed where and
when the need arose. They used up the humans around them
as well as the earth that sustained them. If the magic was
strong, the lure to steal it was stronger still. When the
Shadowen had drained the magic away, it drove mad the crea-
tures it had been drained from. Or in some cases, it drove the
Shadowen mad to feed on it. It was a very destructive subver-
sion. The Shadowen never understood. The power they sought
was forbidden to them. The power that gives life to the earth
and its creatures is too dangerous to tamper with."

Rumor padded in from out of the shadows, singed and
bloodied in a dozen places, patches of fur torn off in a dozen
more. He seemed not to notice. His muzzle was wet from hav-
ing drunk from a spring found somewhere back within the
trees. His luminous eyes surveyed them briefly, then he wan-
dered over to Walker, sat down, and began to lick himself
clean.

Par picked at a wildflower growing near his feet. "Rimmer
Dall wanted to drain the magic of the wishsong from me,
didn't he? "

"He wanted more than the magic. Par." Walker had shifted
to a more comfortable position, and Rumor looked over to
make certain he wasn't leaving. "He wanted you as well. He
wanted to become you. This is difficult to understand, but the
Shadowen had discovered how to leave their bodies and sur-
vive as wraiths early on. The old magic let them do that; the
earth magic gave them the power to be anything they wished.
But they lacked identity that way, and they craved to be some-
thing more than smoke. So they used the bodies of humans,
discarding them when they were ready to be someone or some-
thing new."

He leaned forward slightly. "But Rimmer Dall was First
Seeker, the strongest of the Shadowen, and he hungered to be
more than the others. He settled on being you. Par, because

434 The Talismans of Shannara

you gave him youth and power unlike that possessed by any
other human. The wishsong was evolving; he knew that. More
than that, he recognized the direction that evolution was taking.
Your Elven blood was bringing the magic back around to what
Brin Ohmsford had inherited from her father, the magic born
of the Elfstones. Remember how she had struggled to keep it
from destroying her? Rimmer Dall understood the nature of
this magic. It was Elven, but it had its Shadowen side, too. If
he could gain control of it, he could turn it to his own use. But
this was not something he could do unless you helped him.
The magic was too strong, too protective, to let you be sub-
verted forcibly. He needed to trick you into helping him. It was
what destroyed him in the end, his obsession with claiming
you. He gave himself over to it, spending his time on finding
a way to satisfy it, telling you that you were already a
Shadowen, suggesting you were the very enemy you sought,
letting you think you killed Coil and then bringing Coil back
to life, chasing you about, harrying you into believing that
without his help you would go mad.

"His cause was strengthened by his discovery that Allanon
had sent you in search of the Sword of Shannara. He knew of
your magic from Varfleet, but now he saw a way to make you
his ally against his most dangerous enemy. He needed to keep
close to you to make certain you did not discover the truth,
and your magic helped. It was Elven-spawned, and every time
you relied on it you told him where you were. It was not
enough to enable him to capture you, but it kept him close."

"But he was wrong about the Sword of Shannara," Par in-
sisted. "He thought I was the only one who could use it, and
it was really meant for Coll."

Walker shook his head. "I don't know that it was meant spe-
cifically for either of you. It seems that it was meant for both
But it was necessary that Coil use it first if you were to be
saved from Rimmer Dall. You had to find a way to accept the
fact that even though your fears about the magic were true,
they were not determinative of your fate. Allanon was careful
not to reveal anything about Coil's role. He must have known
that it had to be kept secret if Coil was to help you."

"Perhaps he knew that the Shadowen would discover the
charges," Morgan offered. "So he held one back."

The Talismans of Shannara                         435

"What about the charges? " Par asked suddenly. "What were
they meant to accomplish? We know why retrieving the Sword
of Shannara was important, but what about the others9 "

Walker breathed deeply, looked away toward the plains for
a moment thinking, then turned back again. His knowledge and
his reasoning allowed him to divine more quickly than his
companions the truths behind what had transpired, and so they
were quick to look to him for an explanation. Foresight, com-
prehension, perception, and deduction—Druid skills be-
queathed to him. Add to those the power of the magic and the
responsibility to use it wisely. He was beginning to appreciate
already the burden that Allanon had earned all those years.

"The charges were given to accomplish more than simply
the destruction of the Shadowen," he said, choosing his words
carefully. "A combination of things was required if the Four
Lands was to survive. An understanding of who the Shadowen
were and what they were about was necessary first and fore-
most, and the quests to carry out Ailanon's charges provided
that. More directly, there were the talismans that helped
destroy them—the Sword of Shannara, the Elfstones, the
wishsong, and Morgan's blade. And peripherally there were the
magics that enabled us to recover those talismans.

"But the charges were given as well to sustain the Four
Lands once the Shadowen were gone, to help keep the
Shadowen or things like them from coming back. The Elves
were returned to provide a balance that has been missing. The
Elves are the healers of the land and her creatures, the caretak-
ers needed to keep the magic safe and secure. When they fled,
the Shadowen had no one to challenge their theft, no one who
even realized what was happening. The Elves will work to pre-
vent that from occuring again.

"And the Druids," he said softly, "will contribute to that bal-
ance as well. It was something I did not understand before,
something I learned in becoming one of them. The Druids are
the land's conscience. They do not simply manipulate and con-
trol. They seek out what troubles the land and her people, and
they help to put it right again. It might seem sometimes as if
they serve only their own purposes, but the misperception
comes from fear of the power they wield. It remains a judg-
ment for each of them, of course—for me, as well, I know—

436 The Talismans of Shannara

but the reason for their being comes from a need to serve." He
paused. "I could not be one of them otherwise."

"Once, you could not have been one of them in any case,"
Par observed quietly.

Walker nodded and the hardness in his eyes softened.
"Once, Par, was a long time ago for all of us."

Cogline would have agreed with that, the Valeman thought
to himself. The old man would have recognized the truth in
those words right away. Cogline had seen the passing of so
many years, times gone out of memory and become legend,
the disappearance of the Druids and their return, the transition
from the old world to the new. Cogline had been the last of
what once was, and he would have understood that the inevi-
tability of change was the sole constant of life.

"So the black things are really gone," Many Roh said sud-
denly, as if needing confirmation, not looking at anyone as she
spoke.

"The Shadowen are gone," Walker Boh assured her. He
paused, looking down. "But the magic that sustained them re-
mains. Do not forget that."

Damson stirred then, and they went to see that she was all
right. Overhead, the sunlight brightened through the early haze,
and the air began to turn hot and sticky. On the flats below, the
remains of Southwatch shimmered and steamed in the swelter,
and after a time took on the appearance of a mirage.

Midday came and went as the company rested within the
cool of the mountain trees. Damson woke from her slumber to
eat and drink, then closed her eyes once more. She would heal
quickly. Walker Boh observed. She would be well again soon.

They fell asleep after that, drifting off one by one, smelling
wildflowers and fresh grasses, comforted by the forest silence.
Exhaustion might have claimed them, but Par thought after-
ward it must have been something more. He dreamed that
Walker spoke to each of them as they slept, telling them
that they should remember what he had said about the
magic, that they should remember its importance to the land.
What part of the magic they kept with them—and here he
spoke mostly to Par—they must ward carefully against misuse
and neglect. Keep it safe for when it was needed; hold it in
trust for when it must be used. He touched them each in some

The Talismans of Shannara                          437

way that was not immediately recognizable, passing among
them silently, soundlessly, leaving them rested and at peace.
He changed in appearance as he went, looking at times like
Walker and at other times like Allanon. He took from Coil the
Sword of Shannara. So that it will not be lost again, he ex-
plained. Coil did not object, nor did anyone. The Sword did
not really belong to them. The Sword belonged to the Four
Lands.

Then Walker began to fade away like a shadow in sunlight.
I must leave you now, he told them, for my healing requires
the Druid Sleep.

When they awoke again it was late afternoon, the sky turn-
ing purple and crimson, the forest hushed and cool and still.
Walker Boh was gone, and they knew without being told that
he was not coming back to them.

Moments later Elven Wing Riders and their Rocs appeared
out of the fading sunlight west bearing Wren and Padishar and
the others who had fought at the Valley of Rhenn, and it was
rime for the explanations to begin again.

XXXVII

Time passed, and summer turned to autumn. The midyear
heat gave way grudgingly, the days cooling, becoming
shorter and somehow more precious at the prospect of
winter's coming. Wildflowers faded and leaves began to turn,
and one set of colors replaced another. Birds flew south, and
the winds out of the mountains grew cold. The light turned
hazy and slow and seemed to drift out of the sky in deep, soft,
silent layers that comforted like down.

Coil Ohmsford went home to Shady Vale to make certain
Jaralan and Mirianna were safe and was surprised to discover
that the Federation had lost interest weeks ago, abandoning the
village and the elder Ohmsfords for more pressing concerns.
The reunion was a joyful one, and Coil was quick to promise
that he would not be traveling again for a long time.

Par Ohmsford and Damson Rhee journeyed north to Tyrsis
and stayed long enough to determine that the Mole had indeed
survived the Shadowen hunt to destroy him. Then they re-
turned to Shady Vale to collect Coll. Par was already planning
what they would do next. The three of them would open an
inn somewhere north in one of the border cities of Callahorn
where they would serve good food, provide a comfortable
night's lodging, and on occasion entertain customers with sto-
ries and songs. Something had happened to the wishsong in the
freeing of the land's magic at Southwatch. All it could do now
was what it had once done—create images. But that was
enough for Par and Coil to tell the stories, just like before. Coil
would resist leaving Shady Vale, of course. But Par thought he
could talk him into it.

438

The Talismans of Shannara                          439

The Shadowen were gone from the cities of Callahom, and
there was a growing determination among the members of the
population that the Federation occupiers should be gone as
well. Almost immediately Padishar Creel began making plans
for a free-bom-instigated revolt that would drive the South-
landers from Callahom for good. He told the men who aided
him that his parents had once owned land in Callahom. The
Federation had imprisoned and then exiled them, and he had
been given to an aunt to raise. He had never seen his parents,
but he had heard that his father was commonly known as
Baron Creel.

Morgan Leah kept his promise to Steff and went back into
the Eastland to join the Dwarf resistance in its fight against the
Federation. Many Roh went with him, no longer wondering if
she was making the right choice, no longer troubled by the
ghost of Quickening. Morgan told her he wanted her to come.
They would find Granny Elise and Auntie Jilt, and they would
stay until the Dwarves were free again. Then they would return
to the Highlands and he would show her his cabin in the hills.
That was what he said, but she thought that maybe he was say-
ing something more.

Wren Elessedil went back into the Westland as Queen of the
Elves, mindful of her vow to see to it that the Elves resumed
the old practice of going out into the Four Lands as healers.
With Triss and Tiger Ty and now even Barsimmon Oridio
backing her, she did not think the High Council would ques-
tion her further. Her healers would come from among the Cho-
sen. They would be caretakers not only of the Gardens of Life
and the Ellcrys but of all the earth. They would not be ac-
cepted at first, but they would not give up. After all, it was not
in the nature of Elves to quit.

The war with the Federation intensified for a while and then
died away as the Southlanders began to withdraw back into
their home country once more. Without the Shadowen to influ-
ence the Coalition Council, and with the defeat of their army
at the Valley of Rhenn, interest in pursuing the war quickly be-
gan to fade. The uprisings in Callahom and the Eastland led to
growing dissatisfaction with the whole program of Southland
expansion, and finally the Federation abandoned the outlying
lands completely.

440                          The Talismans of Shannara
Time passed, and the seasons turned.

Paranor sat undisturbed through the fall and winter, rising up
out of the shadowed forests that sheltered it, hemmed by the
vast peaks of the Dragon's Teeth, a dark gathering of walls and
parapets, battlements and towers. Now and again, travelers
would pass by, but none dared enter the Druid's Keep. It was
said by most to be haunted, a playground for the spirits, a
crypt for the souls of Druids dead and gone. Some said a moor
cat prowled within and sometimes without, as black as night,
as big as a horse, and with eyes of fire. Some said the moor
cat could speak like a man.

Within the Keep, Walker Boh slept the Druid Sleep undis-
turbed. Though his body rested, his spirit went forth often
across the land, speeding on the wind to its far comers, riding
the clouds and the backs of waves. Walker dreamed while he
slept of things gone and of things to come, of what had been
and of what should be. He dreamed of a new Druid Council,
of a gathering together of the wisest men and women of the
Races, of a pooling of knowledge that would let the Four
Lands grow and prosper. He dreamed of peace. His dreams
stretched farther than the journeys he embarked upon in spirit
form, for there was no limit to what he could imagine.

Now and again, Allanon came to him. He was almost white
now, a dark shade become a ghost, fading lines against the
light. He spoke with Walker, but the words translated more as
feelings than as thoughts. He was slipping farther and farther
from the world of light and substance and deeper into the neth-
erworld of afterlife. He seemed satisfied that he was leaving,
he seemed at peace.

And sometimes, when Walker's heart was quiet and his
mind at rest, Cogline would be there, too. The old man would
draw close, his body a knotted collection of sticks, his hair
wispy and tossed about, his features sharp and his eyes clear,
and he would smile and nod. Yes, Walker, he would say. You
have done well.