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