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Talismans of Shannara
Terry Brooks
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
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
!” 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
, 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
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
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
. 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.
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