by Terry Brooks
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 disbelief on his rough face.
“I tried to warn you,” Par hissed, freeing himself, glancing back toward the pursuit. The Sword of Shannara lifted menacingly. “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.
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 suddenly 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 tavern. 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.
“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. Damson 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 their 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 protectively, the weight of it growing with every step.
They rounded a corner and paused in the lee of a stable entry, listening to the tumult about them grow.
“They couldn’t have followed me!” Padishar declared suddenly, spitting blood through cracked lips.
Damson shook her head. “I don’t understand it, Padishar. 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 suddenly, 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 everywhere, surging from the dark in knots, milling about wildly. The moon had gone b
ehind 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, twisting 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-born 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 factory. “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 backward 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, looking 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 despaired 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.
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 mere 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 Damson. Not there.
“I want to go with him,” he offered quietly.
“No.” Padishar shook his head for emphasis. “The Mole 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.
III
It had been a long and arduous journey that brought Par Ohmsford from his now long-ago meeting at the Hadeshorn 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 bureau with a cracked mirror. He stared at it as he might an enemy. 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 Coll’s death and the struggle to stay alive in the catacombs of Tyrsis. He wondered how many of Allanon’s charges had been forgotten or ignored. He wondered 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-born 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 consumed the meal in minutes. All about him, the candles sputtered 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 the free-born what had befallen him since they had struggled together to escape the Pit—how Damson 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 Coll had been lost, and finally how Damson and he had been running and hiding throughout Tyrsis ever since.