The Talismans of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

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

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

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

  “What are they doing here?” the girl whispered in Par’s ear.

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

  His mind froze and his eyes went wide.

  Since Paranor had disappeared.

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

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

  Yet something inside whispered that he was right. The soldiers were there because Paranor was back.

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

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

  Shades! His heart was pumping so fast it seemed to jump inside his chest. What if …?

  Damson’s hand on his arm startled him. “Come with me.”

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

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

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

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

  “Par!” Damson whispered suddenly, and her fingers tightened on his arm. Leaning into him with excitement, her hand lifted hurriedly to point.

  And there was Paranor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  As they twisted and wound their way along the trail toward the dark belt of the forests below, Par’s mood darkened steadily. Walker had been wary of Allanon’s motives. He had been the first to warn against the Druids. What had happened then to make him change his mind? Why had he agreed to bring back Paranor? Par wished he could speak with him, just for a moment. He wished he could talk to almost anyone from the original company who had come with him to the Hadeshorn. He was tired of feeling alone and abandoned in this. He was weary of having questions with no answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  What was wrong? Why was it so quiet?

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

  Damson stood up beside him. “Par?” she whispered questioningly.

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

  A figure appeared, stunted and crouched, all black and faceless beneath a concealing cloak and hood.

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

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

  Par felt Damson’s fingers close on his arms.

  It was Shadowen.

  A weary and futile acceptance came with the Valeman’s recognition of his enemy. He must fight again after all. He must call upon the wishsong once more. There was no end to it, he thought dully. Wherever he went, they found him. Each time he thought he had used the magic for the last time, he was required to use it one time more. And one time after that. Forever.

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

  Until he killed it.

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

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

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

  He was looking at Coll.

  Ravaged, twisted, bruised, and dirtied, the face before him was still Coll’s.

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

  “Par?” came the plea.

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

  Why?

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

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

  Something whispered at the back of his mind, a warning that took no discernible form, words that lacked m
eaning beyond their intent. Caution, Valeman! Beware!

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

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

  No! No, it wasn’t possible!

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