by Terry Brooks
It took him over an hour to make his way through. There were numerous passageways beneath the castle, all intertwined and leading from a single door that only he could open. He chose the one that led west, seeking to exit within the sheltering trees of the forests that lay between the Horsemen and the Kennon Pass, certain that once free of the Shadowen he could slip past the Federation soldiers easily. When he reached the concealed opening, he paused to listen. There was no sound above him. There was no movement. Still, he felt uneasy, as if sensing that despite appearances all was not well.
He went out from the tunnel into the black of the forest, rising from the earth like a shadow within a covering of brush and rocks. Through gaps in the canopy of limbs overhead he could see the stars and a hint of the waning moon. It was silent within the trees, as if nothing lived there. He searched for a hint of the presence of the gray wolves and did not find it. He listened for the small sounds of insects and birds, and they were missing. He sniffed the air and smelled an odd mustiness.
He breathed deeply and stepped out into the open.
He heard, rather than saw, the sweep of the scythe arcing toward him, and flung himself aside just before it struck. Death grunted with the effort of the swing, a cloaked black shape to one side. Walker rolled to his feet, seeing another shape materialize to his right. War, all in armor, blade edges and spikes glinting wickedly, hurled a mace that thudded into the tree next to him and caused the trunk to split apart. Walker whirled away, careening wildly past the skeletal arms of Famine, white bones reaching, clutching. They were all there, all of them, he realized in despair. Somehow they had found him out.
He darted away, hearing the buzz and hiss of Pestilence, feeling dry heat and smelling sickness close beside. He leaped a small ravine, his fear giving him unexpected strength, a fiery determination building within him. The Horsemen came after, dismounted now in their effort to trap him, bits of night broken free like the edges of a shattered blade. He heard their movement as he might the rustle of leaves in a slight wind, small whispers. There was nothing else—no footsteps, no breathing, no scrape of weapons or bone.
Walker raced through the trees, no longer sure in which direction he was running, seeking only to elude his pursuers. He was suddenly lost in the darkness of the forest corridors, fleeing to no purpose but to escape, any advantage of surprise lost. The Shadowen came on, a swift and certain pursuit. He was aware of their movements out of the corner of his eye. They had him flushed now, and they were hunting him as dogs would a fox.
No!
He whirled then and brought his magic to bear, throwing up a wall of fire between himself and his pursuers, sending the flames back into their faces like white-hot spikes. War and Pestilence shrank away, slowed, but Famine and Death came on, unaffected. Of course, Walker thought as he ran anew. Famine and Death. Fire would not harm them.
He crossed a stream and swerved right toward the rise of Paranor, towers and walls sharp-edged against the night. He had been running that way without knowing it, and now saw it as his only chance of escape. If he could gain the castle before they caught him …
Cogline! Was the old man watching?
Something rose out of the night before him, serpentine and slick with moisture. Claws reached for him and teeth gleamed. It was one of the Shadowen mounts, set there to cut him off. He slipped beneath its grasp, a bit of night that could not be held, the magic making him as swift and ephemeral as the wind. The serpent thing hissed and slashed wildly, sending gouts of earth flying. Walker Boh was behind it by then, racing away with the quickness of thought. Ahead the castle of the Druids loomed—his sanctuary, his haven from these things—
A black motion to his left sent him skidding away as Famine lashed out with a sword carved of bone, a dull white gleaming that tore at the edges of his clothing. Walker lost his footing and went down, tumbling along a slope, rolling wildly through brush and long grass and into a slick of standing water. Something rushed past, just missing him with a click of jaws. Another of the serpents. Walker came to his feet, flinging fire and sound in all directions in a desperate effort to shield himself. He had the satisfaction of hearing something shriek in pain, of hearing something else grunt as if clubbed, and then he was moving again. Trees rose off to one side, and he disappeared into them, searching out the concealment of the deep shadows. His breathing was ragged and uneven, and his body ached. To his dismay, he found himself moving away from the castle again, turned aside from the safety he had hoped to gain.
A shadow flitted off to his left, swift and silent, a black cloak and a glint of an iron blade. Death. Walker was tiring, worn from his flight, from being forced to change direction so often. The Shadowen had hemmed him in and were closing. He did not think he could reach the castle before they caught up to him. He sought to change directions back again, but saw movement between himself and the Keep and heard a hiss of anticipation and the sudden rustle of scales through the grasses and brush. Walker could barely keep his panic in check, feeling it as a growing tightness in his throat. He had been too quick to assume, too sure of himself. He should have known it would not be this easy. He should have anticipated better.
Branches slapped at his face and arms as he forced his way into a stretch of deep woods. Behind, the serpent closed. It seemed as if he could feel its breath on his neck, the touch of claws and teeth on his body. He increased his pace, broke free of the underbrush into a clearing, and found Death waiting, cloaked and hooded, scythe lifted. The Shadowen struck at him, missed as he veered sideways, swung a second time, and Walker caught hold of the scythe to deflect it. Instantly a cold numbed his hand and arm, hollow and bone-chilling, and he jerked away in pain, thrusting the scythe and its wielder aside as he did so. Something else moved in from the right, but he was running again, throwing himself back into the forest, slipping past rows of dark trunks as if turned substanceless, all the while feeling the numbness settle deeper.
So cold!
His strength was failing now, and he was no closer to safety than before. Think, he admonished himself furiously. Think! Shadows moved all about, the skeletal shape of Famine, the hideous buzz of Pestilence, the rumble of War in his unbreachable armor, the silent rush of Death, and with them the serpents they commanded.
Then suddenly a memory triggered, and Walker Boh grasped for the thread of hope it offered. There was a trapdoor hidden in the earth just ahead and beneath it a tunnel leading back into Paranor. The trapdoor was Allanon’s memory, come alive in the terror and anguish of the moment, recalled just in time. There, left! Walker swerved, lurching ahead, hand and arm feeling as dead as the one he had lost. Don’t think about it! He threw himself into a covering of brush, whipping past leafy barriers, down a ravine, and across a narrows.
There!
His hand dropped to the earth, clawing for the hidden door with nerveless fingers. It was here, he thought, here in this patch of ground. Sounds approached from behind, closing. He found an iron ring, grasped it, and heaved upward. The door came away with a thud, falling back. Walker tumbled through the opening and down the stairs beyond, then scrambled back to his feet. There were shadows at the entry, coming through. He raised his damaged hand and arm, fighting through the numbness and chill, and called for the magic. Fire exploded up the stairs and filled the opening. The shadows disappeared in a ball of light. There was a rending of earth and stone, and the entire entrance collapsed.
Walker lurched away into the tunnel, choking and coughing from the dust and smoke. Twice he glanced back to make certain that nothing followed.
But he was alone.
He was besieged by doubts and fears as he made his way back to the Keep through the tunnels, assailed by demons that bore the faces of his enemies. It seemed as if he could hear his Shadowen pursuers even here, come down into the earth to finish what they had started. Death, War, Pestilence, and Famine—what was rock and earth to them? Could they not penetrate anywhere? What was to keep them out?
But they did not co
me, for, notwithstanding the forms and identities they had assumed, they were not invincible and not truly the incarnations they pretended to be. He had heard them cry out in pain; he had felt their substance. The numbness in his hand and arm was beginning to recede, and he welcomed the tingling gratefully, feeling anew the pain of loss of his other limb, wishing he could live that part of his life over again.
He wondered how much more of himself he would be forced to cede before this struggle was over. Wasn’t he lucky just to be alive? How narrow his escape from the Shadowen had been this time!
And then suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps he hadn’t really escaped anything. Perhaps he had been allowed to escape. Perhaps the Horsemen had only been toying with him. Hadn’t they had enough chances to kill him if they wanted to? It seemed on reflection that they might have been trying to scare him rather than kill him, to instill enough fear in him that he would be unable to function at all once he was back within the Druid’s Keep.
But he discarded the idea almost immediately. It was ridiculous to think that they wouldn’t have killed him if they could. They had simply tried and failed. He had possessed enough skill and magic to save himself even in the confusion of an ambush, and he would take what comfort he could from that.
Aching and worn, he reentered Paranor’s walls and made his way back into the Keep. Cogline would be waiting. He would have to confess his failure to the old man. The thought troubled him, and he was aware that it was his preconception of the invincibility of the Druids that stood in the way of acceptance. But he could not afford pride. He was a novice still. He was just beginning to learn.
Slowly the fears and doubts dropped away, and the demons disappeared. There would be another day, he promised—another time and place in which to deal with the Horsemen.
When it came, he would be ready.
XI
Morgan Leah explained his plan to rescue Padishar Creel to Damson Rhee and Chandos during dinner. He pulled them aside where they would not be overheard, huddling on the open bluff about their food and drink, listening to the night sounds and watching the stars brighten in the darkening sky while they talked. He first had Damson relate again the particulars of her own escape from the city, letting her tell the story as she chose, glancing back and forth between the girl and the fierce-looking free-born. When she had finished, he set his empty plate aside—he had consumed everything while she talked—and leaned forward intently.
“They will expect a rescue attempt,” he advised softly, glancing at each in turn. “They know we won’t just give up on him. They know how important he is to us. But they will not expect us to come at them the same way. They will expect a different approach this time—a major effort involving a large number of men maybe, a diversion of some sort perhaps leading to an all-out assault. They will expect us to try to catch them off guard. So we have to give them something other than what they’re looking for before they realize what it is they’re seeing.”
Chandos snorted. “Are you making any sense, Highlander?”
Morgan permitted himself a quick grin. “Above all else, we have to get in and out again quick. The longer this takes, the more dangerous it becomes. Bear with me, Chandos. I just want you to understand the reasoning behind what I’m about to suggest. We have to think the way they do in order to anticipate their plan to trap us and find a way to avoid it.”
“You’re sure there will be a trap, then?” the big man asked, rubbing his bearded chin. “Why won’t they just dispose of Padishar and be done with it? Or why not do to him what they did to Hirehone?” He glanced quickly at Damson, who was tight-lipped.
Morgan clasped a hand on the other’s broad shoulder. “I can’t be sure of anything. But think about it for a moment. If they dispose of Padishar, they lose any chance of getting their hands on the rest of us. And they want us all, Chandos. They want the free-born wiped out.” He faced Damson. “Eventually, they will use Padishar the same way they used Hirehone. But they won’t do that right away. First of all, they know we will be looking for it. If Padishar comes back, what’s the first thing we’ll ask ourselves? Is it really Padishar—or is it another of the Shadowen? Second, they know we found a way to discover the truth about Teel. And they know we might do it again with Padishar. Third, and most important, we have the use of magic and they want it. Rimmer Dall has been chasing Par Ohmsford from the beginning and it must have something to do with his magic. Same with Walker Boh. And the same with me.”
He leaned forward. “They’ll try to use Padishar to bring us to them because they know we won’t attempt a rescue without bringing the magic along, that we won’t challenge theirs without being able to call on ours. They want that magic—just like they want all the magic—and this is their best chance to get it.”
Chandos frowned. “So you figure it’s the Shadowen that we’ll really be up against?”
Morgan nodded. “It’s been the Shadowen right from the beginning. Teel, Hirehone, the Creepers, Rimmer Dall, the Gnawl, that little girl Par encountered on Toffer Ridge—everywhere we’ve gone, the Shadowen have been there waiting. They control the Federation and the Coalition Council as well; they have to. Of course it’s the Shadowen we’ll be up against.”
“Tell us your plan,” Damson urged quietly.
Morgan leaned back again, folding his arms comfortably. “We go back into Tyrsis through the tunnels—the same way Damson escaped. We dress ourselves in Federation uniforms, just as Padishar did at the Pit. We go up into the city, to the watchtower or prisons or wherever they have Padishar. We enter in broad daylight and set him free. We go in one way and out another. We do it all in a matter of a few minutes.”
Chandos and Damson both stared at him. “That’s it? That’s the whole plan?” Chandos demanded.
“Wait a minute,” Damson interrupted. “Morgan, how do we get back into the tunnels? I can’t remember the way.”
“No, you can’t,” Morgan agreed. “But the Mole can.” He took a deep breath. “This plan depends mostly on him. And you persuading him to help.” He paused, studying her green eyes. “You will have to go back into the city and find him, then come down through the catacombs to lead us in. You will have to find out where Padishar is being held so that we can go right to him. The Mole knows all the secret passageways, all the tunnels that lie beneath the city of Tyrsis. He can find a way for us to go. If we just appear at their door, they won’t have time to stop us. It’s the best chance we have—do what they expect us to do, but not in the way they’re anticipating.”
Chandos shook his head. “I don’t know, Highlander. They know about Damson; they’ll be looking for her.”
Morgan nodded. “But she’s the only one the Mole will trust. She has to go in first, through the gates. I’ll go with her.” He looked at her. “What do you think, Damson Rhee?”
“I think I can do it,” she declared quietly. “And the Mole will help—if they haven’t caught up with him yet.” She frowned doubtfully. “They have to be hunting for him down in those same tunnels we’ll be coming through.”
“But he knows them better than the soldiers do,” Morgan said. “They’ve been trying to catch him for weeks now and haven’t been able to do so. We just need another few days.” He looked at the girl and the big man in turn. “It is the best chance we’re going to get. We have to try.”
Chandos shook his head once more. “How many of us will this take?”
“Two dozen, no more.”
Chandos stared at him, wide-eyed. “Two dozen! Highlander, there’s five thousand Federation soldiers quartered in Tyrsis, and who knows how many Shadowen! Two dozen men won’t stand a chance!”
“We’ll stand a better chance than two hundred—or two thousand, if we had that many to muster, which we don’t, do we?” The big man’s jaw tightened defensively. “Chandos, the smaller the company, the better the chance of hiding it. They’ll be looking for something larger; they’ll expect it. But two dozen men? We can be on top of them before they kn
ow who we are. We can disguise two dozen among five thousand a lot more easily than two hundred. Two dozen is all we need if we get close enough.”
“He’s right,” Damson said suddenly. “A large force would be heard in the tunnels. There would be nowhere for them to hide in the city. We can slip two dozen in and hide them until the attempt.” She looked directly at Morgan. “What I don’t know is whether two dozen will be enough to free Padishar when the time comes.”
Morgan met her gaze. “Because of the Shadowen?”
“Yes, because of the Shadowen. We don’t have Par with us this time to keep them at bay.”
“No,” Morgan agreed, “you have me instead.” He reached back over his shoulder, drew out the Sword of Leah, brought it around in front of him, and jammed it dramatically into the earth. It rested there, quivering slightly, polished surface smooth and silver in the starlight. He looked at them. “And I have this.”
“Your talisman,” Chandos muttered in surprise. “I thought it was broken.”
“It was healed when I went north,” Morgan replied softly, seeing Quickening’s face appear and then fade in his mind. “I have the magic back again. It will be enough to withstand the Shadowen.”
Damson glanced from one face to the other, confused. Perhaps Par hadn’t told her about the Sword of Leah. Perhaps he hadn’t had time in the struggle to escape Tyrsis and reach the free-born. And no one knew about Quickening save for Walker Boh.
Morgan did not care to explain, and he did not try. “Can you find the men?” he asked Chandos instead.
The black eyes fixed him. “I can, Highlander. Twenty times that for Padishar Creel.” He paused. “But you’re asking them to place a lot of faith in you.”
Morgan jerked his sword free of the earth and slid it back into its sheath. In the distance, along the bluff edge, free-born patrolled in the darkness. Behind, back against the trees, cooking fires burned low, and the clank and rattle of cookware was beginning to diminish as the meal ended and thoughts turned to sleep. Pipes were lit, small bits of light against the black, fireflies that wavered in the concealment of the trees. The sound of voices was low and easy.