The Scions of Shannara

by Terry Brooks

  Then she reached up and plucked a silver coin from behind Par’s ear and gave it to him. The coin bore her likeness. “For luck, Par Ohmsford,” she said. “You will be needing it if you continue to follow him.”

  She gave Padishar a hard look, took the children by the hand, and strode off into the crowds without looking back, her red hair shining. The outlaw chief and the Valeman watched her go.

  “Who is she, Padishar?” Par asked when she was no longer in view.

  Padishar shrugged. “Whoever she chooses to be. There are as many stories about her origins as there are about my own. Come now. Time for us to be going as well.”

  He took Par back through the city, keeping to the lesser streets and byways. The crowds were still heavy, everyone pushing and shoving, their faces dust-streaked and their tempers short. Twilight had chased the sunlight west, lengthening the shadows into evening, but the heat of midday remained trapped by the city’s walls, rising out of the stone of the streets and buildings to hang in the still summer air. It was like being in a furnace. Par glanced skyward. Already the quarter-moon was visible northward, a sprinkling of stars east. He tried to think about what he had learned of the disappearance of the Sword of Shannara, but found himself thinking instead of Damson Rhee.

  Padishar had him safely back down in the basement of the storage house behind the weapons shop before dark, where Coll and Morgan waited impatiently to receive them. Cutting short a flurry of questions, the outlaw chief smiled cheerfully and announced that everything was arranged. At midnight the Valemen, the Highlander, Ciba Blue, and he would make a brief foray into the ravine that fronted what had once been the palace of the city’s rulers. They would descend using a rope ladder. Stasas and Drutt would remain behind. They would haul the ladder up when their companions were safely down and hide until summoned. Any sentries would be dispatched, the ladder would be lowered again, and they would all disappear back the way they had come.

  He was succinct and matter-of-fact. He made no mention of why they were doing all this and none of his own men bothered to ask. They simply let him finish, then turned immediately back to whatever they had been doing before. Coll and Morgan, on the other hand, could barely contain themselves, and Par was forced to take them aside and tell them in detail everything that had happened. The three of them huddled in one corner of the basement, seated on sacks of scrubbing powder. Oil lamps lit the darkness, and the city above them began to go still.

  When Par concluded, Morgan shook his head doubtfully.

  “It is hard to believe that an entire city has forgotten there was more than one People’s Park and Bridge of Sendic,” he declared softly.

  “Not hard at all when you remember that they have had more than a hundred years to work on it,” Coll disagreed quickly. “Think about it, Morgan. How much more than a park and a bridge has been forgotten in that time? The Federation has saddled the Four Lands with three hundred years of revisionist history.”

  “Coll’s right,” Par said. “We lost our only true historian when Allanon passed from the Lands. The Druid Histories were the only written compilations the Races had, and we don’t know what’s become of those. All we have left are the storytellers, with their word-of-mouth recitations, most of them imperfect.”

  “Everything about the old world has been called a lie,” Coll said, his dark eyes hard. “We know it to be the truth, but we are virtually alone in that belief. The Federation has changed everything to suit its own purposes. After a hundred years, it is little wonder that no one in Tyrsis remembers that the People’s Park and the Bridge of Sendic are not the same as they once were. The fact of the matter is, who even cares anymore?”

  Morgan frowned. “Perhaps so. But something’s still not right about this.” His frown deepened. “It bothers me that the Sword of Shannara, vault and all, has been down in this ravine all these years and no one’s seen it. It bothers me that no one who’s gone down to have a look has come back out again.”

  “That troubles me, too,” Coll agreed.

  Par glanced briefly at the outlaws, who were paying no attention to them. “None of us thought for a minute that it wouldn’t be dangerous trying to recover the Sword,” he whispered, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Surely you didn’t expect to just walk up and take it? Of course no one’s seen it! It wouldn’t be missing if they had, would it? And you can bet that the Federation has made certain no one who got down into the Pit got back out again! That’s the reason for the guards and the Gatehouse! Besides, the fact that the Federation has gone to so much trouble to hide the old bridge and park suggests to me that the Sword is down there!”

  Coll looked at his brother steadily. “It also suggests that that’s where it’s meant to stay.”

  The conversation broke off and the three of them drifted away to separate corners of the basement. Evening passed quickly into nightfall and the heat of the day finally faded. The little company ate an uneventful dinner amid long stretches of silence. Only Padishar had much of anything to say, ebullient as always, tossing off stories and jokes as if this night were the same as any other, seemingly heedless of the fact that his audience remained unresponsive. Par was too excited to eat or talk and spent the time wondering if Padishar were as unaffected as he appeared. Nothing seemed to alter the mood of the outlaw chief. Padishar Creel was either very brave or very foolish, and it bothered the Valeman that he wasn’t sure which it was.

  Dinner ended and they sat around talking in hushed voices and staring at the walls. Padishar came over to Par at one point and crouched down beside him. “Are you anxious to be about our business, lad?” he asked softly.

  No one else was close enough to hear. Par nodded.

  “Ah, well, it won’t be long now.” The outlaw patted his knee. The hard eyes held his own. “Just remember what we’re about. A quick look and out again. If the Sword is there for the taking, fine. If not, no delays.” His smile was wolfish. “Caution in all things.” He slipped away, leaving Par to stare after him.

  The minutes lengthened with the wearing slowness of shadows at midday. Par and Coll sat side by side without speaking. Par could almost hear his brother’s thoughts in the silence. The oil lamps flickered and spat. A giant swamp fly buzzed about the ceiling until Ciba Blue killed it. The basement room began to smell close.

  Then finally Padishar stood up and said it was time. They came to their feet eagerly, anticipation flickering in their eyes. Weapons were strapped down and cloaks pulled close. They went up the basement stairs through the trapdoor and out into the night.

  The city streets were empty and still. Voices drifted out of ale houses and sleeping rooms, punctuated by raucous laughter and occasional shouts. The lamps were mostly broken or unlit on the back streets that Padishar took them down, and there was only moonlight to guide them through the shadows. They did not move furtively, only cautiously, not wishing to draw attention to themselves. They ducked back into alleyways several times to avoid knots of swaying, singing revellers who were making their way homeward. Drunks and beggars who saw them pass barely glanced up from the doorways and alcoves in which they lay. They saw no Federation soldiers. The Federation left the back streets and the poor of Tyrsis to manage for themselves.

  When they reached the People’s Park and the Bridge of Sendic, Padishar sent them across the broad expanse of the Tyrsian Way in twos and threes into the shadows of the park, dispatching them in different directions to regroup later, carefully watching the well-lighted Way for any approach of the Federation patrols he knew would be found there. Only one patrol passed, and it saw nothing of the company. A watch was posted before the Gatehouse at the center of the wall that warded the Pit, but the soldiers had lamplight reflecting all about them and could not see outside its glow to the figures lost in the dark beyond. Padishar took the company swiftly through the deserted park, west to where the ravine approached its juncture with the cliffs. There, he settled them in to wait.

  Par crouched motionlessly in the dark
and listened to the sound of his heart pumping in his ears. The silence about him was filled with the hum of insects. Locusts buzzed in raucous cadence in the black. The seven men were concealed in a mass of thicket, invisible to anyone without. But anyone beyond their concealment was invisible to them as well. Par was uneasy with their placement and wondered at its choice. He glanced at Padishar Creel, but the outlaw chief was busy overseeing the untangling of the rope ladder that would lower them into the ravine . . .

  Par hesitated. The Pit. Lower them into the Pit. He forced himself to say the word.

  He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He wondered if Damson Rhee was anywhere close.

  A patrol of four Federation soldiers materialized out of the dark almost directly in front of them, walking the perimeter of the wall. Though the sound of their boots warned of their coming, it was chilling when they appeared, nevertheless. Par and the others flattened themselves in the scratchy tangle of their concealment. The soldiers paused, spoke quietly among themselves for a moment, then turned back the way they had come, and were gone.

  Par exhaled slowly. He risked a quick glance over at the dark bowl of the ravine. It was a soundless, depthless well of ink.

  Padishar and the other outlaws were fixing the rope ladder in place, preparing for the descent. Par came to his feet, eager to relieve the muscles that were beginning to cramp, anxious to be done with this whole business. He should have felt confident. He did not. He was growing steadily more uneasy and he couldn’t say why. Something was tugging at him frantically, warning him, some sixth sense that he couldn’t identify.

  He thought he heard something—not ahead in the ravine, but behind in the park. He started to turn, his sharp Elf eyes searching.

  Then abruptly there was a flurry of shouts from the direction of the Gatehouse, and cries of alarm pierced the night.

  “Now!” Padishar Creel urged, and they bolted their cover for the wall.

  The ladder was already knotted in place, tied down to a pair of the wall spikes. Quickly, they lowered it into the black. Ciba Blue went over first, the cobalt birthmark on his cheek a dark, hollow place in the moonlight. He tested the ladder first with his weight, then disappeared from view.

  “Remember, listen for my signal,” Padishar was saying hurriedly to Stasas and Drutt, his voice a rough whisper above the distant shouts.

  He was turning to start Par down the ladder after Ciba Blue when a swarm of Federation soldiers appeared out of the dark behind them, armed with spears and crossbows, silent figures that seemed to come from nowhere. Everyone froze. Par felt his stomach lurch with shock. He found himself thinking, “I should have known, I should have sensed them,” and thinking in the next breath that indeed he had.

  “Lay down your weapons,” a voice commanded.

  For just an instant, Par was afraid that Padishar Creel would choose to fight rather than surrender. The outlaw chief’s eyes darted left and right, his tall form rigid. But the odds were overwhelming. His face relaxed, he gave a barely perceptible smile, and dropped his sword and long knife in front of him wordlessly. The others of the little company did the same, and the Federation soldiers closed about. Weapons were scooped up and arms bound behind backs.

  “There’s another of them down in the Pit,” a soldier advised the leader of their captors, a smallish man with short-cropped hair and commander’s bars on his dark tunic.

  The commander glanced over. “Cut the ropes, let him drop.”

  The rope ladder was cut through in a moment. It fell soundlessly into the black. Par waited for a cry, but there was none. Perhaps Ciba Blue had already completed his descent. He glanced at Coll, who just shook his head helplessly.

  The Federation commander stepped up to Padishar. “You should know, Padishar Creel,” he said quietly, his tone measured, “that you were betrayed by one of your own.”

  He waited momentarily for a response, but there was none. Padishar’s face was expressionless. Only his eyes revealed the rage that he was somehow managing to contain.

  Then the silence was shattered by a terrifying scream that rose out of the depths of the Pit. It lifted into the night like a stricken bird, hovering against the cliff rock until at last, mercifully, it dropped away.

  The scream had been Ciba Blue’s, Par thought in horror.

  The Federation commander gave the ravine a perfunctory glance and ordered his prisoners led away.

  They were taken through the park along the ravine wall toward the Gatehouse, kept in single file and apart from each other by the soldiers guarding them. Par trudged along with the others in stunned silence, the sound of Ciba Blue’s scream still echoing in his mind. What had happened to the outlaw down there alone in the Pit? He swallowed against the sick feeling in his stomach and forced himself to think of something else. Betrayed, the Federation commander had said. But by whom? None of them there, obviously—so someone who wasn’t. One of Padishar’s own...

  He tripped over a tree root, righted himself and stumbled on. His mind whirled with a scattering of thoughts. They were being taken to the Federation prisons, he concluded. Once there, the grand adventure was over. There would be no more searching for the missing Sword of Shannara. There would be no further consideration of the charge given him by Allanon. No one ever came out of the Federation prisons.

  He had to escape.

  The thought came instinctively, clearing his mind as nothing else could. He had to escape. If he didn’t, they would all be locked away and forgotten. Only Damson Rhee knew where they were, and it occurred suddenly to Par that Damson Rhee had been in the best position to betray them.

  It was an unpleasant possibility. It was also unavoidable.

  His breathing slowed. This was the best opportunity to break free that he would get. Once within the prisons, it would be much more difficult to manage. Perhaps Padishar would come up with a plan by then, but Par didn’t care to chance it. Uncharitably, perhaps, he was thinking that Padishar was the one who had gotten them into this mess.

  He watched the lights of the Gatehouse flicker ahead through the trees of the park. He only bad a few minutes more. He thought he could manage it, but he would have to go alone. He would have to leave Coll and Morgan. There wasn’t any choice.

  Voices sounded from ahead, other soldiers waiting for their return. The line began to string out and some of the guards were straying a bit. Par took a deep breath. He waited until they were passing along a cluster of scrub birch, then used the wishsong. He sang softly, his voice blending into the sounds of the night, a whisper of breeze, a bird’s gentle call, a cricket’s brief chirp. He let the wishsong’s magic reach out and fill the minds of the guards immediately next to him, distracting them, turning their eyes away from him, letting them forget that he was there...

  And then he simply stepped into the birch and shadows and disappeared.

  The line of prisoners passed on without him. No one had noticed that he was gone. If Coll or Morgan or any of the others had seen anything, they were keeping still about it. The Federation soldiers and their prisoners continued moving toward the lights ahead, leaving him alone.

  When they were gone, he moved soundlessly off into the night.

  He managed to free himself almost immediately of the ropes that held his hands. He found a spike with a jagged edge on the ravine wall a hundred yards from where he had slipped away and, boosting himself up on the wall, sawed through the ropes in only minutes. No alarm had gone up yet from the watch; apparently he hadn’t been missed. Maybe they hadn’t bothered to count the original number of their prisoners, he reasoned. After all, it had been dark, and the capture had taken place in a matter of seconds.

  At any rate, he was free. So what was he going to do now?

  He worked his way back through the park toward the Tyrsian Way, keeping to the shadows, stopping every few seconds to listen for the sounds of the pursuit that never came. He was sweating freely, his tunic sticking to his back, his face streaked with dust. He was exhila
rated by his escape and devastated by the realization that he didn’t know how to take advantage of it. There was no help for him in Tyrsis and no help for him without. He didn’t know who to contact within the city; there was no one he could afford to trust. And he had no idea how to get back into the Parma Key. Steff would help if he knew his companions were in trouble. But how would the Dwarf find out before it was too late to matter?

  The lights of the Way came into view through the trees. Par stumbled to the edge of the park, close to its western boundaries, and collapsed in despair against the trunk of an old maple. He had to do something; he couldn’t just wander about. He brushed at his face with his sleeve and let his head sink back against the rough bark. He was suddenly sick and it took every ounce of willpower he could muster to prevent himself from retching.

  He had to get back to Coll and Morgan. He had to find a way to free them.

  Use the wishsong, he thought.

  But how?

  A Federation patrol came down the Way, boots clumping in the stillness. Par shrank back into the shadows and waited until they were out of sight. Then he moved from his cover along the edge of the park toward a fountain bordering the walk. Once there, he leaned over and hurriedly splashed water on his hands and face. The water ran along his skin like liquid silver.

  He paused, letting his head sink against his chest. He was suddenly very tired.

  The arm that yanked him around was strong and unyielding, snapping his head back violently. He found himself face-to-face with Damson Rhee.

  “What happened?” she demanded, her voice low.

  Frantically, Par reached for his long knife. But his weapons were gone, taken by the Federation. He shoved at the girl, trying to rip free of her grip, but she sidestepped the blow without effort and kicked him so hard in the stomach that he doubled over.

  “What are you doing, you idiot?” she whispered angrily.