The Heritage of Shannara (187 page)

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 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 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.

I
t 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.

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 …

“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 happens.” He paused. “Only once, when I was in the Pit, after Coll … I picked up the Sword from where I had dropped it, and the touch of it burned me like live coals. Just for a minute.” He was thinking it through again, remembering. “The wish-song'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 wish-song'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 worried and distant.

“Losing Coll 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 tender, 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. Everywhere 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!”

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 burn right through the Federation and set us free at last.”