“Forget your suspicions and mine as well,” the outlaw whispered harshly. There was a glint of something sad in his hard eyes. “Trust her, lad—she is the better part of me!”
The Shadowen materialized once more out of the murk, their breathing a slow hiss in the night air. Morgan had already pushed out from the wall to face them. “Get out of here, Par,” he called back over his shoulder.
“Climb!” Padishar Creel snapped. “Now!”
“But you...” Par began.
“Shades!” the other exploded, “I remain with the Highlander to see that you escape! Don’t waste the gesture!” He caught Par roughly by the shoulders. “Whatever happens to any of the rest of us, you must live! The Shannara magic is what will win this fight one day, and you are the one who must wield it! Now go!”
Coll took charge then, half-pushing and half-lifting Par onto the rope. It was knotted, and the Valeman found an easy grip. He began to climb, tears of frustration filling his eyes. Coll followed him up, urging him on, his blocky face taut beneath its sheen of sweat.
Par paused only once to glance downward. Shadowen ringed Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah as they stood protectively before the ravine wall.
Too many Shadowen.
The Valeman looked away again. Biting back against his rage, he continued to climb into the mist and black.
Morgan Leah did not turn around as the scraping of boots on the ravine wall faded away; his eyes remained fixed on the encircling Shadowen. He was aware of Padishar standing at his left shoulder. The Shadowen were no longer advancing on them; they were hanging back guardedly at the edge of the mist’s thick curtain, keeping their distance. They had learned what Morgan’s weapon could do, and they had grown cautious.
Mindless things, the Highlander thought bitterly. I could have come to a better end than this, you’d think!
He feinted at the nearest of them, and they backed away.
Morgan’s weariness dragged at him like chains. It was the work of the magic, he knew. Its power had gone all through him, a sort of inner fire drawn from the sword, an exhilarating rush at first, then after a time simply a wearing down. And there was something more. There was an insidious binding of the magic to his body that made him crave it in a way he could not explain, as if to give it up now, even to rest, would somehow take away from who and what he was.
He was suddenly afraid that he might not be able to relinquish it until he was too weak to do otherwise.
Or too dead.
He could no longer hear Par and Coll climbing. The Pit was again encased in silence save for the hissing of the Shadowen.
Padishar leaned close to him. “Move, Highlander!” he rasped softly.
They began to ease their way down the ravine wall, slowly at first, and then, when the Shadowen did not come at them right away, more quickly. Soon they were running, stumbling really, for they no longer had the strength to do anything more. Mist swirled about them, gray tendrils against the night. The trees shimmered in the haze of falling rain and seemed to move. Morgan felt himself ease into a world of unfeeling half-sleep that stole away time and place.
Twice more the Shadowen attacked as they fled, brief forays each time, and twice they were driven back by the magic of the Sword of Leah. Grotesque bodies launched themselves like slow rolling boulders down a mountainside and were turned to ash. Fire burned in the night, quick and certain, and Morgan felt a bit of himself fall away with each burst.
He began to wonder if in some strange way he was killing himself.
Above, where the park lay hidden behind the wall of the ravine, the shouts continued to grow, reaching out to them like a false lifeline of hope. There were no friends to be found there, Morgan knew. He stumbled, and it required an incredible amount of effort to right himself.
And then, at last, the Gatehouse came into view, a shadowy, massive tower lifting out of the trees and mist.
Morgan was dimly aware that something was wrong.
“Get through the door!” Padishar Creel cried frantically, shoving at him so hard he almost fell.
Together they sprinted for the door—or where the door should have been, for it was unexplainably missing. No light seeped through the opening they had left; the stone wall was black and faceless. Morgan felt a surge of fear and disbelief well up in the pit of his stomach.
Someone—or something—had sealed off their escape!
With Padishar a step behind, he came up against the Gatehouse wall, against the massive portal that had admitted them into the Pit, now closed and barred against their re-entry. They heaved against it in desperation, but it was fastened securely. Morgan’s fingers searched its edges, probing, finding to his horror small markings all about, markings they had somehow overlooked before, runes of magic that glowed faintly in the graying mist and prevented their escape more certainly than any lock and key ever could.
Behind him, he could hear the Shadowen massing. He wheeled away, rushed the night things in a frenzy and caused them to scatter. Padishar was hammering at the invisible lock, not yet aware that it was magic and not iron that kept them out.
Morgan turned back, his lean face a mask of fury. “Stand away, Padishar!” he shouted.
He went at the door as if it were one of the Shadowen, the Sword of Leah raised, its blade a brilliant silver streak against the dark. Down came the weapon like a hammer—once, twice, then again and again. The runes carved into the door’s iron surface glowed a deep, wicked green.
Sparks flew with each blow, shards of flame that screamed in protest. Morgan howled as if gone mad, and the power of the sword’s magic drew the last of his strength from him in a rush.
Then everything exploded into white fire, and Morgan was consumed by darkness.
Par lifted himself out of the Pit’s murky blackness to the edge of the ravine wall and pulled himself up. Cuts and scrapes burned his arms and legs. Sweat stung his eyes, and his breath came in short gasps. For a moment, his vision blurred, the night about him an impenetrable mask dotted with weaving bits of light.
Torches, he realized, clustered about the entry to the Gatehouse. There were shouts as well and a hammering of heavy wood. The watch and whoever else had been summoned were trying to break down the bolted door.
Coll came over the wall behind him, grunting with the effort as he dropped wearily to the cool, sodden earth. Rain matted his dark hair where the hood of his cloak had fallen away, and his eyes glittered with something Par couldn’t read.
“Can you walk?” his brother whispered anxiously.
Par nodded without knowing if he could or not. They came to their feet slowly, their muscles aching, their breathing labored. They stumbled from the wall into the shadow of the trees and paused in the blackness, waiting to discover if they had been seen, listening to the commotion that surrounded the Gatehouse.
Coll bent his head close. “We have to get out of here, Par.” Par’s eyes lifted accusingly. “I know! But we can’t help them anymore. Not now, at least. We have to save ourselves.” He shook his head helplessly. “Please!”
Par clasped him momentarily and nodded into his shoulder, and they stumbled ahead. They made their way slowly, keeping to the blackest shadows, staying clear of the paths leading in toward the Gatehouse. The rain had stopped without their realizing it, and the great trees shed their surface water in sudden showers as the wind gusted in intermittent bursts. Par’s mind spun with the memory of what had happened to them, whispering anew the warning it had given him earlier, teasing him with self-satisfied, purposeless glee. Why hadn’t he listened? it whispered. Why had he been so stubborn?
The lights of the Tyrsian Way burned through the darkness ahead, and moments later they stumbled to the edge of the street. There were people clustered there, dim shapes in the night, faceless shadows that stood mute witness to the chaos beyond. Most were farther down near the park’s entry and saw nothing of the two ragged figures who emerged. Those who did see quickly looked away when they recognized the Federation uniforms.