magic that threatened the Four Lands. The only difference, of
course, was that this time he had been forced to come as a shade.
Cogline, a former Druid, had been his messenger in the flesh to
assure that the summons was heeded. Cogline had Allanon’s
trust.
Par took a moment to consider whether or not he realty be-
lieved that last statement and decided he did.
The Shadowen were real, he went on. They were dangerous,
they were evil, they were certainly a threat of some sort to the
Races and the Four Lands. They were magic.
He paused again. If the Shadowen were indeed magic, it
would probably take magic to defeat them. And if he accepted
that, it made much of what Allanon and Cogline had told them
more convincing. It made possible the tale of the origin and
growth of the Shadowen. It made probable the claim that the
balance of things was out of whack. Whether you accepted the
premise that the Shadowen were to blame or not, there was
clearly much wrong in the Four Lands. Most of the blame for
what was bad had been attributed by the Federation to the magic
of the Elves and Druids-magic that the old stories claimed was
good. But Par thought the truth lay somewhere in between.
Magic in and of itself-if you believed in it as Par did-was
never bad or good; it was simply power. That was the lesson of
the wishsong. It was all in how the magic was used.
Par frowned. That being so, what if the Shadowen were using
magic to cause problems among the Races in ways that none of
them could see? What if the only way to combat such magic
was to turn it against the user, to cause it to revert to the uses
for which it was intended? What if Druids and Elves and talis-
mans like the Sword of Shannara were indeed needed to accom-
plish that end?
There was sense in the idea, he admitted reluctantly.
But was there enough sense?
The campsite appeared ahead, undisturbed since their leave-
taking the previous night, streaked by eariy sunlight and fading
shadows. The horses nickered at their approach, still tied to the
picket line. Par saw that Cogline’s horse was among them. Ap-
parently the old man had not returned here.
He found himself thinking of the way Cogline had come to
them before, appearing unexpectedly to each, to Walker, Wren,
and himself, saying what he had to say, then departing as abruptly
as he had come. It had been that way each time. He had warned
each of them what was required, then let them decide what they
would do. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, that was what he had
done this time as well-simply left them to decide on their own.
They reached the camp, still without having spoken more
than a few brief words to one another, and came to an uneasy
halt. There was some suggestion of eating or sleeping first, but
everyone quickly decided against it. No one really wanted to eat
or sleep; they were neither hungry nor tired. They were ready
now to talk about what had happened. They wanted to put the
matter to discussion and give voice to the thoughts and emotions
that had been building and churning inside them during the walk
back.
“Very well,” Walker Boh said curtly, after a moment’s
strained silence. “Since no one else cares to say it, I will. This
whole business is madness. Paranor is gone. The Druids are
gone. There haven’t been any Elves in the Four Lands in over a
hundred years. The Sword of Shannara hasn’t been seen for at
least that long. We haven’t, any of us, the vaguest idea of how
to go about recovering any of them-if, indeed, recovery is
possible. I suspect it isn’t. I think this is just one more instance
of the Druids playing games with the Ohmsfords. And I resent
it very much!”
He was flushed, his face sharply drawn. Par remembered
again how angry he had been back in the valley, almost uncon-
trolled. This was not the Walker Boh he remembered.
“I am not sure we can dismiss what happened back there as