“Another problem?” The outlaw chief seemed amused.
“Trouble just follows after you, doesn’t it? I’ll have my ring
back now.”
Par removed the ring from his pocket and handed it over. The
other man slipped it back on his finger, admiring it.’ “The hawk.
Good symbol for a free-born, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” Par asked him bluntly.
“Who am I?” The other laughed merrily. “Haven’t you fig-
ured that out yet, my friend? No? Then I’ll tell you.” The outlaw
chief leaned forward.’ ‘Look at my hand.” He held up the closed
fist with the finger pointed at Par’s nose. “A missing hand with
a pike. Who am I?”
His eyes were sea-green and awash with mischief. There was
a moment of calculated silence as the Valeman stared at him in
confusion.
“My name. Par Ohmsford, is Padishar Creel,” me outlaw
chief said finally. “But you would know me better as the great,
great, great, and then some, grandson of Panamon Creel.”
And finally Par understood.
That evening, over dinner, seated at a table that had been
moved purposefully away from those of me other occupants of
the Jut, Par and his companions listened in rapt astonishment
while Padishar Creel related his story.
“We have a rule up here that everyone’s past life is his own
business,” he advised them conspiratorially. “It might make
the others feel awkward hearing me talk about mine.”
He cleared his throat. “I was a landowner,” he began, “a
grower of crops and livestock, the overseer of a dozen small
farms and countless acres of forestland reserved for hunting.
I inherited the better part of it from my father and he from
his father and so on back some years further than I care to
consider. But it apparently all began with Panamon Creel. I
am told, though I cannot confirm it of course, that after help-
ing Shea Ohmsford recover the Sword of Shannara, he re-
turned north to the Borderlands where he became quite
successful at his chosen profession and accumulated a rather
considerable fortune. This, upon retiring, he wisely invested
in what would eventually become the lands of the Creel fam-
ily.”
Par almost smiled. Padishar Creel was relating his tale with
a straight face, but he knew as well as the Valemen and Morgan
that Panamon Creel had been a thief when Shea Ohmsford and
he had stumbled on each other.
“Baron Creel, he called himself,” the other went on, obliv-
ious. “All of the heads of family since have been called the
same way. Baron Creel.” He paused, savoring the sound of it.
Then he sighed. “But the Federation seized the lands from my
father when I was a boy, stole them without a thought of rec-
ompense, and in the end dispossessed us. My father died when
he tried to get them back. My mother as well. Rather mysteri-
ously.”
He smiled. “So I joined the Movement.”
“Just like that?” Morgan asked, looking skeptical.
The outlaw chief skewered a piece of beef on his knife. “My
parents went to the governor of the province, a Federation un-
derling who had moved into our home, and my father demanded
the return of what was rightfully his, suggesting that if some-
thing wasn’t done to resolve the matter, the governor would
regret it. My father never was given to caution. He was denied
his request, and he and my mother were summarily dismissed.
On their way back from whence they had come, they disap-
peared. They were found later hanging from a tree in the forests
nearby, gutted and flayed.”
He said it without rancor, matter-of-facuy, all with a calm
that was frightening. “I grew up fast after that, you might say,”
he finished.
There was a long silence. Padishar Creel shrugged. “It was
a long time ago. I learned how to fight, how to stay alive. I
drifted into the Movement, and after seeing how poorly it was
managed, formed my own company.” He chewed. “A few of
the other leaders didn’t like the idea. They tried to give me over
to the Federation. That was their mistake. After I disposed of
them, most of the remaining bands came over to join me. Even-