tually, they all will.”
No one said anything. Padishar Creel glanced up. “Isn’t any-
one hungry? There’s a good measure of food left. Let’s not waste
it.”
They finished the meal quickly, the outlaw chief continuing
to provide further details of his violent life in the same dis-
interested tone. Par wondered what sort of man he had gotten
himself mixed up with. He had thought before that his rescuer
might prove to be the champion the Four Lands had lacked
since the time of Allanon, his standard the rallying point for
all of the oppressed Races. Rumor had it that this man was
the charismatic leader for which the freedom Movement had
been waiting. But he seemed as much a cutthroat as anything.
However dangerous Panamon Creel might have been in his
time. Par found himself convinced that Padishar Creel was
more dangerous still.
“So, that is my story and the whole of it,” Padishar Creel
announced, shoving back his plate. His eyes glittered. “Any
part of it that you’d care to question me about?”
Silence. Then Steff growled suddenly, shockingly, “How
much of it is the truth?”
Everyone froze. But Padisher Creel laughed, genuinely
amused. There was a measure of respect in his eyes for the
Dwarf that was unmistakable as he said, “Some of it, my East-
land friend, some of it.” He winked. “The story improves with
every telling.”
He picked up his ale glass and poured a full measure from a
pitcher. Par stared at Steff with newfound admiration. No one
else would have dared ask that question.
“Come, now,” the outlaw chief interjected, leaning forward.
“Enough of history past. Time to hear what brought you to me.
Speak, Par Ohmsford.” His eyes were fixed on Par. “It has
something to do with the magic, hasn’t it? There wouldn’t be
anything else that would bring you here. Tell me.”
Par hesitated. “Does your offer to help still stand?” he asked
instead.
The other looked offended. “My word is my bond, lad! I said
I would help and I will!”
He waited. Par glanced at the others, then said, “I need to
find the Sword of Shannara.”
He told Padishar Creel of his meeting with the ghost of Al-
lanon and the task that had been given him by the Druid. He
told of the journey that had brought the five of them gathered to
this meeting, of the encounters with Federation soldiers and
Seekers and the monsters called Shadowen. He held nothing
back, despite his reservations about the man. He decided it was
better neither to lie nor to attempt half-truths, better that it was
all laid out for him to judge, to accept or dismiss as he chose.
After all, they would be no worse off than they were now,
whether he decided to help them or not.
When he had finished, the outlaw chief sat back slowly
and drained the remainder of the ale from the glass he had
been nursing and smiled conspiratorially at Steff. “It would
seem appropriate for me to now ask how much of this tale is
true!”
Par started to protest, but the other raised his hand quickly to
cut him off. “No, lad, save your breath. I do not question what
you’ve told me. You tell it the way you believe it, that’s clear
enough. It’s only my way.”
“You have the men, me weapons, the supplies and the net-
work of spies to help us find what we seek,” Morgan interjected
quietly. “That’s why we’re here.”
“You have the spirit for this kind of madness as well, I’d
guess,” Steff added with a chuckle.
Padishar Creel rubbed his chin roughly. “I have more than
these, my friends,” he said, smiling like a wolf. “I have a sense
of fate!”
He rose wordlessly and took them from the table to the edge
of the bluff, there to stand looking out across the Parma Key, a
mass of treetops and ridgelines bathed in the last of the day’s
sunlight as it faded west across the horizon.
His arm swept the whole of it. “These are my lands now,
the lands of Baron Creel, if you will. But I’ll hold them no