Allanon . . .
He swept the memories from his mind angrily, the bitterness
welling up anew. The “chosen of Allanon” had his father said?
The “cursed of Allanon” was more like it.
The trees gave way before him abruptly, startling him with the
suddenness of their disappearance. He stood at the edge
of the lake, its rocky shores wending into the mist on either
side, its waters lapping gently, endlessly in the silence. Walker
Boh straightened. His mind tightened and closed down upon
itself as if made of iron, his concentration focused, his thoughts
cleared.
A solitary statue, he waited.
There was movement in the fog, but it emanated from more
than one place. Walker tried to fix on it, but it was gone as
quickly as it had come. From somewhere far away, above the
haze that hung across the lake, beyond the rock walls of the
ridgelines enfolding the narrow valley, a voice whispered in
some empty heaven.
Dark Uncle.
Walker heard the words, tauntingly close and at the same time
nowhere he would ever be, not from inside his head or from any
other place discernible, but there nevertheless. He did not re-
spond to them. He continued to wait.
Then the scattered movements that had disturbed the mist
moments earlier focused themselves on a single point, coming
together in a colorless outline that stood upon the water and
began to advance. It took surer form as it came, growing in
size, becoming larger than the human shape it purported to rep-
resent, rising up as if it might crush anything that stood in its
way. Walker did not move. The ethereal shape became a shadow,
and the shadow became a person . . .
Walker Boh watched expressionlessly as the Grimpond stood
before him, suspended in the vapor, its face lifting out of shadow
to reveal who it had chosen to become.
“Have you come to accept my charge, Walker Boh?” it asked.
Walker was startled in spite of his resolve. The dark, brooding
countenance of Allanon stared down at him.
The warehouse was hushed, its cavernous enclosure blan-
keted by stillness from floor to ceiling as six pairs of eyes fas-
tened intently on Padishar Creel.
He had just announced that they were going back down into
the Pit.
“We’ll be doing it differently this time,” he told them, his
raw-boned face fierce with determination, as if that alone might
persuade them to his cause. “No sneaking about through the
park with rope ladders this go-around. There’s an entry into the
Pit from the lower levels of the Gatehouse. That’s how we’ll do
it. We’ll go light into the Gatehouse, down into the Pit and back
out again-and no one the wiser.”
Par risked a quick glance at the others. Coil, Morgan, Dam
son, the outlaws Stasas and Drutt-there was a mix of disbelief
and awe etched on their faces. What the outlaw chief was pro-
posing was outrageous; that he might succeed, even more so.
No one tried to interrupt. They wanted to hear how he was going
to do it.
“The Gatehouse watch changes shifts twice each day-once
at sunrise, once at sunset. Two shifts, six men each. A relief
comes in for each shift once a week, but on different days. Today
is one of those days. A relief for the day shift comes in just after
sunset. I know; I made it a point to find out.”
His features creased with the familiar wolfish smile. “Today
a special detail will arrive a couple of hours before the shift
change because there’s to be an inspection of the Gatehouse
quarters this evening at the change, and the commander of the
Gatehouse wants everything spotless. The day watch will be
happy enough to let the detail past to do its work, figuring it’s
no skin off their noses.” He paused. “That detail, of course,
will be us.”
He leaned forward, his eyes intense. “Once inside, we’ll
dispatch the night watch. If we’re quiet enough about it, the day
watch won’t even know what’s happening. They’ll continue with
their rounds, doing part of our job for us-keeping everyone
outside. We’ll bolt the door from within as a precaution in any