minutes stretched away in an endless parade until there was no
longer either beginning or end to them. How far could it be to
the fallen bridge, he wondered? Surely they should be there by
now. He felt trapped within the Pit, the wall of the ravine on his
left, the trees and mist to his right, gloom and rain overhead and
all about. The black cloaks of his companions gave them the
look of mourners at a funeral, buriers of the dead.
Then Padishar Creel stopped, listening. Par had heard it, too-
a sort of hissing sound from somewhere deep within the murk,
like steam escaping from a fissure. The others craned their neck
and peered unsuccessfully about. The hissing stopped, the si-
lence filling again with the sound of their breathing and the rail
Padishar’s broadsword glimmered as he motioned them ahead
once more. He took them more quickly now, as if sensing that
all was not right, that speed might have to take precedence over
caution. Scores of massive, glistening trunks came and went
silent sentinels in the gloom. The light was fading rapidly, tumeri
from gray to cobalt.
Par sensed suddenly that something was watching them. The
hair on the back of his neck stiffened with the feel of its gaze,
and he glanced about hurriedly. Nothing moved in the mist
nothing showed.
“What is it?” Morgan whispered in his ear, but he could
only shake his head.
Then the stone blocks of the shattered Bridge of Sendic came
into view, bulky and misshapen as they jutted like massive teeth
from the tangled forest. Padishar hurried forward, the others
following. They moved away from the ravine wall and deeper
into the trees. The Pit seemed to swallow them in its mist and
dark. Bridge sections lay scattered amid the stone rubble be
neath the covering of the forest, moss-grown and worn, spectral
in the fading light.
Par took a deep breath. The Sword of Shannara had been
embedded blade downward in a block of red marble and placed
in a vault beneath the protective span of the Bridge of Sendic,
the old legends told.
It had to be here, somewhere close.
He hesitated. The Sword was embedded in red marble; could
he free it? Could he even enter me vault?
His eyes searched the mist. What if it was buried beneath the
rubble of the bridge? How would they reach it then?
So many unanswered questions, he thought, feeling suddenly
desperate. Why hadn’t he asked them before? Why hadn’t he
considered the possibilities?
The cliffs loomed faintly through the murky haze. He could
see me west comer of the crumbling palace of the Kings of
Callahom, a dark shadow through a break in the trees. He felt
his throat tighten. They were almost to the far wall of the ravine.
They were almost out of places to look.
I won’t leave without the Sword, he swore wordlessly. No
matter what it takes, I won’t! The fire of his conviction burned
through him as if to seal the covenant.
Then the hissing sounded again, much closer now. It seemed
to be coming from more than one direction. Padishar slowed
and stopped, turning guardedly. With Drutt and Stasas on either
side, he stepped out a few paces to act as a screen for the Vale-
men and the Highlander, then began inching cautiously along
the fringe of the broken stone.
The hissing grew louder, more distinct. It was no longer hiss-
ing. It was breathing.
Par’s eyes searched the daikness frantically. Something was
coming for them, the same something that had devoured Ciba
Blue and all those before him who had gone down into the Pit
and not come out again. His certainty of it was terrifying. Yet
it wasn’t for their stalker that he searched. It was for the vault
that held the Sword of Shannara. He was desperate now to find
it. He could see it suddenly in his mind, as clear as if it were a
picture drawn and mounted for his private viewing. He groped
for it uncertainly, within his mind, then without in the mist and
the da*.
Something strange began to happen to him.