drooping-but it did not fall. It barely seemed aware of what
had been done to it, its eyes fixed, its features twisting with
some inner torment.
Par watched the Shadowen through glazed eyes. Its limbs
reconnected in me manner of the giant they had fought in me
Anar.
“Padishar, the Sword . . .”he started to say, but the outlaw
chief was already shouting, directing them back the way they
had come, retreating along the wall of stone. “No!” Parshrieked
in dismay. He could not put into words the certainty he felt.
They had to reach the Sword. He lurched up, trying to break
free of Coil, but his brother held him fast, dragging him along
with me others.
The Shadowen attacked in a shambling rush. Stasas went
down, dragged beyond the reach of his companions. His throat
was ripped out and then something dark entered his body while
he was still alive, gasping. It jerked him upright, brought him
about to face them, and he became another attacker. The com-
pany retreated, swords slashing. Ciba Blue appeared-or what
was left of him. Impossibly strong, he blocked Drutt’s sword,
caught hold of his arms, and wrapped himself about his former
comrade like a leech. The outlaw shrieked in pain as first one
arm and then the other was ripped from his body. His head went
last. He was left behind, Ciba Blue’s remains still fastened to
him, feeding.
Padishar was alone then, besieged on all sides. He would have
been dead if he were not so quick and so strong. He feinted and
slashed, dodging the fingers that grappled for him, twisting to
stay free. Hopelessly outnumbered, he began to give ground
quickly.
It was Morgan Leah who saved him. Abandoning his role as
defender of Par and Coil, the Highlander rushed to the aid of
the outlaw chief. His red hair flying, he charged into the midst
of the Shadowen. The Sword of Leah arced downward, catching
fire as it struck. Magic surged through the blade and into the
dark things, burning them to ash. Two fell, three, then more.
Padishar fought relentlessly beside him, and together they began
cutting a path through the gathering of eyes, calling wildly for
Par and Coil to follow. The Valemen stumbled after them, avoid-
ing the grasp of Shadowen who had slipped behind. Par aban-
doned all hope of reaching the Sword. Two of their number were
already dead; the rest of them would be killed as well if they
didn’t get out of there at once.
Back toward the wall of the ravine they staggered, warding
off the Shadowen as they went, the magic of the Sword of Leah
keeping the creatures at bay. They seemed to be everywhere, as
if the Pit were a nest in which they bred. Like the woodswoman
and the giant, they seemed impervious to any damage done to
them by conventional weapons. Only Morgan could hurt them
his was magic that they could not withstand.
The retreat was agonizingly slow. Morgan grew weary, and
as his own strength drained away so did the power of the Sword
of Leah. They ran when they could, but more and more fre-
quently the Shadowen blocked their way. Par attempted in vain
to invoke the magic of the wishsong; it simply would not come
He tried not to think of what that meant, still struggling to make
sense of what had occurred, to understand how the magic had
broken free. Even in flight, his mind wrestled with the memory
How could he have lost control like that? How could the magic
have provided him with that strange light, a thing that was real
and not illusion. Had he simply willed it to be? What was it that
had happened to him?
Somehow they reached the wall of the ravine and sagged
wearily against it. Shouts sounded from the park above and
torches flared. Their battle with the Shadowen had alerted the
Federation watch, in moments, the Gatehouse would be under
siege.
“The grappling hooks!” Padishar gasped.
Par had lost his, but Coil’s was still slung across his shoulder.
The Valeman stepped back, uncoiled the rope, and heaved the
heavy iron skyward. It flew out of sight and caught. Coil tested