it with his weight and it held.
Padishar braced Par against the wall, and their eyes met. Be-
hind him, the forests of the Pit were momentarily empty.
“Climb,” he ordered roughly. His breath came in short gasps.
HeJMilled Coil to him as well. “Both of you. Climb until you
are safely out, then flee into the park. Damson will find you and
take you back to the Jut.”
“Damson,” Par repeated dumbly.
“Forget your suspicions and mine as well,” the outlaw whis-
pered harshly. There was a glint of something sad in his hard
eyes. “Trust her, lad-she is the better part of me!”
The Shadowen materialized once more out of the murk, their
breathing a slow hiss in the night air. Morgan had already pushed
out from the wall to face them. “Get out of here, Par,” he called
back over his shoulder.
“Climb!” Padishar Creel snapped. “Now!”
“But you. . .”Par began.
“Shades!” the other exploded. “I remain with the High-
lander to see that you escape! Don’t waste the gesture!” He
caught Par roughly by the shoulders. “Whatever happens to any
of me rest of us, you must live! The Shannara magic is what
will win this fight one day, and you are the one who must wield
it! Now go!”
Coil took charge then, half-pushing and half-lifting Par onto
the rope. It was knotted, and the Valeman found an easy grip.
He began to climb, tears of frustration filling his eyes. Coil
followed him up, urging him on, his blocky face taut beneath
its sheen of sweat.
Par paused only once to glance downward. Shadowen ringed
Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah as they stood protectively be-
fore the ravine wall.
Too many Shadowen.
The Valeman looked away again. Biting back against his rage,
he continued to climb into black.
Morgan Leah did not turn around as the scraping of boots on
the ravine wall faded away; his eyes remained fixed on the en-
circling Shadowen. He was aware of Padishar standing at his
left shoulder. The Shadowen were no longer advancing on them;
they were hanging back guardedly at the edge of the mist’s thick
curtain, keeping their distance. They had learned what Morgan’s
weapon could do, and they had grown cautious.
Mindless things, the Highlander thought bitterly. I could have
come to a better end than this, you’d think!
He feinted at the nearest of them, and they backed away.
Morgan’s weariness dragged at him like chains. It was the
work of the magic, he knew. Its power had gone all through
him, a son of inner fire drawn from the sword, an exhilarating
rush at first, then after a time simply a wearing down. And then
was something more. There was an insidious binding of its
magic to his body that made him crave it in a way he could not
explain, as if to give it up now, even to rest, would somehow
take away from who and what he was.
He was suddenly afraid that he might not be able to relinquish
it until he was too weak to do otherwise.
Or too dead.
He could no longer hear Par and Coil climbing. The Pit was
again encased in silence save for the hissing of the Shadowen.
Padishar leaned close to him. “Move, Highlander!” he rasped
softly.
They began to ease their way down the ravine wall, slowly at
first, and then, when the Shadowen did not come at them ng»
away, more quickly. Soon they were running, stumbling really
for they no longer had the strength to do anything more. M^t
swirled about them, gray tendrils against the night. The tre’
shimmered in the haze of falling rain and seemed to nun,
Morgan felt himself ease into a world of unfeeling half-sleep
that stole away time and place.
Twice more the Shadowen attacked as they fled, brief foiq^’
each time, and twice they were driven back by the magic of the
Sword of Lean. Grotesque bodies launched themselves like slow
rolling boulders down a mountainside and were turned to ash
Fire burned in the night, quick and certain, and Morgan felt a
bit of himself fall away with each burst.
He began to wonder if in some strange way he was killing