himself.
Above, where the park lay hidden behind the wall of the ra-
vine, the shouts continued to grow, reaching out to them like a
false lifeline of hope. There were no friends to be found there,
Morgan knew. He stumbled, and it required an incredible
amount of effort to right himself.
And then, at last, the Gatehouse came into view, a shadowy,
massive tower lifting out of the trees and mist.
Morgan was dimly aware mat something was wrong.
“Get through the door!” Padishar Creel cried frantically,
shoving at him so hard he almost fell.
Together they sprinted for the door-or where the door should
have been, for it was unexplainably missing. No light seeped
through the opening they had left; the stone wall was black and
faceless. Morgan felt a surge of fear and disbelief well up in the
pit of his stomach.
Someone-or something-had sealed off their escape!
With Padishar a step behind, he came up against the Gate-
house wall, against the massive portal that had admitted them
into the Pit, now closed and barred against their re-entry. They
heaved against it in desperation, but it was fastened securely.
Morgan’s fingers searched its edges, probing, finding to his hor-
ior small markings all about, markings they had somehow over-
looked before, runes of magic that glowed faintly in the graying
mist and prevented their escape more certainly than any lock
and key ever could.
Behind him, he could hear the Shadowen massing. He
wheeled away, rushed the night things in a frenzy and caused
them to scatter. Padishar was hammering at the invisible lock,
not yet aware that it was magic and not iron that kept them out.
Morgan turned back, his lean face a mask of fury. “Stand
away, Padishar!” he shouted.
He went at me door as if it were one of the Shadowen, the
Sword of Leah raised, its blade a brilliant silver streak against
the dark. Down came the weapon like a hammer-once, twice,
then again and again. The runes carved into the door’s iron
surface glowed a deep, wicked green. Sparks flew with each
blow, shards of flame that screamed in protest. Morgan howled
as if gone mad, and the power of the sword’s magic drew the
last of his strength from him in a rush.
Then everything exploded into white fire, and Morgan was
consumed by darkness.
Par lifted himself out of the Pit’s murky blackness to the edge
of the ravine wall and pulled himself over its spikes. Cuts and
scrapes burned his arms and legs. Sweat stung his eyes, and his
breath came in short gasps. For a moment, his vision blurred,
the night about him an unpenetrable mask dotted with weaving
bits of light.
Torches, he realized, clustered about the entry to the Gate-
house. There were shouts as well and a hammering of heavy
wood. The watch and whoever else had been summoned were
trying to break down the bolted door.
Coil came over the wall behind him, grunting with the effort
as he dropped wearily to the cool, sodden earth. Rain matted
his dark hair where the hood of his cloak had fallen away, and
his eyes glittered with something Par couldn’t read.
“Can you walk?” his brother whispered anxiously.
Par nodded without knowing if he could or not. They came
to their feet slowly, their muscles aching, their breathing
bored. They stumbled from the wall into the shadow of the trc •-
and paused in the blackness, waiting to discover if they had been
seen, listening to the commotion that surrounded the Gate
house.
Coil bent his head close. “We have to get out of here. Par
Par’s eyes lifted accusingly. “I know! But we can’t help them
anymore. Not now, at least. We have to save ourselves.” He
shook his head helplessly. “Please!”
Par clasped him momentarily and nodded into his shoulder,
and they stumbled ahead. They made their way slowly, keeping
to the darkest shadows, staying clear of the paths leading toward
the Gatehouse. The rain had stopped without their realizing it,
and the great trees shed their surface water in sudden showers
as the wind gusted in intermittent bursts. Par’s mind spun with