deep into the body and pulled it out again. The gravedigger
cackled. “You might want to be cleaning your sword there, sir-
seeing as how this one died of the spotted fever.”
The soldier stepped back quickly, pale now. The others re-
treated as well. The one holding the gravedigger’s papers handed
them hastily back and motioned him on.
The gravedigger shrugged, picked up the handles of the cart
and wheeled his body down the long ramp toward the plain
below, whistling tunelessly as he went.
What a collection of fools, Padishar Creel thought disdain-
fully to himself.
When he reached the first screening of trees north, the city
of Tyrsis a distant grayish outline against the swelter, Padishar
eased the handles of the cart down, shoved the body he had been
hauling aside, took out an iron bar and began prying loose the
boards of the cart’s false bottom. Gingerly, he helped Morgan
extricate himself from his place of hiding. Morgan’s face was
pale and drawn, as much from the heat and discomfort of his
concealment as from the lingering effects of last night’s battle.
“Take a little of this.” The outlaw chief offered him an ale-
skin, trying unsuccessfully not to look askance. Morgan accepted
the offering wordlessly. He knew what the other was thinking-
that me Highlander hadn’t been right since their escape from the
Pit.
Abandoning the cart and its body, they walked a mile further
on to a river where they could wash. They bathed, dressed in
clean clothes that Padishar had hidden with Morgan in the cart’s
false bottom, and sat down to have something to eat.
The meal was a silent one until Padishar, unable to stand it
any longer, growled, “We can see about fixing the blade, High-
lander. It may be the magic isn’t lost after all.”
Morgan just shook his head. “This isn’t something anyone
can fix,” he said tonelessly.
“No? Tell me why. Tell me how the sword works, then. You
explain it to me.” Padishar wasn’t about to let the matter alone.
Morgan did as the other asked, not because he particularly
wanted to, but because it was the easiest way to get Padishar to
stop talking about it. He told the story of how the Sword of Leah
was made magic, how Allanon dipped its blade in the waters of
the Hadeshom so that Rone Leah would have a weapon with
which to protect Brin Ohmsford. “The magic was in the blade,
Padishar,” he finished. He was having trouble being patient by
now. “Once broken, it cannot be repaired. The magic is lost.”
Padishar frowned doubtfully, then shrugged. “Well, it was
lost for a good cause, Highlander. After all, it saved our lives.
A good trade any day of the week.”
Morgan looked up at nun, his eyes haunted. “You don’t un-
derstand. There was some sort of bond between us, the sword
and me. When the sword broke, it was as if it was happening to
me! It doesn’t make any sense, I know-but it’s there anyway.
When the magic was lost, some part of me was lost as well.”
“But that’s just your sense of it now, lad. Who’s to say that
won’t change?” Padishar gave him an encouraging smile.’ ‘Give
yourself a little time. Let the wound heal, as they say.”
Morgan put down his food, disinterested in eating, and
hunched his knees close against his chest. He remained quiet,
ignoring the fact that the outlaw chief was waiting for a re-
sponse, contemplating instead the nagging recognition that
nothing had gone right since their decision to go down into the
Pit after the missing Sword of Shannara.
Padishar’s brow furrowed irritably. “We have to go,” he
announced abruptly and stood up. When Morgan didn’t move
right away, he said, “Now, listen to me, Highlander. We’re alive
and that’s the way we’re going to stay, sword or no sword, and
I’ll not allow you to continue acting like some half-dead
puppy. . .”
Morgan came to his feet with a bound. “Enough, Padishar!
I don’t need you worrying about me!” His voice sounded harsher
than he had meant it to, but he could not disguise the anger he