Morgan Leah finally reached the Jut. Both were exhausted
They had traveled hard since leaving Tyrsis, stopping
only for meals. They had slept less than six hours the previous
night. Nevertheless, they would have arrived even sooner and
in better condition if not for Padishar’s insistence on doing ev-
erything possible to disguise their trail. Once they entered the
Parma Key, he backtracked continuously, taking them down ra-
vines, through riverbeds, and over rocky outcroppings, all the
while watching the land behind him like a hawk.
Morgan had thought the outlaw chief overcautious and, after
growing impatient enough, had told him so. “Shades, Padi-
shar-we’re wasting time! What do you think is back there any
way?”
“Nothing we can see, lad,” had been the other’s enigmatic
reply.
It was a sultry evening, the air heavy and still, and the skies
hazy where the red ball of the sun settled into the horizon. As
they rose in the basket lift toward the summit of the Jut, they
could see night’s shadows begin to fill the few wells of daylight
that still remained in the forests below, turning them to pools of
ink. Insects buzzed annoyingly about them, drawn by their body
sweat. The swelter of the day lay across the land in a suffocating
blanket. Padishar still had his gaze turned south toward Tyrsis,
as if he might spy whatever it was he suspected had followed
them. Morgan looked with him, but as before saw nothing. The
big man shook his head. “I can’t see it,” he whispered. “But I
can feel it coming.”
He didn’t explain what he meant by that and the Highlander
didn’t ask. Morgan was tired and hungry, and he knew that
nothing either Padishar or he did was likely to change the plans
of whatever might be out there. Their journey was completed,
they had done everything humanly possible to disguise their
passing, and there wasn’t anything to be gained by worrying
now. Morgan felt his stomach rumble and thought of the dinner
that would be waiting. Lunch that day had been a sparse affair-
a few roots, stale bread, hard cheese, and some water.
“I realize that outlaws are supposed to be able to subsist on
next to nothing, but surely you could have done better than
this!” he had complained. “This is pathetic!”
“Oh, surely, lad!” the outlaw chief had replied. “And next
time you be the gravedigger and I’ll be the body!”
Their differences had been put aside by then-not forgotten
perhaps, but at least placed in proper perspective. Padishar had
dismissed their confrontation five minutes after it ended, and
Morgan had concluded by the end of the day that things were
back to normal. He bore a grudging respect for the man-for
his brash and decisive manner, because it reminded the High-
lander of his own, for the confidence he so readily displayed in
himself, and for the way he drew other men to him. Padishar
Creel wore the trappings of leadership as if they were his birth-
right, and somehow that seemed fitting. There was undeniable
strength in Padishar Creel; it made you want to follow him. But
Padishar understood that a leader must give something back to
his followers. Acutely aware of Morgan’s role in bringing the
Valemen north, he had made a point of acknowledging the le-
gitimacy of the Highlander’s concern for their safety. Several
times after their argument he had gone out of his way to reassure
Morgan that Par and Coil Ohmsford would never be abandoned,
that he would make certain that they were safe. He was a com-
plex, charismatic fellow, and Morgan liked him despite a nag-
ging suspicion that Padishar Creel would never in the world be
able to deliver everything he promised.
Outlaws clasped Padishar’s hand in greeting at each station
of their ascent. If they believe so strongly in him, Morgan asked
himself, shouldn’t I?
But he knew that belief was as ephemeral as magic. He
thought momentarily of the broken sword he carried. Belief and
magic forged as one, layered into iron, then shattered. He took
a deep breath. The pain of his loss was still there, deep and
insidious despite his resolve to put it behind him, to do as Pad-