sageway into the dark. He went as far as he could with the faint
light of the outside world to guide him, but it soon faded. He
felt along the walls for the corridor’s end, but couldn’t find it.
He remembered then that he still carried the stone Damson had
given him. He reached into his pocket, took it out, clasped it
momentarily between his hands to warm it, and held it out be-
fore him. Silver light flooded the darkness. His smile grew fierce.
Again, he started forward, listening to the silence, watching the
shadows.
He wound along the passageway, descended a set of stairs,
and entered a second corridor. He traveled much further than
he would have thought possible, and for the first time he began
to grow uneasy. He was no longer in the vault, but somewhere
deep underground. How could that be?
Then the passageway ended. He stepped into a room with a
vaulted ceiling and walls carved with images and runes, and he
caught his breath with a suddenness that hurt.
There, at the very center of the room, blade downward in a
block of red marble, was the Sword of Shannara.
He blinked to make certain that he was not mistaking what
he saw, then moved forward until he stood before it. The blade
was smooth and unmarked, a flawless piece of workmanship
The handle was carved with the image of a hand thrusting
torch skyward. The talisman glistened like new metal in the sen
light, faintly blue in color.
Par felt his throat tighten. It was indeed the Sword.
A sharp rush of elation surged through him. He could hardly
keep himself from calling out to Coil, from shouting aloud to
him what he was feeling. A wave of relief swept over him. He
had gambled everything on what had amounted to little more
than a hunch-and his hunch had been right. Shades, it had been
right all along! The Sword of Shannara had indeed been down
in the Pit, concealed by its tangle of trees and brush, by the mi~,
and night, by the Shadowen . . . !
He shoved aside his elation abruptly. Thinking of the Shad-
owen reminded him in no uncertain terms how precarious his
position was. There would be time to congratulate himself later,
when Coil and he were safely out of this rat hole.
There were stairs cut in a stone base on which rested the block
of marble and the Sword embedded in it, and he started for
them. But he had taken only a single step when something de-
tached itself from the darkness of the wall beyond. Instantly, he
froze, terror welling up in his throat.
A single word screamed out in his mind.
Shadowen!
But he saw at once that he was mistaken. It wasn’t a Shad-
owen. It was a man dressed all in black, cloaked and hooded,
the insigne of a wolf’s head sewn on his chest.
Par’s fear did not lessen when he realized who the other was.
The man approaching him was Rimmer Dall.
At the entrance to the vault. Coil waited impatiently. He stood
with his back against the stone, just to one side of the opening,
his eyes searching the mist. Nothing moved. No sound reached
him. He was alone, it seemed; yet he did not feel that way. The
dawn’s light filtered down through the canopy of the trees, wash-
ing him in its cold, gray haze.
Par had been gone too long already, he thought. It shouldn’t
be taking him this much time.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder at the vault’s black open-
ing. He would wait another five minutes; then he was going in
himself.
Rimmer Dall came to a stop a dozen feet away from Par,
reached up casually and pulled back the hood of his cloak. His
craggy face was unmasked, yet in the half-light of the vault it
was so streaked with shadows as to be practically unrecogniz-
able. It made no difference. Par would have known him any-
where. Their one and only meeting that night so many weeks
ago at the Blue Whisker was not something he would ever forget.