as they died. He lost himself in the haze of his killing, striking
out like a madman, giving sweet release to the fury and despair
that had been born with the death of his brother.
The death he had caused!
The Shadowen fell back from him, those he did not destroy,
staggering and shambling like stringed puppets. Bellowing at
them still, gripping the shard of magic fire in one hand, Par
reached down and snatched up the fallen Sword of Shannara.
He felt it bum him, searing his hand, the pain harsh and
shocking.
Instantly his own magic flared and died. He jerked back in
surprise, tried to invoke it anew and found he could not. The
Shadowen started for him at once. He hesitated, then ran. Down
the line of bridge rubble he raced, tripping and sliding on the
dampened earth, gasping in rage and frustration. He could not
tell how close the creatures of the Pit were to him. He ran with-
out looking back, desperate to escape, fleeing as much from the
horror of what had befallen him as the Shadowen in pursuit.
He was almost to the wall of the cliff when he heard Damson
call. He ran for her, his mind shriveled so that he could think of
nothing but the need to get free. The Sword of Shannara was
clutched tightly to his chest, the burning gone now, just a simple
blade wrapped within his muddied cloak. He went down,
sprawling on his face, sobbing. He heard Damson again, calling
out, and he shouted back in answer.
Then she had him in her arms, hauling him back to his feet,
pulling him away, asking, “Par, Par, what’s wrong with you?
Par, what’s happened?”
And he, replying in gasps and sobs, “He’s dead. Damson!
Coil’s dead! I’ve killed him!”
The door into the cliff wall stood open ahead, a black aperture
with a small, furry, wide-eyed creature framed in the opening.
With Damson supporting him, he stumbled through and heard
the door slam shut behind him.
Then everything and everyone disappeared in the white sound
of his scream.
XXXIII
It was raining in the Dragon’s Teeth, a cold, gray, insistent
drizzle that masked me skyline from horizon to horizon.
Morgan Leah stood at the edge of a trailside precipice and
stared out from beneath the hood of his cloak. South, the foot-
hills appeared as low, rolling shadows against the haze. The
Mermidon could not be seen at all. The worid beyond where he
stood was a vague and distant place, and he had an unpleasant
sense of not being able to fit back into it again.
He blinked away the flurry of drops that blew into his eyes,
shielding himself with his hands. His reddish hair was plastered
against his forehead, and his face was cold. Beneath his sodden
clothing, his body was scraped and sore. He shivered, listening
to the sounds around him. The wind whipped across the cliffs
and down through the trees, its howl rising momentarily above
the thunder that rumbled far to the north. Flood streams cas-
caded through the rocks behind him, rushing and splashing, the
water building on itself as it tumbled downward into mist.
It was a day for rethinking one’s life, Morgan decided grimly.
It was a day for beginning anew.
Padishar Creel came up behind him, a cloaked, bulky form.
Rain streaked his hard face, and his clothing, like Morgan’s,
was soaked through.
“Time to be going?” he asked quietly.
Morgan nodded.
“Are you ready, lad?”
“Yes.”
Padishar looked away into me rain and sighed. “It’s not turned
out as we expected, has it?” he said quietly. “Not a bit of it.”
Morgan thought a minute, then replied, “I don’t know, Pad-
ishar. Maybe it has.”
Under Padishar’s guidance, the outlaws had emerged from
the tunnels below the Jut early that morning and made their way
east and north into the mountains. The trails they followed were
narrow and steep and made dangerously slick by the rain, but
Padishar felt it was safer to travel them than to try to slip through
the Kennon Pass, which would surely be watched. The weather,
bad as it was, was more help than hindrance. The rain washed