against Death’s. Paralyzing cold surged through him. The
Shadowen’s cowled head lowered as they lurched back and
forth across the bluff, the strange red eyes fixing him, drawing
him slowly in. Walker turned his face aside quickly and sent
the Druid fire spinning out from his hand and down the
scythe’s haft. Death jerked back, cowl lifting to the light,
empty within save for the crimson eyes. One hand left the
scythe and struck out at Walker, knocking him backward.
Walker shrank from the blow, feeling the cold spread through
224 The Talismans of Shannara
him anew. His magic was failing him. Again Death struck out,
a vicious blow to his throat. Walker released his hold on the
scythe and fell away.
Death strode forward purposefully, a terrible blackness
against the haze. Walker rolled to his knees, pain washing
through him as he clutched at his chest, fighting for breath.
The blade of the scythe rose and fell.
Then suddenly Cogline was between them, come out of no-
where, a scarecrow figure, worn robes flapping and wispy hair
flying. He caught the handle of the scythe and turned the blow
aside, sending the blade slicing deep into the earth beside
Walker. Walker twisted away and tried to regain his feet, yell-
ing at the old man. But Cogline had thrown himself on the
Shadowen and forced him further back. Death had one hand on
Cogline’s throat and the other on the handle of the blade, lift-
ing it to strike. The old man was determined, fighting with ev-
ery ounce of strength he possessed, but the Shadowen was too
much. Slowly Cogline was forced back, the hand on his throat
bending him away, the other hand shifting to get a better grip
on the scythe. Get away! Walker pleaded in a silent mouthing,
unable to speak the words. Cogline, get away!
Walker staggered to his feet, fighting through his exhaustion
and pain, reaching down inside for the last of his strength.
Cogline’s stick-thin frame was bending like deadwood in a
high wind, crumpling beneath the Shadowen onslaught. Then
suddenly he cried out, his hand snatched a handful of the black
powder he carried from his robe, and he threw it at the Horse-
man with a curse.
At the same instant, the scythe swept down.
The powder exploded through Death in a flash of fire and
sound, catching Cogline as well, sending both flying. Walker
flinched away from the blast and the sudden glare and the
glimpse of tattered bodies. Then he was stumbling forward,
summoning the magic as he went, building the Druid fire in
his fist. He saw Death rise from the dust, black-cloaked form
singed and smoking, bits of flame spurting from the ends of its
sleeve. The scythe lay shattered on the ground beside it, and its
red eyes flared as it reached for what remained.
Walker sent the fire lancing into the Shadowen, down
through the faceless hood, down into what lived inside. Death
The Talismans of Shannara 225
lurched back, stricken. Walker kept coming, the fire hammer-
ing with relentless purpose, burning and burning more. Death
reeled away, trying to flee. But there was no escape. Walker
caught up to it, jammed his fist into the twisting cowl, and sent
everything he had left down inside.
Death shuddered once and exploded in flames.
Walker fell back, yanking his arm clear and twisting away
from the light and the heat. His allies, light and heat, he
thought dazedly—what he knew the Shadowen could not sur-
vive. He looked back once. Death burned in tatters on the
dusty ground, lifeless and still.
Walker Boh went back then to where Cogline lay sprawled
on the earth in a crumpled heap. Gently he turned the old man
over, kneeling to straighten out his arms and legs and to place
the blackened, singed head in his lap. Cogline’s hair and beard
were mostly burned away. There was blood leaking from his
mouth and nostrils. He had been too close to the fire to escape
what it would do. Walker felt a tightening in his chest. The old
man had known that, of course. He had known it and used the