working now, turning over possibilities, examining ways, con-
sidering alternatives. They would execute Padishar at midday.
He would be hanged at the city gates. To do that, they would
have to transport him from the Gatehouse at the Pit to the
outer wall. How would they do that? They would take him
down the Tyrsian Way, which was broad and easily watched.
Would he walk? No, too slow. On horseback or in a wagon?
Yes, standing in a wagon so that he could be seen by every-
one …
They turned into a passage that ran back between two build-
ings to a dead end. There was a door halfway down, and they
entered. Inside, it was black, but they groped their way to a
door on the far wall that opened to a flicker of lamplight.
Chandos stood in the door, sword in hand, black beard bris-
tling. He looked ferocious in the shadows, all bulk and iron.
But his smile was quick and welcoming, and he guided them
down the steps into the cellar below where the others waited.
There were greetings and handshakes, a sense of anticipa-
tion, of readiness. It had taken the little band of twenty-four al-
most the entire night to come into Tyrsis through the tunnels,
but they seemed fresh and eager, and there was determination
in their eyes. Chandos handed Morgan the Sword of Lean, and
the Highlander strapped it across his back. He was as anxious
as they.
He looked for the Mole and could not find him. When asked
about him, Damson said he was keeping watch.
“I’ll need him to show me where the tunnels run beneath
the streets,” he announced. “And I’ll need you to draw a map
of the city so that he can do that.”
“Have you a plan, Highlander? ” Chandos asked, pressing
close.
Good question, Morgan thought. “I do,” he replied, hoping
he was right.
Then he drew them close and told them what it was.
The dawn was gray and oppressive, the thunderheads moved
The Talismans of Shannara 253
close to the edge of Callahom, roiling black clouds that cast
their dark shadow east to the Runne. It was hot and windless
in the city of Tyrsis as its citizens woke to begin their day’s
work, the air thick with the taste of sweat and dust and old
smells. Men and women glanced skyward, anxious for the im-
pending rain to begin so that it might give them some small
measure of relief.
As morning slid toward midday, excitement over the im-
pending execution of the outlaw Padishar Creel began to build.
Crowds gathered at the city gates in anticipation, irritable and
weary from the heat, anxious for any distraction. Shops closed,
vendors cleaned out their stalls, and work was set aside in
what soon became a carnival atmosphere. There were clowns
and tricksters, sellers of drink and sweets, hucksters and
mimes, and cordons of Federation soldiers everywhere, dressed
in their black and scarlet uniforms as they lined the Tyrsian
Way from inner to outer wall. It grew darker with midday’s ap-
proach as the thunderheads crowded the skies from horizon to
horizon and rain began to fall in a thin haze.
At the center of the city, the People’s Park sat silent and de-
serted. Wind from the approaching storm rustled the leaves of
the trees and stirred the banners at the Gatehouse entrance. A
wagon had arrived, drawn by a team of horses and surrounded
by Federation guards. Canvas stretched over metal hoops cov-
ered its wooden bed, and iron bound its wheels and sides. The
horses stamped and grew lathered in their traces, and the heat
brought a sheen of sweat to the faces of the uniformed men.
Eyes searched the trees and pathways of the Park, the walls
that ringed the Pit, and the shadows that gathered in clumps all
about. The iron heads of pikes and axes glinted dully. Voices
were kept low and furtive, as if someone might hear.
Then the Gatehouse doors swung open, and a team of sol-
diers emerged with Padishar Creel in tow. The leader of the
free-born had his arms bound tightly behind him and his