for several miles through the hills before turning abruptly north
into high grass where he edged carefully away into the rocks
of a ridgeline. If he was lucky, they would not find where he
had broken off and would be forced to scour the countryside
blindly. That might give him the extra time he needed to get
to where he had decided to go.
Of course, none of this meant anything if the Shadowen
could track by smell. If they could hunt like animals, then he
was in trouble whatever he did short of rolling in mud and ap-
plying stinkweed, and he was not prepared for that. What
could these quasi-Elves do? He wished he knew more about
them, wished he had taken time to ask Wren, but there was no
help for it now. He would have to take his chances. He
breathed in the morning air and thought how lucky he was to
have the Sword of Leah’s magic to protect him, then realized
that he had been given an answer to his question of whether
the power would save or consume him. Of course, it didn’t
mean that he was safe with it, that he could relax in its use,
that he could even be assured things would turn out the same
way next time. It only meant he had survived for now, but it
was becoming increasingly clear that survival on any terms
was the most he could hope for—that any of them could hope
for—in their battle against the Shadowen.
One day it will be different, he told himself—but wondered
if it was so.
The country before him tightened into a mass of hills,
ndges, scrub-choked hollows, and dense forests backed up
against the Runne. He was moving over rock, taking his time,
working at stepping lightly where scuffed stones and bent
twigs might give him away. He had reasoned it through like
this. South lay the bluff where he had kept watch, and the
Shadowen, if hunting him, would start there. West was the di-
344 The Talismans of Shannara
rection in which Wren had ridden, and they would surely hunt
him there as well. North lay the cities of Callahom—Tyrsis,
Kem, and Varfleet—and that would be the next logical choice.
The last place they would look was east in the country sur-
rounding Southwatch, their fortress citadel, because it would
not seem likely to them that someone who had just destroyed
one of their patrols to rescup the Queen of the Elves would
head for the very same place the patrol had been going.
Queen of the Elves, he mused, interrupting his thinking,
Wren Elessedil. Little Wren. He shook his head. He had barely
known her when she was growing up with Par and Coil at
Shady Vale. It was hard to believe who she had become.
He grimaced. That was true, of course, he thought ruefully,
of all of them, and he shrugged the matter aside.
The sun was above the horizon now, night’s shadows gone
back into hiding, the swelter of summer’s heat rising up
through the grasses and trees with a thickening of fetid air and
dry earth. Morgan found a stream running down out of the
rocks, followed it to a rapids where the water was clean, and
drank. He had neither food nor water to sustain him, and he
would have to obtain both if he was to survive for very long.
He thought momentarily of Damson and Many, and he hoped
they did not choose this day to return from their search south
They would expect to find him on that bluff, but would likely
find the Shadowen waiting instead. Not a pleasant thought. He
would have to warn them, of course—but he would have to
stay alive to do so.
He left the stream and worked his way to high ground. From
the shelter of a stand of pine, he looked back across the hills
south, searching for signs of pursuit. He stayed there a long
time, scanning the countryside. Nothing showed itself. Finally
he went on, moving east now toward the mountains and the
river and Southwatch. He was above the citadel, deep enough
within the concealing trees to keep from being seen but close