coughing up smoke and dust as the cabin burned behind them,
that Damson realized it was not Par Ohmsford they had res-
cued after all, but his brother. Coll.
They took just long enough to break loose the shackles from
Coil’s wrists and ankles, casting anxious glances over then-
shoulders into the night as they did so, then slipped quickly
away, leaving behind the smoking ruins of the cabin, the empty
wagon, and the bodies of the dead. The mules had long since
run off, the remaining slavers had vanished with them, and the
land was empty of life. The Valeman and the women smelled
of fire and ashes, their eyes watered from the smoke, and they
were smeared with the blood of the men they had killed. Matty
had received several minor cuts, and Damson was scratched
about the face, but both had escaped serious injury. Coil
Ohmsford walked like a man whose legs had been broken.
In the shelter of the trees where they had left their gear, they
cleaned themselves up as best they could, ate some food and
drank some water, and tried to figure out what had happened.
They discovered quickly enough that Coil carried the other half
of the Skree, the half he had stolen from Par while under the in-
fluence of the Mirrorshroud, and that explained why Damson
and Matty had thought they were fracking Par. It did not explain
why the Skree had brightened in two directions when Damson
had used it at Southwatch, although after hearing Coil’s story of
what had befallen the brothers earlier it could be assumed that
Par’s magic had affected the disk in some way. Par’s magic
seemed to affect almost everything with which it came in con-
tact, Coil noted. Something was happening to the Valeman, and
if they didn’t get to him soon and piece together what it was
that was tearing at him, they were going to lose him for good.
Coil couldn’t tell Damson and Matty why that was so, but he
was convinced of it. His triggering of the magic of the Sword
of Shannara had revealed a good many truths previously hidden
from him, and this was one.
There was no debate about what they would do next. They
were of a common purpose, even Matty Roh. They packed up
what gear they had and set out across the grasslands north
again, heading for the Rainbow Lake and the country beyond,
362
The Talismans of Shannara
pointing themselves toward a confrontation with the Shadowen
and Rimmer Dall. Morgan Leah would be there waiting for
them, and together they would attempt another rescue. Four of
them, when it came time to stand against their enemies, sus-
tained by their talismans and their small magics, by their cour-
age and determination, and by little else. What they were doing
was more than a little mad, but they had left reason behind a
long time ago. They accepted’it as they did the approach of the
new day east, its first faint glimmerings painting the darkened
horizon with golden streaks. They accepted it as they did the
way in which the disparate directions of their lives had brought
them to a crossroads in which they would share a common des-
tiny. There were inevitabilities to life that could not be altered,
they knew, and this was surely among them.
They hoped, each in the silence of their unshared thoughts,
that this particular inevitability would result in something
good.
Morgan Leah barely had time to gasp.
The attack was so swift and unexpected that he was on the
ground before he could even think to act, the hand still
clamped tightly to his mouth, a dark-cloaked form swinging
about to pin him flat. He had lost his Sword, the one thing that
might have helped him, and he was so astonished to have been
caught off guard that even though his mind screamed at him to
move he froze in the manner of a small animal trapped in a
snare. His throat constricted, and he stopped breathing. He
knew he was dead.
A huge whiskered face pushed close to his own, as if curi-
ous to discover what manner of creature he might be, and the