sounds of pursuit were unmistakable. Midway through the val-
ley, Wren turned, brought out the Elfstones once more, and
sent a wall of blue flame back across the entrance. She could
hear the Creepers scream in fury, the sound like the scrape of
rusting metal, shrill and inhuman. The Creepers came through
the wall with flesh smoking and armor steaming. She sent an-
other strike into them, rising up on her toes with the force of
it, so buoyed by the magic that she thought she could float on
air. Filled with its power, she began screaming in challenge.
“Enough!” Triss cried, yanking her back. “Run, now!”
Anger flared in her eyes at the intrusion. She closed her fin-
gers over the Elfstones and jerked around with a gasp, tearing
free. But she did as he urged, running with him into the draw
beyond, into the trees and cool shadows. She breathed as if she
could never again get enough air into her lungs, feeling the
magic race through her body, anxious and demanding, asking
to be freed, begging to be used. So much power! She clenched
her hands into fists and ran on.
They raced up through the draw and into the trees beyond,
the Elven Hunters leading the way for Wren and Triss and a
handful of rear guard. The Creepers came on, tearing apart ev-
erything in their path from brush to full-grown trees, the
sounds of the destruction frightening. It was working. Wren
thought. It was going as planned. But the Creepers were too
quick by half!
At a clearing ahead, the Wing Riders waited with their
carrying baskets. The Home Guard climbed in, all but Triss,
who had insisted he stay with Wren. The Rocs rose skyward
and disappeared west. Wren crossed the clearing into the trees
and brought out the Elfstones once again. When the Creepers
appeared, shouldering their way furiously through the under-
growth, a jumble of jagged metal and spiky limbs, she sent the
fire into them once more, burning everything across the clear-
ing, obliterating all traces of the Home Guard escape while
drawing the monsters on.
Then she was back within the trees, racing with Triss for the
darkness that lay ahead. Stresa appeared suddenly, cutting
across their path, taking the lead. He said nothing, did not even
look back at them, his blocky form moving far more swiftly
The Talismans of Shannara 371
than seemed possible as he took them directly toward the
gloom that marked the eastern edge of the swamp they called
the Matted Brakes.
Wren glanced back once to make certain that the Creepers
were still following, and then ran on. In moments, they were
within the Brakes. Come after me, come after me, she repeated
over and over in her mind, willing that it should be so. The
plan she had devised to destroy the Creepers was simple. At-
tack them on the plains with enough men that they would think
it was the vanguard of the Elven army or a significant part
thereof, draw them into the trees and the Matted Brakes be-
yond, take them down a trail that Stresa had chosen and knew
and they did not, lead them into a trap they could not
escape—a trap where their strength and cunning would prove
useless.
Like so many things, the answers to the present lay rooted
in the past, and in this case in the songs of Par Ohmsford and
the legends of their Shannara ancestors.
With Stresa leading and Triss keeping pace, she drew the
Shadowen things deeper into the swamp, never letting diem
know that they no longer chased an army but only a girl, a
man, and a creature from another world. She sent the fire of
the Elfstones lancing into them, the earth over which they lum-
bered, the trees thick with vines and moss, and the fetid, green
waters surrounding. She used it to confuse and anger them, to
keep them off balance and intent on their chase. Once, she had
been afraid to use the Elven magic. But that seemed a long
time ago, as distant as the life she had known before her jour-
ney to Morrowindl and the discovery of her heritage. She had