through it as if it wasn’t there, the only sound the rush of his
breathing as he closed on the door. Inside, something gave
way. I won’t die here, he was thinking. I won’t.
The magic flared at his fingertips then, and he sent it hurtling
into the door, blowing it off its hinges as if it had been caught
in a thunderous wind. The door flew all the way across the hall
and shattered on the wall beyond. Instantly Par was through the
opening and moving down the hall toward the stairs, hearing
Walker Boh’s voice again, following the directions and urgings
it was giving, but feeling nothing inside but the fire of the
magic as it wheeled and crashed against his bones, released
anew and determined to stay that way. He didn’t care. He liked
having it free. He wanted it to consume him, to consume every-
thing that came within reach. If this was the madness he had
been promised, then he was anxious to embrace it,
He went down the stairs swiftly, leaving the magic’s fire in
his wake, fighting to control the buildup of its power within.
Dark shapes darted to meet him, and he burned them to ash.
Shadowen? Something else? He didn’t know. The tower had
come awake in the predawn dark, its inhabitants rising up in
response to the magic’s presence, knowing they were invaded
and quick to seek out the source of the intrusion. Fire burned
down at him from above and from below, but he sensed it long
before it struck, and deflected it effortlessly. There was a dark
core forming within him, a dangerous mix of casual disregard
and pleasure bom of the magic’s use, and its coming seemed
to generate a falling away of caring and worry and caution. He
was shedding his humanity. He could do as he pleased, he
sensed. The magic gave him the right.
Walker Boh was screaming at him, but he could no longer
hear the words. Nor did he care to. He pressed on, moving
steadily downward, destroying everything that came into his
path. Nothing could challenge him now. He sent the fire of the
wishsong ahead and followed gleefully after.
The Talismans of Shannara 407
Walker Boh thrashed awake again, body jerking, arms yank-
ing free. His companions stepped back from him quickly.
“He’s coming!” he hissed, his eyes snapping open. “But he’s
losing himself in the magic!”
They did not have to ask who he was talking about. “What
do you mean?” Coil still gripped his cloak, and he pulled
Walker about violently.
Walker’s eyes were as hard as stone as they met the
Valeman’s. “He has used the magic, but lost control of it. He’s
using it on everything. Now, get back from me!”
He shrugged free and wheeled away, put his hands on the
stone door, and pushed. Light flared from his palms and
streaked out of his fingertips into the seams of the massive por-
tal, racing down through the cracks. Locks snapped apart and
iron bars splintered. The time for stealth and caution was past.
The doors shuddered and gave way with a crunch of metal.
They were inside at once, moving into a blackness even
more intense than the night, feeling cold and damp on their
skin, breathing dust and staleness through their nostrils. It
wasn’t age and disuse they found waiting, but a terrible foul-
ness that spoke of something trapped and dying. They choked
on it, and Walker sent light scurrying to the darkened comers
of the room in which they stood. It was a massive entry to a
series of halls that passed beneath a catwalk high above. Be-
yond, through an arched opening, stood an empty courtyard.
Somewhere in the distant black, they could hear screams
and smell burning and see the white flare of Par’s magic.
Rumor was already moving ahead, loping down the entry
and through the opening to the courtyard. Walker and the oth-
ers went after him, grim-faced and voiceless. Shadows moved
at the fringes of the whirl of light and sound, but nothing at-
tacked. They crossed the courtyard in a crouch, glancing left
and right guardedly. The Shadowen were there, somewhere