inched swiftly through the blackness, shying when light from
the torches brightened their path in soft pools, trying to blend
into the stone, to think of themselves as invisible so that they
would in fact become so. Federation soldiers continued to
move all about, impossibly loud, uncomfortably close, and
each moment it seemed certain to Par that they must be dis-
covered.
But seconds later they were before another door, this one
unlocked, and then through it to the light beyond …
A startled Federation soldier stood before them, pike held
casually in his hands as he prepared to go out on watch. His
mouth gaped open, and for a second he froze. His hesitation
cost him his life. Padishar was on him instantly. One hand
came up to cover his mouth. The blade of a long knife flashed
in the other and then disappeared. Par saw the soldier’s eyes
widen in surprise. He saw the pain and then the emptiness. The
soldier slumped into Padishar’s arms like a rag doll. The pike
fell away, and the quick hands of the Mole caught it before it
could strike the floor. In a hall of stone and old wood lit by
fire that flickered at the ends of pitch-coated torches fixed in
the mortared walls, the intruders stood breathless and unmov-
ing with the dead soldier clutched between them and listened
to the silence.
Then Padishar lifted the body in his arms, carried it back
into the shadows of a niche, and shoved it from view. Par
watched it happen as if from a great distance, removed some-
how from the event, as cold as the stone about him. He tried
not to look. He could still hear the sound the soldier made
when he died. He could still see the look in his eyes.
They went down the passageway swiftly, wary of other sol-
diers who might appear, listening for the silence to be dis-
turbed. But they met no one else, and almost before Par
realized it they were through a small, iron-bound door that was
barely visible even from within the shadowed niche in which
it was set.
The door closed behind them, and they stood in a blackness
as complete as moonless night. Par could smell wood and dust
and feel the roughness of boards beneath his feet. There was a
The Talismans of Shannara 45
moment’s pause as the Mole rummaged about. Then a flint
struck—once, twice—and a candle’s thin flame cast its small
glow. They were in a closet of some sort, barely six feet
square, crammed with odd supplies and debris. The Mole
moved things carefully aside, freeing a space at the back of the
cubicle, and then pushed against the wall. A section of it that
had been invisible to the naked eye came away in the form of
a small door swinging inward.
Quickly they moved through. A narrow space opened be-
tween walls of stone and wood shoring, so low-ceilinged that
Padishar was forced to crouch to avoid bumping his head. One
big hand came up guardedly. Par saw blood on the hand and
felt suddenly the nearness of his own death, as if it were some-
thing the dead soldier’s eyes had foretold.
The Mole slid past him and began to lead them down
through the walls, edging past stone projections, iron nails, and
jagged wood splinters. Cobwebs brushed at their faces and
small rodents ran squeaking through the dark ahead. The can-
dle’s flame was a dim glow against the black.
They began to climb, finding rungs hammered into the shor-
ing and steps cut in the rock, a mix of ladders and ramps that
wound up through the walls. They were in the tower now,
working their way toward its apex and Damson’s prison. From
time to time they would hear voices, muffled and faint. It grew
steadily warmer and more airless, and Par began to sweat.
Their passageway became smaller and more difficult to navi-
gate, and Padishar was having trouble squeezing through.
Then abruptly the Mole stopped, frozen in place. The leader
of the free-born and the Valeman went still as well, crouched
in the near blackness, listening. There was only the silence to