She took the lead as they entered the trees, turning them east
along the base of the mountains, guiding them through heavier
undergrowth to where the trees spread apart and there were
grassy clearings and small streams in which to set camp. The
night was filled with small, delicate sounds, a balance of con-
tentment that no predator disturbed. The wind had died away,
and the air before them turned frosty with their breath as they
walked. The moon had disappeared below the horizon, and
they were left with starlight to show them the way.
They did not go far, no more than a mile, before Damson
settled on a glade beside a small spring for their resting place.
A few hours, she advised; they would start out again before
daybreak. They wrapped themselves in blankets that had been
provided by the Mole from one of his underground caches and
lay close to each other in the dark, staring up into the trees. Par
cradled the Sword of Shannara in the crook of one arm, its
length resting against his body, wondering again what purpose
his talisman was meant to serve, wondering how he was ever
supposed to find out.
Wondering still, at the very back of his mind, if it was really
what he believed it to be.
The Talismans of Shannara 69
“I think it is a good thing,” Damson whispered just before
he fell asleep. “I don’t think you should worry.”
He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, and although he
was tempted he didn’t ask.
He woke while it was still dark, the sunrise a faint glimmer-
ing of silver far east, barely visible through the tops of the
trees. It was the silence that woke him, the sudden absence of
all sound—the birds and insects gone still, the animals frozen
to ice, the whole of the immediate world turned empty and
dead. He sat up with a start, as if waking from a bad dream.
But it was the silence that had interrupted his slumber, and he
was struck with the thought that no dream could ever be as ter-
rifying.
Shadows cloaked the glade, deep and melting pools of
damp. Gloom hung across the air like smoke, and there was a
faint hint of mist through the trees. Par’s hands were on the
Sword of Shannara, the blade clutched before him as if to ward
off his fear. He glanced about hurriedly, saw nothing, looked
about some more, then came to his feet warily. Damson was
awake as well now, sleepy-eyed as she lifted from her blanket,
stifling a yawn.
Still as death. Par thought. His eyes shifted anxiously.
What was wrong? Why was it so quiet?
Then something moved in the deepest of the glade’s shad-
ows, a shifting of blackness barely discernible to the naked
eye, the kind of motion that comes when clouds drift across
the face of the moon. Except that there were no clouds or
moon, nothing but the night sky and its fading stars.
Damson stood up beside him. “Par? ” she whispered ques-
tioningly.
He did not avert his eyes from the movement. It began to
take shape, an insidious coalescence that lent definition to what
moments before had been nothing but the night.
A figure appeared, stunted and crouched, all black and face-
less beneath a concealing cloak and hood.
Par stared. There was something about this intruder that was
familiar, something he could almost put a name to. It was in
the way it moved, or held itself, or breathed. But how could
that be?
70 The Talismans of Shannara
The figure approached, not walking as a man or animal
would, but slouching like something that was neither and still
both. It hunched its way out of the deep gloom and came to-
ward them, the sound of its breathing suddenly audible. Huff,
huff, a rasping cough, a hiss. Black-cloaked and hooded, it
stayed hidden in its silky covering of night until all at once its
head lifted and the light caught the faint glimmer of its crim-
son eyes.
Par felt Damson’s fingers close on his arms.
It was Shadowen.
A weary and futile acceptance came with the Valeman’s rec-