ognition of his enemy. He must fight again after all. He must
call upon the wishsong once more. There was no end to it, he
thought dully. Wherever he went, they found him. Each time
he thought he had used the magic for the last rime, he was re-
quired to use it one time more. And one time after that. For-
ever.
The Shadowen advanced, a humping of black cloth and a
dragging of limbs. The thing seemed barely able to make itself
move, and it clung to its cloak as if it could not bear to let go.
The cloak, too, was an odd thing—all shiny black and as clean
as new cloth despite the ragged, soiled appearance of the thing
that wore it. Par felt the wishsong’s magic begin building
within him, unbidden, rising up on its own, the core of a fire
that would not stay quenched. He let it come, knowing the fu-
tility of trying to stop it, realizing that there was no other
choice. He did not even try to look for a way to escape the
glade. Running, after all, was pointless. The Shadowen would
simply track them. It would keep coming until it was stopped.
Until he killed it.
He winced at the words and thought. Not again!—seeing the
face of that soldier in the watchtower, seeing all their faces, all
the dead from all the encounters ,..
The creature stopped. Within the cloak, its head shook vio-
lently, as if it were beset by demons that only it could see. It
made a sound; it might have been crying.
Then its face lifted into the light, and Par Ohmsford felt the
world fall away beneath him.
He was looking at Coll.
The Talismans of Shannara 71
Ravaged, twisted, bruised, and dirtied, the face before him
was still Coil’s.
For a moment, he thought he was going mad. He heard
Damson’s gasp of disbelief, felt himself take an involuntary
step backward, and watched his brother’s lips part in a twisted
effort to speak.
“Par? ” came the plea.
He gave a low, despairing cry, cut it short immediately, and
with a supreme effort steadied himself. No. No, this had been
tried once, tried and failed. This was not Coll. This was just
a Shadowen pretending to be his brother, a trick to deceive
him …
Why?
He groped for an answer. To drive him mad, of course. To
make him … to force him to …
He clenched his teeth. Coil was dead! He had seen him die,
destroyed in the fire of the wishsong’s magic—Coil, who had
become one of them, a Shadowen, like this one …
Something whispered at the back of his mind, a warning
that took no discernible form, words that lacked meaning be-
yond their intent. Caution, Valeman! Beware!
His hands still clenched the Sword of Shannara. Without
thinking, still lost in the horror of what he was seeing, he
brought the blade and scabbard up before him like a shield.
Instantly, the Shadowen was on him, closing the distance be-
tween them in the blink of an eye, moving far more swiftly
than should have been possible for such a twisted body. It
sprang into him, giving forth an anguished shriek, and Coil’s
face rose up, large and terrifying, until it was right against his
own and he could smell the stench of it. Gnarled hands closed
about the handle of the Sword of Shannara and tried to wrench
it free. Down the Valeman and the Shadowen went in a tangle
of arms and legs. Par heard Damson cry out, and then he was
rolling away from her, fighting for possession of the Sword.
His hands shifted from the scabbard to the pommel, trying to
gain leverage, to twist the blade free. He was face to face with
his adversary as he fought. He could see into the depth of his
brother’s eyes …
No! No, it wasn ‘t possible!
They tumbled into the trees, into grasses that whipped and
72 The Talismans of Shannara
sawed at their hands and faces. The scabbard to the Sword slid
free, and now there was only the razor-sharp metal of the blade