Armed men were descending the back stairs to the room Par
had just vacated, come through the same door that had brought
Padishar. Without slowing, they swept into the tunnels beyond,
guided by torches that smoked and sputtered brightly in the
near black.
Padishar wheeled back, grabbed Par’s arm, and dragged him
towards the trapdoor. “Federation. I must have been followed.
Or they were watching the mill.”
Par stumbled, trying to pull back. “Padishar, the door—”
“Patience, lad,” the other cut him short, hauling him bodily
to the top of the stairs. “We’ll be out before they reach us.”
He slammed into the door and staggered back, a look of dis-
belief on his rough face.
“I tried to warn you,” Par hissed, freeing himself, glancing
back toward the pursuit. The Sword of Shannara lifted menac-
ingly. “Is there another way out? ”
Padishar’s answer was to throw himself against the trapdoor
repeatedly, using all of his strength and size to batter through
it. The door refused to budge, and while some of its boards
cracked and splintered beneath the hammering they did not
give way.
“Shades!” the outlaw leader spit.
Federation soldiers emptied out of the passageway into the
room. A black-cloaked Seeker led them. They caught sight of
Padishar and Par frozen on the trapdoor steps and came for
them. Broadsword in one hand, long knife in the other,
Padishar wheeled back down the steps to meet the rush. The
first few to reach him were cut down instantly. The rest
slowed, turned wary, feinting and lunging cautiously, trying to
cripple him from the side. Par stood at his back, thrusting at
those who sought to do^ so. Slowly the two backed their way
up the stairs and out of reach so that their attackers were
forced to come at them head on.
It was a losing fight. There were twenty if there was one.
One good rush and it would be all over.
Par’s head bumped sharply against the trapdoor. He turned
long enough to shove at it one final time. Still blocked. He felt
a well of despair open up inside. They were trapped.
10 The Talismans of Shannara
He knew he would have to use the wishsong.
Below, Padishar launched himself at their attackers and
drove them back a dozen steps.
Par summoned the magic and felt the music rise to his lips,
strangely dark and bitter-tasting. It hadn’t been the same since
his escape from the Pit. Nothing had. The Federation soldiers
rallied in a counterattack that forced Padishar back up the
stairs. Sweat gleamed on the outlaw’s strong face.
Then abruptly something shifted above and the trapdoor
flew open. Par cried out to Padishar, and heedless of anything
else they rushed up the steps, through the opening, and into the
mill.
Damson Rhee was there, red hair flying out from her
cloaked form as she sped toward a gap in the sideboards of the
mill wall, calling for them to follow. Dark forms appeared sud-
denly to block her way, yelling for others. Damson wheeled
into them, quick as a cat. Fire sprang from her empty hand,
scattering into shards that flew into her attackers’ faces. She
went spinning through them, the street magic flicking right and
left, clearing a path. Par and Padishar raced to follow, howling
like madmen. The soldiers tried in vain to regroup. None
reached Par. Fighting as if possessed, Padishar killed them
where they stood.
Then they were outside on the streets, breathing the humid
night air, sweat streaking their faces, breath hissing like steam.
Darkness had fallen in a twilight haze of grit and dust that
hung thickly in the narrow walled corridors. People ran
screaming as Federation soldiers appeared from all directions,
shouting and cursing, throwing aside any who stood in their
way.
Without a word. Damson charged down an alleyway, leading
Padishar and Par into a blackened tunnel stinking of garbage
and excrement. Pursuit was instant, but cumbersome. Damson
took them through a cross alley and into the side door of a tav-
ern. They pushed through the dimly lit interior, past men
hunched over tables and slumped in chairs, around kegs, and
past a serving bar, then out the front door.