footing and went down, tumbling along a slope, rolling wildly
through brush and long grass and into a slick of standing wa-
ter. Something rushed past, just missing him with a click of
jaws. Another of the serpents. Walker came to his feet, flinging
fire and sound in all directions in a desperate effort to shield
himself. He had the satisfaction of hearing something shriek in
pain, of hearing something else grunt as if clubbed, and then
he was moving again. Trees rose off to one side, and he dis-
appeared into them, searching out the concealment of the deep
shadows. His breathing was ragged and uneven, and his body
ached. To his dismay, he found himself moving away from the
castle again, turned aside from the safety he had hoped to gain.
A shadow flitted off to his left, swift and silent, a black
cloak and a glint of an iron blade. Death. Walker was tiring,
worn from his flight, from being forced to change direction so
often. The Shadowen had hemmed him in and were closing.
He did not think he could reach the castle before they caught
up to him. He sought to change directions back again, but saw
movement between himself and the Keep and heard a hiss of
anticipation and the sudden rustic of scales through the grasses
The Talismans of Shannara 111
and brush. Walker could barely keep his panic in check, feel-
ing it as a growing tightness in his throat. He had been too
quick to assume, too sure of himself. He should have known
it would not be this easy. He should have anticipated better.
Branches slapped at his face and arms as he forced his way
into a stretch of deep woods. Behind, the serpent closed. It
seemed as if he could feel its breath on his neck, the touch of
claws and teeth on his body. He increased his pace, broke free
of the underbrush into a clearing, and found Death waiting,
cloaked and hooded, scythe lifted. The Shadowen struck at
him, missed as he veered sideways, swung a second time, and
Walker caught hold of the scythe to deflect it. Instantly a cold
numbed his hand and arm, hollow and bone-chilling, and he
jerked away in pain, thrusting the scythe and its wielder aside
as he did so. Something else moved in from the right, but he
was running again, throwing himself back into the forest, slip-
ping past rows of dark trunks as if turned substanceless, all the
while feeling the numbness settle deeper.
So cold!
His strength was failing now, and he was no closer to safety
than before. Think, he admonished himself furiously. Think!
Shadows moved all about, the skeletal shape of Famine, the
hideous buzz of Pestilence, the rumble of War in his
unbreachable armor, the silent rush of Death, and with them
the serpents they commanded.
Then suddenly a memory triggered, and Walker Boh grasped
for the thread of hope it offered. There was a trapdoor hidden
in the earth just ahead and beneath it a tunnel leading back into
Paranor. The trapdoor was Allanon’s memory, come alive in
the terror and anguish of the moment, recalled just in time.
There, left! Walker swerved, lurching ahead, hand and arm
feeling as dead as the one he had lost. Don’t think about it! He
threw himself into’a covering of brush, whipping past leafy
barriers, down a ravine, and across a narrows.
There!
His hand dropped to the earth, clawing for the hidden door
with nerveless fingers. It was here, he thought, here in this
patch of ground. Sounds approached from behind, closing. He
found an iron ring, grasped it, and heaved upward. The door
came away with a thud, falling back. Walker tumbled through
222 The Talismans of Sfwnnara
the opening and down the stairs beyond, then scrambled back
to his feet. There were shadows at the entry, coming through.
He raised his damaged hand and arm, fighting through the
numbness and chill, and called for the magic. Pire exploded up
the stairs and filled the opening. The shadows disappeared in
a ball of light. There was a rending of earth and stone, and the