The Scions of Shannara

“Can you walk?” his brother whispered anxiously.

Par nodded without knowing if he could or not. They came to their feet slowly, their muscles aching, their breathing labored. They stumbled from the wall into the shadow of the trees and paused in the blackness, waiting to discover if they had been seen, listening to the commotion that surrounded the Gatehouse.

Coll bent his head close. “We have to get out of here, Par.”

Par’s eyes lifted accusingly. “I know! But we can’t help them anymore. Not now, at least. We have to save ourselves.” He shook his head helplessly. “Please!”

Par clasped him momentarily and nodded into his shoulder, and they stumbled ahead. They made their way slowly, keeping to the darkest shadows, staying clear of the paths leading toward the Gatehouse. The rain had stopped without their realizing it, and the great trees shed their surface water in sudden showers as the wind gusted in intermittent bursts. Pars mind spun with the memory of what had happened to them, whispering anew the warning it had given him earlier, teasing him with self-satisfied, purposeless glee. Why hadn’t he listened, it whispered? Why had he been so stubborn?

The lights of the Tyrsian Way burned through the darkness ahead, and moments later they stumbled to the edge of the street. There were people clustered there, dim shapes in the night, faceless shadows that stood mute witness to the chaos beyond. Most were farther down near the park’s entry and saw nothing of the two ragged figures who emerged. Those who did see quickly looked away when they recognized the Federation uniforms.

“Where do we go now?” Par whispered, leaning against Coll for support. He was barely able to stand.

Coll shook his head wordlessly and pulled his brother toward the street, away from the lights. They had barely reached its cobblestones when a lithe figure materialized out of the shadows some fifty feet away and moved to intercept them. Damson, Par thought. He whispered her name to Coll, and they slowed expectantly as she hurried up.

“Keep moving,” she said quietly, boosting Par’s free arm about her shoulders to help Coll support him. “Where are the others?”

Par’s eyes lifted to meet hers. He shook his head slowly and saw the stricken look that crossed her face.

Behind them, deep within the park, there was a brilliant explosion of fire that rocketed skyward into the night. Gasps of dismay rose out of those gathered on the streets.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Don’t look back,” Damson whispered, tight-lipped.

The Valemen didn’t need to.



Morgan Leah lay sprawled upon the scorched earth of the Pit, steam rising from his clothing, the acrid stench of smoke in his mouth and nostrils. Somehow he was still alive, he sensed—barely. Something was terribly wrong with him. He felt broken, as if everything had been smashed to bits within his skin, leaving him an empty, scoured shell. There was pain, but it wasn’t physical. It was worse somehow, a sort of emotional agony that wracked not only his body but his mind as well.

“Highlander!”

Padishar’s rough voice cut through the layers of hurt and brought his eyes open. Flames licked the ground inches away.

“Get up—quickly!” Padishar was pulling at him, hauling him forcibly to his feet, and he heard himself scream. A muddled sea of trees and stone blocks swam in the mist and darkness, slowly steadied and at last took shape.

Then he saw. He was still gripping the hilt of the Sword of Leah, but its blade was shattered. No more than a foot remained, a jagged, blackened shard.

Morgan began to shake. He could not stop himself. “What have I done?” he whispered.

“You saved our lives, my friend!” Padishar snapped, dragging him forward. “That’s what you did!” Light poured through a massive hole in the wall of the Gatehouse. The door that had been sealed against their return had disappeared. Padishar’s voice was labored. “Your weapon did that. Your magic. Shattered that door into smoke! Gives us the chance we need, if we’re quick enough. Hurry, now! Lean on me. Another minute or two . . .”

Padishar shoved him through the opening. He was dimly aware of the corridor they stumbled down, the stairs they climbed. The pain continued to rip through his body, leaving him incoherent when he tried to speak. He could not take his eyes from the broken sword. His sword—his magic—himself. He could not differentiate among them.

Shouts and a heavy thudding broke into his thoughts, causing him to flinch. “Easy, now,” Padishar cautioned, the outlaw’s voice a buzzing in his ears that seemed to come from very far away.