The Scions of Shannara

Damson came up to him, took his hands in her own and squeezed them. “That won’t happen. You know it won’t.” She leaned up and kissed him softly. “Are we agreed?”


Par took a deep breath, and a frightening sense of inevitability welled up inside him. Coll and Damson Rhee—he was risking both their lives by going after the Sword. He was being stubborn beyond reason, intractable to the point of foolhardiness; he was letting himself be caught up in his own self-perceived needs and ambitions. There was every reason to believe that his insistence would kill them all.

Then give it up, he whispered fiercely to himself. Just walk away.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t.

“Agreed,” he said.

There was a brief silence. Coll looked up and shrugged. “Agreed,” he echoed quietly.

Damson reached up to touch Par’s face, then stepped over to Coll and hugged him. Par was more than a little surprised when his brother hugged her back.





XXV



It was dusk on the following day when Padishar Creel and Morgan Leah finally reached the Jut. Both were exhausted.

They had traveled hard since leaving Tyrsis, stopping only for meals. They had slept less than six hours the previous night. Nevertheless, they would have arrived even sooner and in better condition if not for Padishar’s insistence on doing everything possible to disguise their trail. Once they entered the Parma Key, he backtracked continuously, taking them down ravines, through riverbeds, and over rocky outcroppings, all the while watching the land behind him like a hawk.

Morgan had thought the outlaw chief overcautious and, after growing impatient enough, had told him so. “Shades, Padishar—we’re wasting time! What do you think is back there anyway?”

“Nothing we can see, lad,” had been the other’s enigmatic reply.

It was a sultry evening, the air heavy and still, and the skies hazy where the red ball of the sun settled into the horizon. As they rose in the basket lift toward the summit of the Jut, they could see night’s shadows begin to fill the few wells of daylight that still remained in the forests below, turning them to pools of ink. Insects buzzed annoyingly about them, drawn by their body sweat. The swelter of the day lay across the land in a suffocating blanket. Padishar still had his gaze turned south toward Tyrsis, as if he might spy whatever it was he suspected had followed them. Morgan looked with him, but as before saw nothing. The big man shook his head. “I can’t see it,” he whispered. “But I can feel it coming.”

He didn’t explain what he meant by that and the Highlander didn’t ask. Morgan was tired and hungry, and he knew that nothing either Padishar or he did was likely to change the plans of whatever might be out there. Their journey was completed, they had done everything humanly possible to disguise their passing, and there wasn’t anything to be gained by worrying now. Morgan felt his stomach rumble and thought of the dinner that would be waiting. Lunch that day had been a sparse affair—a few roots, stale bread, hard cheese, and some water.

“I realize that outlaws are supposed to be able to subsist on next to nothing, but surely you could have done better than this!” he had complained. “This is pathetic!”

“Oh, surely, lad!” the outlaw chief had replied. “And next time you be the gravedigger and I’ll be the body!”

Their differences had been put aside by then—not forgotten perhaps, but at least placed in proper perspective. Padishar had dismissed their confrontation five minutes after it ended, and Morgan had concluded by the end of the day that things were back to normal. He bore a grudging respect for the man—for his brash and decisive manner, because it reminded the Highlander of his own, for the confidence he so readily displayed in himself, and for the way he drew other men to him. Padishar Creel wore the trappings of leadership as if they were his birthright, and somehow that seemed fitting. There was undeniable strength in Padishar Creel; it made you want to follow him. But Padishar understood that a leader must give something back to his followers. Acutely aware of Morgan’s role in bringing the Valemen north, he had made a point of acknowledging the legitimacy of the Highlander’s concern for their safety. Several times after their argument he had gone out of his way to reassure Morgan that Par and Coll Ohmsford would never be abandoned, that he would make certain that they were safe. He was a complex, charismatic fellow, and Morgan liked him despite a nagging suspicion that Padishar Creel would never in the world be able to deliver everything he promised.