The Scions of Shannara

Padishar withdrew the archers. A cheer went up from the ranks of the Federation army and a chanting began, matching the throb of the drums. The outlaw chief called for spearmen, but even the heavy wooden shafts and iron heads could not slow the monster’s approach. They broke off or shattered on the rocks, and the Creeper came on.

Massive boulders were brought forward and sent rolling over the cliff edge. Several crashed into the Creeper. They grazed it or struck it full on, and the result was the same. It kept coming. The mutterings resumed; born of fear and frustration. Padishar shouted angrily to quiet them, but the task was growing harder. He called for brush to be brought forward, had it fired and sent tumbling into the Creeper—to no effect. Furious, he had a cask of cooking oil brought up, broken open and spilled down the cliff wall, then ignited. It burned ferociously against the barren rock, engulfing the approaching Creeper in a haze of black smoke and flames. Cries rose from the ranks of the Federation and the drums went still. Heat lifted into the morning air in waves so suffocating that the defenders were forced back. Morgan retreated with the rest, Steff and Teel next to him. Steff’s face was drawn and pale, and he seemed strangely disoriented. Morgan helped him step away, unable to fathom what had happened to his friend.

“Are you sick?” he asked, whispering to the other as he eased him to a sitting position. “Steff, what’s wrong?”

But the other didn’t appear to have an answer. He simply shook his head. Then with an effort he said, “Fire won’t stop it. It’s been tried, Morgan. It doesn’t work.”

He was right. When the flames and the heat died away enough to permit the defenders to return to the walls, the Creeper was still there, working its way steadily upward, almost halfway up by now, as scorched and blackened as the rock to which it clung but otherwise unchanged. The drumming and the chanting from the Federation soldiers below resumed, an eager, confident swell of sound that engulfed the whole of the Jut.

The outlaws were dismayed. Arguments began to spring up, and it was clear that by now no one believed that the Creeper could be stopped. What would they do when it reached them? Seemingly invulnerable to spears and arrows, could it be stopped by swords? The frantic outlaws could make a pretty good guess.

Only Axhind and his Rock Trolls seemed unperturbed by what was happening. They stood at the far end of the outlaw defenses, protecting a shelf that slanted down from the main bluff to the cliff wall, weapons held ready, a small island of calm amid the tumult. They were not talking. They did not appear nervous. They were watching Padishar Creel, apparently waiting to see what he would do next.

Padishar was quick to show them. He had noticed something that everyone else had missed, and it gave him a glimmer of hope for the besieged outlaws.

“Chandos!” he called out, shoving and pushing his men back into place as he walked down the breastworks. His burly, black-bearded lieutenant appeared. “Bring up whatever oil we’ve got—cooking, cleaning, anything! Don’t waste time asking questions, just do it!”

Chandos closed his mouth and hurried off. Padishar wheeled and came back down the line toward Morgan and the Dwarves.

“Ready one of the lifts!” he called past them. Then unexpectedly he stopped. “Steff. How are these things on slick surfaces, these Creepers? How do they grip?”

Steff looked at him blankly, as if the question were too perplexing for him to consider. “I don’t know.”

“But they have to grip to climb, don’t they?” the other demanded. “What happens if they can’t?”

He turned away without waiting for an answer. The morning had grown hot, and he was sweating heavily now. He stripped off his tunic, throwing it aside irritably. Snatching a set of cross belts from another outlaw, he buckled them on, picked up a short-handled axe, shoved it through one of the belt loops, and moved ahead to the lifts. Morgan followed, beginning to see now what the outlaw planned to do. Chandos hurried up from the caves, followed by a knot of men carrying casks of varying sizes and weights.

“Load them,” Padishar ordered, motioning. When the loading was begun, he put his hands on his lieutenant’s broad shoulders. “I’m going over in the lift, down where the beast climbs, and dump the oil on it.”

“Padishar!” Chandos was horrified.

“No, listen now. The Creeper can’t get up here if it can’t climb, and it can’t climb if it can’t grip. The oil will make everything so slick the slug won’t be able to move. It might even fall.” He grinned fiercely. “Wouldn’t that put a nice finish to things?”

Chandos shook his woolly head, a frantic look in his eyes. The Trolls had drifted over and were listening. “You think the Federation will let you get that far? Their bowmen will cut you to pieces!”

“Not if you keep them back, they won’t.” The grin vanished. “Besides, old friend—what other choice do we have?”