The Scions of Shannara

Rimmer Dall came to a stop a dozen feet away from Par, reached up casually and pulled back the hood of his cloak. His craggy face was unmasked, yet in the half-light of the vault it was so streaked with shadows as to be practically unrecognizable. It made no difference. Par would have known him anywhere. Their one and only meeting that night so many weeks ago at the Blue Whisker was not something he would ever forget. He had hoped it would never be repeated; yet here they were, face to face once more. Rimmer Dall, First Seeker of the Federation, the man who had tracked him across the length and breadth of Callahorn and nearly had him so many times, had caught up with him at last.

The door through which Par had entered remained open behind him, a haven that beckoned. The Valeman poised to flee.

“Wait, Par Ohmsford,” the other said, almost as if reading his thoughts. “Are you so quick to run? Do you frighten so easily?”

Par hesitated. Rimmer Dall was a huge, rangy man; his red-bearded face might have been chiseled out of stone, so hard and menacing did it appear. Yet his voice—and Par had not forgotten it either—was soft and compelling.

“Shouldn’t you hear what I have to say to you first?” the big man continued. “What harm can it do? I have been waiting here to talk to you for a very long time.”

Par stared. “Waiting?”

“Certainly. This is where you had to come sooner or later once you made up your mind about the Sword of Shannara. You have come for the Sword, haven’t you? Of course you have. Well, then, I was right to wait, wasn’t I? We have much to discuss.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” Par’s mind raced. “You tried to arrest Coll and me in Varfleet. You imprisoned my parents in Shady Vale and occupied the village. You have been chasing after me and those with me for weeks.”

Rimmer Dall folded his arms. Par noticed again how the left was gloved to the elbow. “Suppose I stand here and you stand there,” the big man offered. “That way you can leave any time you choose. I won’t do anything to prevent it.”

Par took a deep breath and stepped back. “I don’t trust you.”

The big man shrugged. “Why should you? However, do you want the Sword of Shannara or don’t you? If you want it, you must first listen to me. After you’ve done so, you can take it with you if you wish. Fair enough?”

Par felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle in warning.

“Why should you make a bargain like that after all you’ve done to keep me from getting the Sword?”

“Keep you from getting the Sword?” The other laughed, a low, pleasant chuckle. “Par Ohmsford. Did you once think, to ask for the Sword? Did you ever consider the possibility that I might simply give it to you? Wouldn’t that have been easier than sneaking about the city and trying to steal it like a common thief?” Rimmer Dall shook his head slowly. “There is so much that you don’t know. Why not let me tell it to you?”

Par glanced about uncertainly, not willing to believe that this wasn’t some sort of trick to put him off his guard. The vault was a maze of shadows that whispered of other things lurking there, hidden and waiting. Par rubbed briskly the stone that Damson had given him to brighten its light.

“Ah, you think I have others concealed in the darkness with me, is that it?” Rimmer Dall whispered, the words coming from somewhere deep down inside his chest to rumble through the silence. “Well, here then!”

He raised his gloved hand, made a quick motion with it, and the room was flooded with light. Par gasped in surprise and took another step back.

“Do you think, Par Ohmsford, that you are the only one who has use of magic?” Rimmer Dall asked quietly. “Well, you aren’t. As a matter of fact, I have magic at my command that is much greater than yours, greater perhaps than that of the Druids of old. There are others like me, too. There are many in the Four Lands who possess the magic of the old world, of the world before the Four Lands and the Great Wars and man himself.”

Par stared at him wordlessly.

“Would you listen to me now, Valeman? While you still can?”