The Scions of Shannara

The Shadowen hissed in delight.

Then it came at them. Par tried to slow it with images of wolves, but the Shadowen barely saw them. It slammed into Morgan, shoving past the blade of his sword, throwing the Highlander back. He might have been lost then if not for the Ohmsfords, who flung themselves on the beast and bore it to the ground. They held it there for only an instant. It heaved upward, freed itself and sent them flying. One great arm caught Par across the face, snapping his head back, causing flashes to cloud his vision as he tumbled away. He could hear the thing coming for him, and he threw out every image he could muster, rolling and crawling to regain his feet. He could hear Coll’s cry of warning and a series of grunts. He pushed himself upright, forcing his vision to clear.

The Shadowen was right in front of him, clawed forelimbs spread wide to embrace him. Coll lay slumped against a tree a dozen paces to his left. There was no sign of Morgan. Par backed away slowly, searching for an escape. There was no time for the magic now. The creature was too close. He felt the rough bark of a tree trunk jammed against his back.

Then Morgan was there, launching himself from the darkness, crying out “Leah, Leah” as he hammered into the Shadowen. There was blood on his face and clothing, and his eyes were bright with anger and determination. Down came the Sword of Leah, an arc of glittering metal—and something wondrous happened. The sword struck the Shadowen full on and burst into fire.

Par flinched and threw one arm across his face protectively. No, he thought in amazement, it wasn’t fire he was seeing, it was magic!

The magic happened all at once, without warning, and it seemed to freeze the combatants in the circle of its light. The Shadowen stiffened and screamed, a shriek of agony and disbelief. The magic spread from the Sword of Leah into the creature’s body, ripping through it like a razor through cloth. The Shadowen shuddered, seemed to sag inward against itself lost definition, and began to disintegrate. Quickly Par dropped under the thing and rolled free. He saw it heave upward desperately, then flare as brightly as the weapon that was killing it and disappear into ash.

The Sword of Leah winked instantly into darkness. The air was a blanket of sudden silence. Smoke floated in a cloud across the little clearing, its smell thick and pungent. The stagnant pool bubbled once and went still.

Morgan Leah dropped to one knee, the sword falling to the ground before him, striking the little mound of ash and flaring once. He flinched and then shuddered. “Shades!” he whispered, his voice choked with astonishment. “The power I felt, it was . . . I never thought it possible . . .”

Par came to him at once, knelt beside him and saw the other’s face, cut and bruised and drained of blood. He took the Highlander in his arms and held him.

“It still has the magic, Morgan!” he whispered, excited that such a thing could be. “All these years, and no one has known it, but it still has the magic!” Morgan looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Don’t you see? The magic has been sleeping since the time of Allanon! There’s been no need for it! It took another magic to bring it awake! It took a creature like the Shadowen! That’s why nothing happened until the magics touched . . .”

He trailed off as Coll stumbled over to them and dropped down as well. One arm hung limply. “Think I broke it,” he muttered.

He hadn’t, but he had bruised it severely enough that Par felt it wise to bind it against his body in a cradle for a day or so. They used their drinking water to wash themselves, bandaged their cuts and scrapes, picked up their weapons, and stood looking at each other. “The old man said there would be lots of things hunting us,” Par whispered.

“I don’t know if that thing was hunting us or if we were just unlucky enough to stumble on it.” Coll’s voice was ragged. “I do know I don’t want to run across any more like it.”

“But if we do,” Morgan Leah said quietly and stopped. “If we do, we have the means now to deal with them.” And he fingered the blade of the Sword of Leah as he might have the soft curve of a woman’s face.

Par would never forget what he felt at that moment. The memory of it would overshadow even that of their battle with the Shadowen, a tiny piece of time preserved in perfect still life. What he felt was jealousy. Before, he had been the one who had possessed real magic. Now it was Morgan Leah. He still had the wishsong, of course, but its magic paled in comparison to that of the Highlander’s sword. It was the sword that had destroyed the Shadowen. Par’s best images had proven to be little more than an irritation.

It made him wonder if the wishsong had any real use at all.





VII