The Scions of Shannara

Hirehone muttered something unintelligible, but nodded. The squad leader talked to him some more, sounding weary and hot. The soldiers were casting about restlessly. One moved toward the little company. Morgan tried to stand in front of his companions, tried to make the soldier speak with him. The soldier hesitated, a big fellow with a reddish beard. Then he noticed something and pushed past the Highlander. “You there!” he snapped at Teel. “What’s wrong with you?” One hand reached out, pulling aside the hood. “Dwarves! Captain, there’s . . .”


He never finished. Teel killed him with a single thrust of her long knife, jamming the blade through his throat. He was still trying to talk as he died. The other soldiers reached for their weapons, but Morgan was already among them, his own sword thrusting, forcing them back. He cried out to the others, and the Dwarves and Valemen broke for the doorway. They reached the street, Morgan on their heels, the Federation soldiers a step behind. The crowd screamed and split apart as the battle careened into them. There were a dozen soldiers in pursuit, but two were wounded and the rest were tripping over one another in their haste to reach the Highlander. Morgan cut down the foremost, howling like a madman. Ahead, Steff reached a barred door to a warehouse, brought up the suddenly revealed mace, and hammered the troublesome barrier into splinters with a single blow. They rushed through the darkened interior and out a back door, turned left down an alley and came up against a fence. Desperately, they wheeled about and started back.

The pursuing Federation soldiers burst through the warehouse door and came at them.

Par used the wishsong and filled the disappearing gap between them with a swarm of buzzing hornets. The soldiers howled and dove for cover. In the confusion, Steff smashed enough boards of the fence to allow them all to slip through. They ran down a second alley, through a maze of storage sheds, turned right and pushed past a hinged metal gate.

They found themselves in a yard of scrap metal behind the Forge. Ahead, a door to the back of the Forge swung open. “In here!” someone called.

They ran without questioning, hearing the sound of shouting and blare of horns all about. They shoved through the opening into a small storage room and heard the door slam shut behind them.

Hirehone faced them, hands on hips. “I hope you turn out to be worth all the trouble you’ve caused!” he told them.



He hid them in a crawlspace beneath the floor of the storage room, leaving them there for what seemed like hours. It was hot and close, there was no light, and the sounds of booted feet tramped overhead twice in the course of their stay, each time leaving them taut and breathless. When Hirehone finally let them out again, it was night, the skies overcast and inky, the lights of the city fragmented pinpricks through the gaps in the boards of the Forge walls. He took them out of the storage room to a small kitchen that was adjacent, sat them down about a spindly table, and fed them.

“Had to wait until the soldiers finished their search, satisfied themselves you weren’t coming back or hiding in the metal,” he explained. “They were angry, I’ll tell you—especially about the killing.”

Teel showed nothing of what she was thinking, and no one else spoke. Hirehone shrugged. “Means nothing to me either.”

They chewed in silence for a time, then Morgan asked, “What about the Archer? Can we see him now?”

Hirehone grinned. “Don’t think that’ll be possible. There isn’t any such person.”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “Then why . . .?”

“It’s a code,” Hirehone interrupted. “It’s just a way of letting me know what’s expected of me. I was testing you. Sometimes the code gets broken. I had to make sure you weren’t spying for the Federation.”

“You’re an outlaw,” Par said.

“And you’re Par Ohmsford,” the other replied. “Now finish up eating, and I’ll take you to the man you came to see.”

They did as they were told, cleaned off their plates in an old sink, and followed Hirehone back into the bowels of Kiltan Forge. The Forge was empty now, save for a single tender on night watch who minded the fire-breathing furnaces that were never allowed to go cold. He paid them no attention. They passed through the cavernous stillness on cat’s feet, smelling ash and metal in a sulfurous mix, watching the shadows dance to the fire’s cadence.

When they slipped through a side door into the darkness, Morgan whispered to Hirehone, “We left our horses stabled several streets over.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the other whispered back. “You won’t need horses where you’re going.”