The Scions of Shannara

“So, lad, you’ve had a change of heart, have you? Welcome, then, and your companions as well. Your brother, a Highlander, and a brace of Dwarves, is it? Strange company, now. Have you come to join up?”


He was as guileless as Morgan had ever thought to be, and Par felt himself blush. “Not exactly. We have a problem.”

“Another problem?” The outlaw chief seemed amused. “Trouble just follows after you, doesn’t it? I’ll have my ring back now.”

Par removed the ring from his pocket and handed it over. The other man slipped it back on his finger, admiring it. “The hawk. Good symbol for a free-born, don’t you think?”

“Who are you?” Par asked him bluntly.

“Who am I?” The other laughed merrily. “Haven’t you figured that out yet, my friend? No? Then I’ll tell you.” The outlaw chief leaned forward. “Look at my hand.” He held up the closed fist with the finger pointed at Par’s nose. “A missing hand with a pike. Who am I?”

His eyes were sea-green and awash with mischief. There was a moment of calculated silence as the Valeman stared at him in confusion.

“My name, Par Ohmsford, is Padishar Creel,” the outlaw chief said finally. “But you would know me better as the great, great, great, and then some, grandson of Panamon Creel.”

And finally Par understood.



That evening, over dinner, seated at a table that had been moved purposefully away from those of the other occupants of the Jut, Par and his companions listened in rapt astonishment while Padishar Creel related his story.

“We have a rule up here that everyone’s past life is his own business,” he advised them conspiratorially. “It might make the others feel awkward hearing me talk about mine.”

He cleared his throat. “I was a landowner,” he began, “a grower of crops and livestock, the overseer of a dozen small farms and countless acres of forestland reserved for hunting. I inherited the better part of it from my father and he from his father and so on back some years further than I care to consider. But it apparently all began with Panamon Creel. I am told, though I cannot confirm it of course, that after helping Shea Ohmsford recover the Sword of Shannara, he returned north to the Borderlands where he became quite successful at his chosen profession and accumulated a rather considerable fortune. This, upon retiring, he wisely invested in what would eventually become the lands of the Creel family.”

Par almost smiled. Padishar Creel was relating his tale with a straight face, but he knew as well as the Valemen and Morgan that Panamon Creel had been a thief when Shea Ohmsford and he had stumbled on each other.

“Baron Creel, he called himself,” the other went on, oblivious. “All of the heads of family since have been called the same way. Baron Creel.” He paused, savoring the sound of it. Then he sighed. “But the Federation seized the lands from my father when I was a boy, stole them without a thought of recompense, and in the end dispossessed us. My father died when he tried to get them back. My mother as well. Rather mysteriously.”

He smiled. “So I joined the Movement.”

“Just like that?” Morgan asked, looking skeptical.

The outlaw chief skewered a piece of beef on his knife. “My parents went to the governor of the province, a Federation underling who had moved into our home, and my father demanded the return of what was rightfully his, suggesting that if something wasn’t done to resolve the matter, the governor would regret it. My father never was given to caution. He was denied his request, and he and my mother were summarily dismissed. On their way back from whence they had come, they disappeared. They were found later hanging from a tree in the forests nearby, gutted and flayed.”

He said it without rancor, matter-of-factly, all with a calm that was frightening. “I grew up fast after that, you might say,” he finished.

There was a long silence. Padishar Creel shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I learned how to fight, how to stay alive. I drifted into the Movement, and after seeing how poorly it was managed, formed my own company.” He chewed. “A few of the other leaders didn’t like the idea. They tried to give me over to the Federation. That was their mistake. After I disposed of them, most of the remaining bands came over to join me. Eventually, they all will.”

No one said anything. Padishar Creel glanced up. “Isn’t anyone hungry? There’s a good measure of food left. Let’s not waste it.”