Terry Brooks - Shannara Heritage 4 - The Talismans of Shannar

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The Talisman of Shannara
Heritage of Shannara vol. 4
Terry Brooks
I
Dusk settled down about the Four Lands, a slow greying of light, a gradual
lengthening of shadows. The swelter of the late summer's day began to fade as
the sun's red fireball sank into the west and the hot, stale air cooled. The
hush that comes with day's end stilled the earth, and leaves and grass shivered
with expectation at the coming of night.
At the mouth of the Mermidon where it emptied into the Rainbow Lake, Southwatch
rose blackly, impenetrable and voiceless. The wind brushed the waters of the
lake and river, yet did not approach the obelisk, as if anxious to hurry on to
some place mere inviting. The air shimmered about the dark tower, heat radiating
from its stone in waves, forming spectral images that darted and flew. A
solitary hunter at the water's edge glanced up apprehensively as he passed and
continued swiftly on.
Within, the Shadowen went about their tasks in ghostly silence, cowled and
faceless and filled with purpose.
Rimmer Dall stood at a window looking out on the darkening countryside, watching
the colour fade from the earth as the night crept stealthily out of the east to
gather in its own.
The night, our mother, our comfort.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rigid within his dark robes,
cowl pulled back from his raw-boned, red-bearded face. He looked hard and empty
of feeling, and had he cared he would have been pleased. But it had been a long
time since his appearance had mattered to the First Seeker—a long time since he
had bothered even to wonder.
2 The Talismans of Shannara
His outside was of no consequence; he could be anything he chose. What burned
within mattered. That gave him life.
His eyes glittered as he looked beyond what he was seeing to what one day would
be. To what was promised.
He shifted slightly, alone with his thoughts in the tower's silence. The others
did not exist for him, wraiths without substance. Below, deep within the bowels
of the tower, he could hear the sounds of the magic at work, the deep hum of its
breathing, the rumble of its heart. He listened for it without thinking now, a
habit that brought reassurance to his troubled mind. The power was theirs,
brought from the ether into substance, given shape and form, lent purpose. It
was the gift of the Shadowen, and it belonged to them alone. Druids and others
notwithstanding. He tried a faint smile, but his mouth refused to put up with it
and it disappeared in the tight line of his lips. His gloved left hand squirmed
within the clasp of the bare fingers of his right. Power for power, strength for
strength. On his breast, the silver wolf's-head insignia glittered.
Thrum, thrum, came the sound of the magic working down below.
Rimmer Dall turned back into the greyness of the room—a room that until recently
had held Coil Ohmsford prisoner. Now the Valeman was gone—escaped, he believed;
but let go in fact and made prisoner another way. Gone to find his brother. Par.
The one with the real magic. The one who would be his.
The First Seeker moved away from the window and seated himself at the bare
wooden table, the weight of his big frame causing the spindly chair to creak.
His hands folded on the table before him and his craggy face lowered.
All the Ohmsfords were back in the Four Lands, all the scions of Shannara,
returned from their quests. Walker Boh had come back from Eldwist despite Pe
Ell, the Black Elfstone regained, its magic fathomed, Paranor brought back into
the world of men, and Walker himself become the first of the new Druids. Wren
Elessedil had come back from Morrowindl with Arborlon and the Elves, the magic
of the Elfstones discovered
The Talismans of Shannara 3
anew, her own identity and heritage revealed. Two out of three of Allanon's
charges fulfilled. Two out of three steps taken.
Par's was to be the last, of course. Find the Sword of Shannara. Find the Sword
and it will reveal the truth.
Games played by old men and shades, Rimmer Dall mused. Charges and quests,
searches for truth. Well, he knew the truth better than they, and the truth was
that none of this mattered because in the end the magic was all and the magic
belonged to the Shadowen.
It grated on him that despite his efforts to prevent it, both the Elves and
Paranor were back. Those he had sent to keep the Shannara scions from succeeding
had failed. The price of their failure had been death, but that did little to
assuage his annoyance. Perhaps he should have been angry—perhaps even a little
worried. But Rimmer Dall was confident in his power, certain of his control over
events and time, assured that the future was still his to determine. Though Teel
and Pe EU had disappointed him, there were others who would not.
Thrum, thrum, the magic whispered.
And so...
Rimmer Dall's lips pursed. A little time was all that was needed. A little time
to let events he had already set in motion follow their course, and then it
would be too late for the Druid dead and their schemes. Keep the Dark Uncle and
the girl apart. Don't let them share their knowledge. Don't let them join
forces.
Don't let them find the Valemen.
What was needed was a distraction, something that would keep them otherwise
occupied. Or better still, something that would put an end to them. Armies, of
course, to grind down the Elves and the freeborn alike. Federation soldiers and
Shadowen Creepers and whatever else he could muster to sweep these fools from
his life. But something more, something special for the Shannara children with
all their magics and Druid charms.
He considered the matter for a long time, the grey twilight changing to night
about him. The moon rose in the east, a scythe against the black, and the stars
brightened into sharp pinpricks of silver. Their glow penetrated the darkness
where the First Seeker sat and transformed his face into a skull.
4 The Talismans of Shannara
Yes, he nodded finally.
The Dark Uncle was obsessed with his Druid heritage. Send him something to play
against that weakness, something that would confuse and frustrate him. Send him
the Four Horsemen.
And the girl. Wren Elessedil had lost her protector and adviser. Give her
someone to fill that void. Give her one of his own choosing, one who would
soothe and comfort her, who would ease her fears, then betray her and strip her
of everything.
The others were no serious threat—not even the leader of the freeborn and the
Highlander. They could do nothing without the Ohmsford heirs. If the Dark Uncle
was imprisoned in his Keep and the Elf Queen's brief reign ended, the Druid
shade's carefully constructed plans would collapse about him. Allanon would sink
back into the Hadeshorn with the rest of his ghost kin, consigned to the past
where he belonged.
Yes, the others were insignificant.
But he would deal with them anyway.
And even if all his efforts failed, even if he could do nothing more than chase
them about, harry them as a dog would its prey, still that would be sufficient
if in the end Par Ohmsford's soul fell to him. He needed only that to put an end
to all of the hopes of his enemies. Only that. It was a short walk to the
precipice, and the Valeman was already moving toward it. His brother would be
the staked goat that would bring him, that would draw him like a wolf at hunt.
Coil Ohmsford was deep under the spell of the Mirrorshroud by now, a slave to
the magic from which the cloak was formed. He had stolen it to disguise himself,
never guessing that Rimmer Dall had intended as much, never suspecting that it
was a deadly snare to turn him to the First Seeker's own grim purpose. Coil
Ohmsford would hunt his brother down and force a confrontation. He would do so
because the cloak would let him do nothing less, settling a madness within him
that only his brother's death could assuage. Par would be forced to fight. And
because he lacked the magic of the Sword of Shannara, because his conventional
weapons would not be enough to stop the Shadowen-kind his brother had become,
and because he would
The Talismans of Shannara 5
be terrified that this was yet another trick, he would use the wishsong's magic.
Perhaps he would kill his own brother, but this time kill him in truth, and then
discover—when it was too late to change things back—what he had done.
And perhaps not. Perhaps he would let his brother escape— and be led to his
doom.
The First Seeker shrugged. Either way, the result would be the same. Either way
the Valeman was finished. Use of the magic and the series of shocks that would
surely result from doing so would unbalance him. It would free the magic from
his control and let him become Rimmer Dall's tool. Rimmer Dall was certain of
it. He could be so because unlike the Shannara scions and their mentor he
understood the Elven magic, his magic by blood and right. He understood what it
was and how it worked. He knew what Par did not—what was happening to the
wishsong, why it behaved as it did, how it had slipped its leash to become a
wild thing that hunted as it chose.
Par was close. He was very close.
The danger of grappling with the beast is that you will become it.
He was almost one of them.
Soon it would happen.
There was, of course, the possibility that the Valeman would discover the truth
about the Sword of Shannara before then. Was the weapon he carried, the one
Rimmer Dall had given up so easily, the talisman he sought or a fake? Par
Ohmsford still didn't know. It was a calculated risk that he would not find out.
Yet even if he did, what good would it do him? Swords were two-edged and could
cut either way. The truth might do Par more harm than good...
Rimmer Dall rose and walked again to the window, a shadow in the night's
blackness, folded and wrapped against the light. The Druids didn't understand;
they never had. Allanon was an anachronism before he had even become what Bremen
intended him to be. Druids—they used the magic like fools played with fire:
astounded at its possibilities, yet terrified of its risks. No wonder the flames
had burned them so often. But that did not prevent them from refusing their
6 The Talismans of Shannara
mysterious gift. They were so quick to judge others who sought to wield the
power—the Shadowen foremost—to see them as the enemy and destroy them.
As they had destroyed themselves.
But there was symmetry and meaning in the Shadowen vision of life, and the magic
was no toy with which they played but the heart of who and what they were,
embraced, protected, and worshipped. No half measures in which life's
accessibility was denied or self-serving cautions issued to assure that none
would share in the use. No admonitions or warnings. No games playing. The
Shadowen simply were what the magic would make them, and the magic when accepted
so would make them anything.
The tree-tips of the forests and the cliffs of the Runne were dark humps against
the flat, silver-laced surface of the Rainbow Lake. Rimmer Dall gazed out upon
the world, and he saw what the Druids had never been able to see.
That it belonged to those strong enough to take it, hold it, and shape it. That
it was meant to be used.
His eyes burned the colour of blood.
It was ironic that the Ohmsfords had served the Druids for so long, carrying out
their charges, going on their quests, following their visions to truths that
never were. The stories were legend. Shea and Flick, Wil, Brin and Jair, and now
Par. It had all been for nothing. But here is where it would end. For Par would
serve the Shadowen and by doing so put an end forever to the Ohmsford-Druid
ties.
"Par. Par. Par."
Rimmer Dall whispered his name soothingly to the night. It was a litany that
filled his mind with visions of power that nothing could withstand.
For a long time he stood at the window and allowed himself to dream of the
future.
Then abruptly he wheeled away and went down into the tower's depths to feed.
II
The cellar beneath the gristmill was thick with shadows, the faint streamers of
light let through by gaps in the floorboards disappearing rapidly into twilight.
Chased from his safe hole through the empty catacombs, pinned finally against
the blocked trapdoor through which he had thought to escape. Par Ohmsford
crouched like an animal brought to bay, the Sword of Shannara clutched
protectively before him as the intruder who had harried him to this end stopped
abruptly and reached up to lower the cowl that hid his face. "Lad," a familiar
voice whispered. "It's me." The cloak's hood was down about the other's
shoulders, and a dark head was laid bare. But still the shadows were too
great...
The figure stepped forward tentatively, the hand with the long knife lowering.
"Par? "
The intruder's features were caught suddenly in a hazy wash of grey light, and
Par exhaled sharply.
"Padishar!" he exclaimed in relief. "Is it really you? "
The long knife disappeared back beneath the cloak, and the other's laugh was low
and unexpected. "In the flesh. Shades, I thought I'd never find you! I've been
searching for days, the whole of Tyrsis end to end, every last hideaway, every
burrow, and each time only Federation and Shadowen Seekers waiting!"
He came forward to the bottom of the stairs, smiling broadly, arms outstretched.
"Come here, lad. Let me see you." Par lowered the Sword of Shannara and came
down the
8 The Talismans of Shannara
steps in weary gratitude. "I thought you were ... I was afraid...”
And then Padishar had his arms about him, embracing him, clapping him on the
back, and then lifting him off the floor as if he were sackcloth.
"Par Ohmsford!" he greeted, setting the Valeman down finally, hands gripping his
shoulders as he held him at arm's length to study him. The familiar smile was
bright and careless. He laughed again. "You look a wreck!"
Par grimaced. "You don't look so well-kept yourself." There were scars from
battle wounds on the big man's face and neck, new since they had parted. Par
shook his head, overwhelmed. "I guess I knew you had escaped the Pit, but it's
good seeing you here to prove it."
"Hah, there's been a lot happen since then, Valeman, I can tell you that!"
Padishar's lank hair was tousled, and the skin about his eyes was dark from lack
of sleep. He glanced about. "You're alone? I didn't expect that. Where's your
brother? Where's Damson? "
Par's smile faded. "Coil..." he began and couldn't finish. "Padishar, I
can't..." His hands tightened about the Sword of Shannara, as if by doing so he
might retrieve the lifeline for which he suddenly found need. "Damson went out
this morning. She hasn't come back." Padishar's eyes narrowed. "Out? Out where,
lad? " "Searching for a way to escape the city. Or in the absence of that,
another hiding place. The Federation have found us everywhere. But you know.
You've seen them yourself. Padishar, how long have you been looking for us? How
did you manage to find this place? "
The big hands fell away. "Luck, mostly. I tried all the places I thought you
might be, the newer ones, the ones Damson had laid out for us during the
previous year. This is an old one, five years gone since it was prepared and not
used in the last three. I only remembered it after I'd given up on everything
else."
He started suddenly. "Lad!" he exclaimed, his eyes lighting on the Sword in
Par's hands. "Is that it? The Sword of Shannara? Have you found it, then? How
did you get it out of the Pit? Where...?"
But suddenly there was a scuffling of boots on wooden steps
The Talismans of Shannara 9
from the darkness behind, a clanking of weapons, and a rising of voices.
Padishar whirled. The sounds were unmistakable. Armed men were descending the
back stairs to the room Par had just vacated, come through the same door that
had brought Padishar. Without slowing, they swept into the tunnels beyond,
guided by torches that smoked and sputtered brightly in the near black.
Padishar wheeled back, grabbed Par's arm, and dragged him towards the trapdoor.
"Federation. I must have been followed. Or they were watching the mill."
Par stumbled, trying to pull back. "Padishar, the door—"
"Patience, lad," the other cut him short, hauling him bodily to the top of the
stairs. "We'll be out before they reach us."
He slammed into the door and staggered back, a look of disbelief on his rough
face.
"I tried to warn you," Par hissed, freeing himself, glancing back toward the
pursuit. The Sword of Shannara lifted menacingly. "Is there another way out? "
Padishar's answer was to throw himself against the trapdoor repeatedly, using
all of his strength and size to batter through it. The door refused to budge,
and while some of its boards cracked and splintered beneath the hammering they
did not give way.
"Shades!" the outlaw leader spit.
Federation soldiers emptied out of the passageway into the room. A black-cloaked
Seeker led them. They caught sight of Padishar and Par frozen on the trapdoor
steps and came for them. Broadsword in one hand, long knife in the other,
Padishar wheeled back down the steps to meet the rush. The first few to reach
him were cut down instantly. The rest slowed, turned wary, feinting and lunging
cautiously, trying to cripple him from the side. Par stood at his back,
thrusting at those who sought to do^ so. Slowly the two backed their way up the
stairs and out of reach so that their attackers were forced to come at them head
on.
It was a losing fight. There were twenty if there was one. One good rush and it
would be all over.
Par's head bumped sharply against the trapdoor. He turned long enough to shove
at it one final time. Still blocked. He felt a well of despair open up inside.
They were trapped.
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