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.”
They passed quietly and unobtrusively down the byways of Varfleet, through its bordering cluster of shacks and hovels and finally out of the city altogether. They traveled north then along the Mermidon, following the river upstream where it wound below the foothills fronting the Dragon’s Teeth. They walked for the remainder of the night, crossing the river just above its north-south juncture where it passed through a series of rapids that scattered its flow into smaller streams. The river was down at this time of the year or the crossing would never have been possible without a boat. As it was, the water reached nearly to the chins of the Dwarves at several points, and all of them were forced to walk with their backpacks and weapons hoisted over their heads.
Once across the river, they came up against a heavily forested series of defiles and ravines that stretched on for miles into the rock of the Dragon’s Teeth.
“This is the Parma Key,” Hirehone volunteered at one point. “Pretty tricky country if you don’t know your way.”
That was a gross understatement, Par quickly discovered. The Parma Key was a mass of ridges and ravines that rose and fell without warning amid a suffocating blanket of trees and scrub. The new moon gave no light, the stars were masked by the canopy of trees and the shadow of the mountains, and the company found itself in almost complete blackness. After a brief penetration of the woods, Hirehone sat them down to wait for daybreak.
Even in daylight, any passage seemed impossible. It was perpetually shadowed and misted within the mountain forests of the Parma Key, and the ravines and ridges crisscrossed the whole of the land. There was a trail, invisible to anyone who hadn’t known it before, a twisting path that Hirehone followed without effort but that left the members of the little company uncertain of the direction in which they were moving. Morning slipped toward midday, and the sun filtered down through the densely packed trees in narrow streamers of brightness that did little to chase the lingering fog and seemed to have strayed somehow from the outer world into the midst of the heavy shadows.
When they stopped for a quick lunch, Par asked their guide if he would tell them how much farther it was to where they were going.
“Not far,” Hirehone answered. “There.” He pointed to a massive outcropping of rock that rose above the Parma Key where the forest flattened against the wall of the Dragon’s Teeth.
“That, Ohmsford, is called the Jut. The Jut is the stronghold of the Movement.”
Par looked, considering. “Does the Federation know it’s there?” he asked.
“They know it’s in here somewhere,” Hirehone replied. “What they don’t know is exactly where and, more to the point, how to reach it.”
“And Par’s mysterious rescuer, your still-nameless outlaw chief—isn’t he worried about having visitors like us carrying back word of how to do just that?” Steff asked skeptically.
Hirehone smiled. “Dwarf, in order for you to find your way in again, you first have to find your way out. Think you could manage that without me?”
Steff smirked grudgingly, seeing the truth of the matter. A man could wander forever in this maze without finding his way clear.
It was late afternoon when they reached the outcropping they had been pointing toward all day, the shadows falling in thick layers across the wilderness, casting the whole of the forest in twilight. Hirehone had whistled ahead several times during the last hour, each time waiting for an answering whistle before proceeding farther. At the base of the cliffs, a gated lift waited, settled in a clearing, its ropes disappearing skyward into the rocks overhead. The lift was large enough to hold all of them, and they stepped into it, grasping the railing for support as it hoisted them up, slowly, steadily, until at last they were above the trees. They drew even with a narrow ledge and were pulled in by a handful of men working a massive winch. A second lift waited and they climbed aboard. Again they were hoisted up along the face of the rock wall, dangling out precariously over the earth. Par looked down once and quickly regretted it. He caught a glimpse of Steff’s face, bloodless beneath its sun-browned exterior. Hirehone seemed unconcerned and whistled idly as they rose.
There was a third lift as well, this one much shorter, and when they finally stepped off they found themselves on a broad, grassy bluff about midway up the cliff that ran back several hundred yards into a series of caves. Fortifications lined the edge of the bluff and ringed the caves, and there were pockets of defense built into the cliff wall overhead where it was riddled with craggy splits. There was a narrow waterfall spilling down off the mountain into a pool, and several clusters of broad-leaf trees and fir scattered about the bluff. Men scurried everywhere, hauling tools and weapons and crates of stores, crying out instructions, or answering back.
Out of the midst of this organized confusion strode Par’s rescuer, his tall form clothed in startling scarlet and black. He was clean-shaven now, his tanned face weather-seamed and sharp-boned in the sunlight, a collection of planes and angles. It was a face that defied age. His brown hair was swept back and slightly receding. He was lean and fit and moved like a cat. He swept toward them with a deep-voiced shout of welcome, one arm extending first to hug Hirehone, then to gather in Par.
“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? Stran
ge 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.”
They finished the meal quickly, the outlaw chief continuing to provide further details of his violent life in the same disinterested tone. Par wondered what sort of man he had gotten himself mixed up with. He had thought before that his rescuer might prove to be the champion the Four Lands had lacked since the time of Allanon, his standard the rallying point for all of the oppressed Races. Rumor had it that this man was the charismatic leader for which the freedom Movement had been waiting. But he seemed as much a cutthroat as anything. However dangerous Panamon Creel might have been in his time, Par found himself convinced that Padishar Creel was more dangerous still.
“So, that is my story and the whole of it,” Padishar Creel announced, shoving back his plate. His eyes glittered. “Any part of it that you’d care to question me about?”
Silence. Then Steff growled suddenly, shockingly, “How much of it is the truth?”
Everyone froze. But Padisher Creel laughed, genuinely amused. There was a measure of respect in his eyes for the Dwarf that was unmistakable as he said, “Some of it, my Eastland friend, some of it.” He winked. “The story improves with every telling.”
He picked up his ale glass and poured a full measure from a pitcher. Par stared at Steff with newfound admiration. No one else would have dared ask that question.
“Come, now,” the outlaw chief interjected, leaning forward. “Enough of history past. Time to hear what brought you to me. Speak, Par Ohmsford.” His eyes were fixed on Par. “It has something to do with the magic, hasn’t it? There wouldn’t be anything else that would bring you here. Tell me.”
Par hesitated. “Does your offer to help still stand?” he asked instead.
The other looked offended. “My word is my bond, lad! I said I would help and I will!”
He waited. Par glanced at the others, then said, “I need to find the Sword of Shannara.”
He told Padishar Creel of his meeting with the ghost of Allanon and the task that had been given him by the Druid. He told of the journey that had brought the five of them gathered to this meeting, of the encounters with Federation soldiers and Seekers and the monsters called Shadowen. He held nothing back, despite his reservations about the man. He decided it was better neither to lie nor to attempt half-truths, better that it was all laid out for him to judge, to accept or dismiss as he chose. After all, they would be no worse off than they were now, whether he decided to help them or not.
When he had finished, the outlaw chief sat back slowly and drained the remainder of the ale from the glass he had been nursing and smiled conspiratorially at Steff. “It would seem appropriate for me to now ask how much of this tale is true!”
Par started to protest, but the other raised his hand quickly to cut him off. “No, lad, save your breath. I do not question what you’ve told me. You tell it the way you believe it, that’s clear enough. It’s only my way.”
“You have the men, the weapons, the supplies and the network of spies to help us find what we seek,” Morgan interjected quietly. “That’s why we’re here.”
“You have the spirit for this kind of madness as well, I’d guess,” Steff added with a chuckle.
Padishar Creel rubbed his chin roughly. “I have more than these, my friends,” he said, smiling like a wolf. “I have a sense of fate!”
He rose wordlessly and took them from the table to the edge of the bluff, there to stand looking out across the Parma Key, a mass of treetops and ridgelines bathed in the last of the day’s sunlight as it faded west across the horizon.
His arm swept the whole of it. “These are my lands now, the lands of Baron Creel, if you will. But I’ll hold them no longer than the ones before them if I do not find a way to unsettle the Federation!” He paused. “Fate, I told you. That’s what I believe in. Fate made me what I am and
it will unmake me as easily, if I do not take a hand in its game. The hand I must take, I think, is the one you offer. It is not chance, Par Ohmsford, that you have come to me. It is what was meant to be. I know that to be true, now especially—now, after hearing what you seek. Do you see the way of it? My ancestor and yours, Panamon Creel and Shea Ohmsford, went in search of the Sword of Shannara more than three hundred years ago. Now it is our turn, yours and mine. A Creel and an Ohmsford once again, the start of change in the land, a new beginning. I can feel it!”
He studied them, his sharp face intense. “Friendship brought you all together; a need for change in your lives brought you to me. Young Par, there are indeed ties that bind us, just as I said when first we met. There is a history that needs repeating. There are adventures to be shared and battles to be won. That is what fate has decreed for you and me!”
Par was a bit confused in the face of all this rhetoric as he asked, “Then you’ll help us?”
“Indeed, I will.” The outlaw chief arched one eyebrow. “I hold the Parma Key, but the Southland is lost to me—my home, my lands, my heritage. I want them back. Magic is the answer now as it was those many years past, the catalyst for change, the prod that will turn back the Federation beast and send it scurrying for its cave!”
“You’ve said that several times,” Par interjected. “Said it several different ways—that the magic can in some way undermine the Federation. But it’s the Shadowen that Allanon fears, the Shadowen that the Sword is meant to confront. So why . . .?”
“Ah, ah, lad,” the other interrupted hurriedly. “You strike to the heart of the matter once again. The answer to your question is this—I perceive threads of cause and effect in everything. Evils such as the Federation and the Shadowen do not stand apart in the scheme of things. They are connected in some way, joined perhaps as Ohmsfords and Creels are joined, and if we can find a way to destroy one, we will find a way to destroy the other!”