Darkness had fallen, and the moon and stars were hidden by clouds that hung low and sullen across the bluff. Fire cast its smoky light through the gloom with little effect. Figures charged about everywhere, but it was impossible to make out their faces.
“This way!” the Mole whispered hoarsely.
They moved left along the wall, hurrying because everyone else was hurrying as well. They slipped through the dark, just three more bodies in the confusion, another three for which no one had time or interest.
They were almost to the door leading back to the city's underground when they were challenged. A shout brought them about, and a dark figure came striding out of the gloom. For an instant Par thought it was Padishar, miraculously escaped, but then he saw the markings of a Federation captain on a dark uniform. All three froze at his approach, uncertain what to do. The captain reached them, his dark bearded face coming into the light.
Then Damson stepped forward, smooth and relaxed, smiling at him. A confused look appeared on his face. She gave him an instant more, then hit him three times across the face with the blade of her hand, the blows so quick that Par could barely see them. She stepped into him, drew his arm across her shoulder, and threw him down. He wheezed and tried to cry out, but a final blow to the throat silenced him for good.
Damson rose and pushed past Par to where the Mole was already disappearing through the door. Par remembered in that instant how easily she had overcome him that night in the People's Park when he had believed her responsible for the Federation trap that had ensnared Padishar and the others. She might have done so again in the watchtower, he realized. She could have forced him to go back if she had wished. Why hadn't she?
They were inside the inner wall again, hurrying back down to the cellars that had brought them. The sounds without were fading now, muffled behind the layers of stone block. They reached the trapdoor and passed through, descending the steps to the tunnels below. From there, they moved swiftly through the gloom, away from the city's walls and back toward its center. Soon they were deep within the sewers and everything was silent.
“Let's … let's just rest a moment,” Par suggested finally, out of breath from running, needing to think, to decide what to do next.
“Here,” the Mole offered, directing them to a platform that served as a base for a ladder climbing to the streets at a confluence of tunnels and pipes. Overhead, light shone dimly through a grate. The streets were still and empty of life. “I will go back and make certain we are not followed.”
He disappeared into the dark, leaving them the candle. The Valeman and the girl watched him go, then settled themselves gingerly in place, backs to the wall, side by side with the candle before them. Par felt drained. He stared at the darkness beyond the candle's flame, exhaustion spreading through him. He could hear Damson breathing, could feel the heat of her body.
“You know what they'll do to him,” she said finally. He didn't respond, looking straight ahead. “They'll make him one of them. They'll use him.”
If they manage to take him alive, Par thought. And maybe not even then. Rimmer Dall is unpredictable.
“Why didn't you make me go back for him?” he asked her.
There was a long silence before she spoke. “I would never do that to you.”
He didn't say anything for a moment, letting the import of the words sink in. “I'm sorry about Padishar,” he said finally. “I didn't want to leave him either.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that he looked over at her to make certain he had heard her correctly. Her eyes met his. “I know,” she repeated. The pain in her voice was palpable. “It wasn't your fault. Padishar made you promise to save me first. He would have made me promise as well if our positions had been reversed.” She looked away again. “I was just angry when I saw …” She shook her head.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded wordlessly, and her eyes closed.
“Do they know who you are?”
She glanced over again. “No. Why would they?”
He took a deep breath. “The Mole. That was a trap back there, Damson. They were waiting for us. They had some reason to believe we would come for you. What better reason than if they knew that you were Padishar Creel's daughter? Padishar thinks the Mole gave us away.”
There was new anger in her eyes. “Par, the Mole saved us! Saved you, anyway. I was just unlucky. The Federation recognized me from the streets, and they knew I had helped you escape the gristmill.” She hesitated. “That was a trap as well, wasn't it? They knew …” She paused again, uncertain of where she was going.
“It could have been the Mole,” Par pressed. “He could have been taken when he came to look for you. Or sometime before.”
“And helped us escape anyway?” she asked incredulously. “Why? What would be the point? The Federation would have had us all if he hadn't gotten us out of the watchtower.”
“I know. I was thinking that, too.” He shook his head. “But they keep finding us, Damson. How do they do that? The Shadowen seem to have an ear to every wall. It's insidious. Sometimes it seems as if there isn't anyone left to trust.”
Her smile was bitter. “There isn't, Par. Not anyone. Didn't you realize that? There's only you and me. And can we even trust each other?”
He stared at her in shock. A sadness came into her eyes, and she reached out quickly, put her arms about him, and drew him close.
“I'm sorry,” she said, and he could feel her crying.
“I thought I might have lost you for good,” he whispered into her hair. He felt her nod slightly. “I'm so tired of all this. I just want it to end.”
They clung to each other in silence, and Par let himself drift with the feel of her, closing his eyes, letting the weariness seep away. He wished suddenly that he were back in the Vale, returned home again to his family and his old life, that Coll were alive, and that none of this had ever happened. He wished he had it all to do over again. He would not be so eager to go in search of Allanon. He would not be so quick to undertake his search for the Sword of Shannara.
And he would not be tricked into believing that his magic was a gift.
He thought then of how much a part of him the wishsong had once been and how alien it seemed now. It had broken free of his control again when he had called upon it in the watchtower. Despite his preparations, despite his efforts. Could he even say, in fact, that he had summoned it— or had it simply come on its own when it sensed those Shadowen? Surely it had done as it chose in any case, lancing out like knives to cut them apart. Par felt himself shudder at the memory. He would never have wished for that. The magic had destroyed the black things without thought, without compunction. His brow furrowed. No, not the magic. Him. He had destroyed them. He had not wanted to, perhaps, but he had done so nevertheless. Par didn't like what that suggested. The Shadowen were what they were, and perhaps it was true that they would not hesitate the span of a breath to kill him. But that did not change who and what he was. He could still see the eyes of that soldier Padishar had killed. He could see the life fade from them in an instant's time. It made him want to cry. He hated the fact that it was necessary and that he was a part of it. Understanding the reasons for it did not make it any more palatable. Yet what sort of hypocrite was he, despairing for a single life one moment and putting an end to half-a-dozen the next?
He didn't want to know the answer to that question. He didn't think he could bear it. What he recognized was that the magic of the wishsong had changed somehow within him and in so doing had changed him as well. It made him think more closely of Rimmer Dall's claim that he, too, was a Shadowen. After all, what was the difference between them?
“Damson?”
The Mole's tentative voice whispered from out of the black and parted her from him as she looked up. Funny, he thought, how the Mole only speaks to her.
The little fellow slipped into the light, blinking and squinting. “They do
not follow. The tunnels are empty.”
Damson looked back at Par. “What do we do now, Elf-boy?” she whispered, reaching up to brush back his hair. “Where do we go?”
Par smiled and took the hand in his own. “I love you, Damson Rhee,” he told her quietly, his words so soft they were lost in the rustle of his clothing.
He rose. “We get out of this city. We try to find help. From Morgan or the free-born or someone. We can't continue on alone.” He looked down at the hunched form of the Mole. “Mole, can you help us get away?”
The Mole glanced at Damson. “There are tunnels beneath the city that will take you to the plain beyond. I can show you.”
Par turned back to Damson. For a moment she did not speak. Her green eyes were filled with unspoken thoughts. “All right, Par, I'll go,” she said at last. “I know we can't stay. Time and luck are running out for us here in Tyrsis.” She stepped close. “But now you must give me your promise—just as you gave it to Padishar. Promise that we will come back for him—that we won't leave him to die.”
She does not give a moment's consideration to the possibility that he might already be dead. She believes him stronger than that. And so do I, I guess.
“I promise,” he whispered.
She leaned close and kissed him on the mouth, hard. “I love you, too, Par Ohmsford,” she said. “I'll love you to the end.”
It took them the remainder of the night to navigate the maze of tunnels that lay beneath Tyrsis, the ancient passageways that had served long ago as bolt holes for the city's defenders and now served as their escape. The tunnels crisscrossed over and back again, sometimes broad and high enough for wagons to pass through, sometimes barely large enough for the Mole and his charges. At places the rock was dry and dusty and smelled of old earth and disuse; at times it was damp and chill and stank of sewage. Rats squealed at their coming and disappeared into the walls. Insects skittered away like dry leaves blown across stone. The sound of their boots and their breathing echoed hollowly down the passageways, and it seemed that they could not possibly go undetected. But the Mole chose their path carefully, frequently taking them away from the most direct route, choosing on the basis of things that he alone sensed and knew. He did not speak to them; he guided them ahead through his silent netherworld like the specter at haunt he had become. Now and again he would pause to look back at them or to study something he found on the tunnel floors or to consider the gloom that pressed in about them, distracted and distant in his musings. Par and Damson would stop with him, waiting, watching, and wondering what he was thinking. They never asked. Par wanted to, but if Damson thought it wise to keep silent he was persuaded to do so as well.
At last they reached a place where the darkness ahead was broken by a hazy silver glow. They stumbled toward it through a curtain of old webbing and dust, scrambling up a rocky slide that narrowed as it went until they were bent double. Bushes blocked the way forward, so thick that the Mole was forced to cut a path for them using a long knife he had somehow managed to conceal within his fur. Pushing aside the severed branches, the three crawled through the last of the concealing foliage and emerged into the light.
They came to their feet then and looked about. The mountains sheltering the bluff on which Tyrsis was settled rose behind them, a jagged black wall against the light of the dawn breaking east, the shadow of its peaks stretching away north and west across the plains like a dark stain until it disappeared into the trees of the forests beyond. The air was warm and smelled of grasses dried by the summer sun. Birdsong rose from the concealment of the trees, and dragonflies darted over small pools of weed-grown water formed by streams that ran down out of the rocks behind them.
Par looked over at Damson and smiled. “We're out,” he said softly, and she smiled back.
He turned to the Mole, who blinked uncertainly in the unfamiliar light. Impulsively, he reached down. “Thank you, Mole,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”
The Mole's face furrowed, and the blinking grew more rapid. A hand came up tentatively, touched Par's, and withdrew. “You are welcome,” was the soft reply.
Damson came over, knelt before the Mole, and put her arms about him. “Good-bye for now,” she whispered. “Go somewhere safe, Mole. Stay well away from the black things. Keep hidden until we return.”
The Mole's arms lifted and his wrinkled hands stroked the girl's slim shoulders. “Always, lovely Damson. Always, for you.”
She released him then, and the Mole's fingers brushed her face gently. Par thought he saw tears at the corners of the little fellow's bright eyes. Then the Mole turned from them and disappeared back into the gloom.
They stared after him for a moment, then looked at each other.
“Which way?” Par asked.
She laughed. “That's right. You don't know where Firerim Reach is, do you? I forget sometimes, you seem so much a part of things.”
He smiled. “Hard to remember when you didn't have me to look after, isn't it?”
She gave him a questioning look. “I'm not complaining. Are you?”
He moved over to her and held her for a moment. He didn't say anything; he simply stood with his arms about her, his cheek against her auburn hair, and his eyes closed. He thought about all they had come through, how many times their lives had been at risk, and how dangerous their journey had been. So little distance traveled to come so far, he mused. So little time to have discovered so much.
Still holding her, he stroked her back in small circles and said, “I'll tell you something. It sometimes seems as if I'm frightened all the time. Ever since Coll and I first left Varfleet, all those weeks ago, I've been afraid. Everything that happens seems to cost something. I never know what I'm going to lose next, and I hate it. But what frightens me most, Damson Rhee, is the possibility that I might lose you.”
He tightened his arms about her, pressing her close. “What do you think about that?” he whispered.
Her response was to tighten her arms back.
They walked through the early morning without saying much after that, leaving behind the city of Tyrsis, moving north across the plains to the forested threshold of the Dragon's Teeth. The day warmed quickly, crystals of night's dew faded with the sun's rise, and dampness dried away into stirrings of dust. They saw no one for a long time, and then only peddlers and families coming in from their farms to market in the city. Par found himself thinking of home again, of his parents and Coll, but it all seemed to be something that had happened a long time ago. He might wish that things were as they had been and that all that had happened since his encounter with Cogline had not—but he knew he might as well wish the day become night and the sun the moon. He looked at Damson walking beside him, at the soft strong lines of her face and the movement of her body, and let what might have been slide quickly away.
At midday they crossed the Mermidon into the forests beyond and stopped to eat. They foraged for fresh water, berries, roots, and vegetables, and made do. It was cool and silent within the trees while the day's heat suffocated the surrounding land in an airless, sweltering blanket. After eating, they decided to sleep for a time, weary from their night's efforts and anxious to take advantage of their refuge. It was only several hours further to the Kennon Pass, Damson advised, where they would cross through the Dragon's Teeth into the valley that had once been Paranor's home. From there they would travel north and east to the Jannisson Pass and Firerim Reach. In another two days, she promised, they should reach the free-born.
But they slept longer than they had planned, lulled by the coolness and the soothing sound of the wind in the trees, and it was nearing sunset when they came awake again. They rose and set out at once, anxious to make up as much time as they could. If the moon was out, they could navigate the pass at night. Otherwise, they would have to wait until morning. In either case, they wanted to reach the Kennon by nightfall.
So they traveled swiftly, unhindered by heavy stands of scrub or grasses in woods that were well traveled
and spacious, feeling rested and fit after their sleep. The sun drifted west, edging down into the trees until it was a bright flare of gold and crimson through the screen of the leaves and branches. The moon appeared in skies that were clear and blue, and the day birds began to grow silent in response to the coming of night. Par felt at ease for the first time in days, at peace with himself. He was relieved to be out of Tyrsis, clear of her sewers and cellars, free of the confinement of her walls, safe from the things that had hunted him there. He looked over at Damson often and smiled when he did. He thought of Padishar and tried to keep from being sad. His thoughts scattered through the trees and across the carpet of the earthen floor like small creatures at play. He let them wander where they chose, content to let them go.
Not once did it occur to him that it might be wise to hide his trail.
Sunset burned like fire across the plains below Tyrsis as day inched toward night and the heat began to dissipate. Shadows lengthened and grew, taking on strange and suggestive shapes, coming alive with the dark. They rose out of gullies and ravines, from forests and solitary groves, stretching this way and that as if to flex their limbs on waking from the sleep that prepared them for going abroad to hunt.
One of those shadows moved with insidious purpose along the empty stretches running north to the Mermidon, a faint darkness hidden within the long grasses through which it passed. As the light failed it grew bolder, rising up now and again to sniff the air before lowering back to the earth to keep the scent it followed fresh. It ate as it went, sustaining itself with whatever it found, roots and berries, insects and small animals, anything it came across that was unable to escape. For the most part its attention was focused on the trail it followed, on the smell of the one it hunted so diligently, the one that was the source of its madness.
At the Mermidon it lifted to its hindquarters, a hunched-over, gnarled form wrapped in a shining black cloak that somehow resisted the dust and grime that coated its wearer. Hands skinned and scraped so badly they bled clutched at the cloak so that it would not wash free as it forded that river at a shallows. The cloak never left it, not for a moment. The cloak sustained it in some way, it knew. The cloak was what protected it.