The Talismans of Shannara

  At the center of the city, the People’s Park sat silent and deserted. Wind from the approaching storm rustled the leaves of the trees and stirred the banners at the Gatehouse entrance. A wagon had arrived, drawn by a team of horses and surrounded by Federation guards. Canvas stretched over metal hoops covered its wooden bed, and iron bound its wheels and sides. The horses stamped and grew lathered in their traces, and the heat brought a sheen of sweat to the faces of the uniformed men. Eyes searched the trees and pathways of the Park, the walls that ringed the Pit, and the shadows that gathered in clumps all about. The iron heads of pikes and axes glinted dully. Voices were kept low and furtive, as if someone might hear.

  Then the Gatehouse doors swung open, and a team of soldiers emerged with Padishar Creel in tow. The leader of the free-born had his arms bound tightly behind him and his mouth securely gagged. He walked unsteadily, his gait halting and painful. There was blood on his face and bruises and cuts everywhere. He lifted his head despite his obvious pain, and his eyes were hard and fierce as he surveyed his captors. Few met that gaze, keeping their attention trained elsewhere, waiting until he was past to sneak a furtive glance. The outlaw was taken to the back of the wagon and pushed inside. Canvas flaps were drawn in place, the wagon was turned about, and the soldiers began to assemble in lines on either side. When all was in readiness, the procession began to move slowly ahead.

  It took a long time to complete the journey out of the park, the horses held carefully in check, the lines of soldiers surrounding the wagon in a solid wall. There were more than fifty of them, armed and hard-faced, spearing a path through the trees and out onto the Tyrsian Way. The few people they encountered were moved quickly back, and the wagon lurched slowly into the city. Buildings rose to either side, and heads leaned out of windows. The soldiers deployed, teams moving ahead to search doorways and alcoves, to check cross streets and alleys, to move aside any obstruction they found. Rain was falling steadily now, spattering on the stones of the roadway, staining them dark and beginning to puddle. Thunder boomed from somewhere distant, a long steady peal that echoed through the city walls. The rain fell harder, and it grew increasingly difficult to see.

  The wagon had reached a commons where a series of cross streets intersected when the woman appeared. She was crying hysterically, calling out to the soldiers to stop. Her clothes were in disarray and there were tears on her face. They had the outlaw leader with them, didn’t they? They were taking him to be hanged, weren’t they? Good, she cried out vehemently, for he was responsible for the deaths of her husband and son, good men who had fought in the Federation cause. She wanted to see him hang. She wanted to make certain she was there when it happened.

  The procession lurched to an uncertain stop as others appeared to take up the cry, stirred by the woman’s fiery speech. Hang the outlaw leader, they cried out angrily. They pressed forward, a ragged bunch, throwing up their hands and gesturing wildly. The soldiers held them away with pikes and spears, and the unit’s commanding officer ordered them to move back.

  No one noticed the sewer grate slide away from its seating under where the wagon was stopped or saw the shadowy forms that slid out of the darkness one by one to crouch beneath.

  Hang him here and now! the crowd was crying, continuing to press up against the soldiers massed before it. The Federation officer had drawn his sword and was shouting angrily for his men to clear the way.

  Then abruptly the forms beneath the wagon sprang up on all sides, some onto the driver’s seat, some into the bed. The drivers and the officer were thrown to the street, clutching their throats. More soldiers were thrown out the back to land in crumpled heaps, bloodied and still. The soldiers surrounding the wagon turned instinctively to see what was happening, and in an instant’s time half fell dying as the free-born who at that point made up the bulk of the crowd killed them with the daggers they had kept hidden. Screams and shouts rose up, and the soldiers surged back and forth wildly, trying to bring their weapons to bear.

  Morgan Leah appeared on the driver’s seat of the wagon, snatched up the reins, and shouted at the horses. The wagon lurched forward, the horses wild-eyed. Soldiers flung themselves at the Highlander, trying to claw their way up to stop him, but Matty Roh was there instantly, her blade swift and deadly as it cut them down. The wagon broke through the leading edge of the column, the team trampling some men beneath its hoofs, the wagon wheels crushing more. Morgan sawed on the reins and turned the team onto a side street. Behind, the fighting continued, men grappling with one another and striking out with their weapons. The Federation column was decimated. No more than a handful still stood, and those few had backed themselves against a building wall and were battering at the doors.

  Damson Rhee raced up, finished now with her deception as the grieving widow. She reached for the seat rail and pulled herself aboard as the wagon rolled past. The free-born were charging after them as well, swiftly closing the gap between themselves and the wagon. For a second it seemed that Morgan’s plan was going to work. Then something moved in the shadows to one side, and Morgan, distracted momentarily, turned to look. As he did, the wagon struck a water-filled hole, an axle broke, a wheel flew off, and the traces snapped. The wagon lurched wildly to one side, and a split second later it upended, sending everyone sprawling into the street.

  Morgan lay in a tangle with Damson and Matty Roh. Slowly they picked themselves up, muddied and bruised. The wagon was ruined, the canvas shredded and the wooden box splintered and cracked. In the distance, the terrified team disappeared into the gloom. Chandos crawled from beneath the wreckage with his burly arms wrapped about Padishar. The outlaw leader had freed his hands and removed the gag. There was fire in his eyes as he tried to stand on his own.

  “Don’t stop!” he rasped. “Keep moving!”

  The others of the free-born reached them, their clothing bloodstained and torn. There were fewer than before, and some were wounded. Shouts and cries trailed after them, and a fresh body of soldiers surged into the square.

  “Hurry! This way!” Damson called urgently, and began to run.

  They slogged after her down the muddied street through a maze of rain-soaked buildings. Mist rose off the damp, heated stone as the air cooled and everything farther than twenty feet away disappeared in a haze. More Federation soldiers appeared, surging out of side streets with their weapons drawn. The free-born met them head-on and thrust them back, struggling to get clear. Matty Roh battled at the forefront of the charge, cat-quick and deadly as she opened a path for the rest. Chandos and Morgan fought on either side of Padishar, who, though game enough to try, lacked sufficient strength to protect himself. He fell continually, and finally Chandos was forced to pick him up and carry him.

  They reached a bridge that spanned a dry riverbed and stumbled across wearily. Without the wagon to carry them, they were tiring quickly. Almost half of those who had come into the city to rescue Padishar were dead. Several of those who remained were wounded so badly they could no longer fight. Federation soldiers were coming at them from everywhere, summoned from the gates where news of the escape had carried. The little party fought valiantly to go on, but time was running out. Soon there would be too many soldiers to avoid. Even the mist and the rain would not hide them then.

  A body of horsemen charged out of the mist, appearing so swiftly that there was no chance to get clear. Morgan saw Matty fling herself aside and tried to do the same. Bodies went flying as the free-born were overrun. The horses stumbled and went down in the melee and their riders went flying as well. Screams and shouts rose from the struggling mass. Chandos was gone, buried in a pile of bodies. Padishar lurched to one side and fell to his knees. Morgan rose and stood centermost on the bridge, virtually alone, and swung the Sword of Leah at everything that came within reach. He gave his family’s battle cry, “Leah, Leah,” seeking strength in the sound of it, and fought to rally those who were left to stand with him.

  For a second he thought they were lost.

&nbs
p; Then Chandos surged back into view, bloodied and terrible, thrusting Federation soldiers aside like deadwood as he stumbled to where Padishar leaned against the bridge wall and pulled the leader of the free-born back to his feet. Damson was calling out from somewhere ahead, urging them on. Matty Roh reappeared, darted at the last Federation soldier standing, killed him with a single pass, and sped on. Morgan and the free-born followed, skidding in the mix of rain and blood that coated the bridge surface.

  On the low end of the causeway they found Damson waiting in the open doors of a large warehouse, gesturing for them to hurry. They struggled to reach her, hearing the sounds of pursuit—booted feet pounding through the mud, weapons clanging against armor, curses and shouts of rage. They entered the gloom-filled building in a rush, and Damson slammed and barred the doors behind them. The Mole poked his head out of a trapdoor that was all but lost in the shadows at the building’s rear and disappeared again.

  “Down into the tunnels!” Damson ordered, pointing after the Mole. “Quick!”

  The free-born hastened to comply, those who were able giving what support they could to the injured. Chandos went first, half dragging, half carrying Padishar Creel, and disappeared from sight. The shouts of their pursuers reached the doors of the warehouse, and a violent pounding began. Pikes and spears slammed into the barrier, splitting the wood. Morgan paused, halfway to the tunnel. Matty Roh stood alone before the impending rush, sword held ready.

  “Matty!” he called out.

  The last of the free-born dropped through the trapdoor. Battle-axes split the crossbar that braced the warehouse entrance, and the heavy doors sagged. Matty Roh backed away slowly, reluctant even now to give ground. She seemed small and vulnerable before the crush that surely faced her, but held herself as if made of iron.

  “Matty!” Morgan shouted again, then raced back for her. Seizing her arm, he dragged her toward the tunnel entry just as the warehouse doors gave way, and Federation soldiers poured into the room. Foremost were Seekers, hooded and cloaked, the wolf’s-head insignia gleaming on their uniforms. Their cries at seeing him were hisses of delight.

  Morgan turned to face them, standing before the tunnel entrance. It was too late to flee. If he tried, they would cut him down from behind and then catch the others as well. If he stayed, he could slow the rush and the others would gain a few precious moments. Matty Roh crouched at his elbow. He thought momentarily to tell her to run, but a furtive glance at her face told him he would be wasting his time.

  The rush came from three sides, but Morgan and the girl fought with a ferocity born of desperation and threw it back. The Sword of Leah turned to blue fire as it met the Seeker strike, hammering past the Shadowen defense and turning the black things to ash. Some of the Federation soldiers saw what was happening and fell back with whispered cries and oaths. Matty Roh attacked at the first indication of a weakening in the ranks, her slender sword snaking out so quickly that it could barely be seen, her movements fluid and efficient as she followed her weapon into the crush. Morgan went with her, fighting to cover her back, impelled by the sudden rush of magic that surged from the Leah talisman into his limbs. He howled out his battle cry anew, “Leah, Leah,” and threw himself at the men before him. The Seekers died immediately, and the soldiers who had followed them in tripped and fell over one another in their haste to get away. Matty Roh was crying out as well, a shriek that pierced the cacophony of screams rising from the dead and wounded. Morgan felt light-headed, empty of thought, of needs and wants, of everything but the magic’s fire.

  Then suddenly the Federation attack gave way completely, and the last of those who still lived fled back through the warehouse doors into the streets of Tyrsis. Morgan whirled in fury, driven by the magic, and the Sword of Leah radiating fire. Swinging the talisman like a scythe, he cut into the upright beams mat braced the ceiling supports, cut so deep that he severed them, and the entire building began to collapse.

  “Enough!” Matty screamed, catching hold of his arm and pulling him away.

  He fought her for an instant, then realized what he was doing and gave in. They rushed for the trapdoor and scrambled to safety just as the ceiling gave way and buried everything in a thunderous crash.

  Below, they ran through the blackness of the tunnels, charging ahead recklessly, heedless of where they were going. Light glimmered in the distance, faint and beckoning, and they raced wildly to reach it. The strange wholeness that Morgan felt when using the Sword’s magic began to dissipate, opening a pit within that widened into a hunger, into a familiar sense of loss, into the beginnings of a desperate need. He fought against it, warning himself that he must not let the magic rule him as it had before, calling up images of Par and Walker and finally Quickening to strengthen his resolve. He reached out for Matty and caught hold of her hand. Her grip tightened on his own, as if she sensed his fear, and she held him fast.

  Don’t let me go, he prayed silently. Don’t let me fall.

  Dust and dampness filled his lungs, and he coughed against the air’s thickness, fighting to catch his breath. His weariness weighed him down, chains on his limbs and body. They ran on, the light stronger now, closer. Matty’s ragged breathing matched the pounding of their boots on the stone. The blood pulsed in his ears.

  Then they were within the light, a shaft of brightness from a drainage-grate opening in the street above. Rain cascaded down through the gaps and formed a silver curtain, and thunder rolled across the skies. Matty collapsed against one wall, pulling him down with her. They sat with their backs against the cool stone, gasping.

  She turned to him, and her cobalt eyes were wild and fierce and her waiflike features were shining. She looked as if she wanted to howl with glee. She looked as if she had discovered something that she had believed forever lost.

  “That was wonderful!” she breathed, and laughed like a child.

  When she saw the astonishment mirrored on his face, she leaned over quickly and kissed him hard on the mouth. She held the kiss for a long time, her arms wrapping about him and holding him fast.

  Then she released him, laughed again, and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, we have to catch the others! Come on, Morgan Leah! Run!”

  They continued down the tunnel, the sounds of the storm trailing after them into the black. They did not run far, slowing quickly to a walk as their wind gave out. Their eyesight adjusted to the gloom, and they could pick out the movement of rats. Rainwater sloshed down the grates in an increasingly heavy flow, and soon they were ankle-deep. From light shaft to light shaft they made their way, listening for the sounds of those who might be following as well as for those they sought. They heard shouts and cries from the streets, the gallop of horses, the rumble of wagons, and the thudding of booted feet. The city was swarming with soldiers hunting for them, but for now the sounds were all aboveground.

  Still there was no sign of Damson and the free-born.

  Finally they reached a divergence in the passageway that forced them to choose. Morgan did the best he could, but there was nothing to help him decide. If the rainwater hadn’t flooded the sewer floor, there might have been tracks. They pressed on, side by side, Matty Roh holding onto him as if frightened she might lose him to the dark. The distance between the grates began to widen until the tunnel was so black they could barely see.

  “I think we missed a turn,” Morgan said softly, angrily.

  They backtracked and tried again. The new passage angled sharply one way and then another, and again the distance between grates widened and the light began to fail. They found a blackened torch wedged in the rock wall and managed to light it using a strip of cloth and Matty’s fire-making stones. It took a long time I to get a flame in the dampness, and by the time they had the torch burning, they could hear movement in the watery corridors behind them.

  “They’ve dug through—or found another way,” the girl whispered, and gave him a secretive smile. “But they won’t catch us—or if they do, they’ll wish they hadn’t. Come on!
”

  They pushed ahead into tunnels that grew increasingly narrow. The grates finally disappeared entirely and the torch became their only light. The hours wore on, and it became obvious that they were hopelessly lost. Neither said so, but both knew. Somehow they had chosen the wrong direction. It was still possible that they would find their way clear, but Morgan didn’t care for the odds. Even Damson, who lived in the city and came down into the tunnels often, did not feel she could navigate the maze of corridors without the Mole. He wondered what had become of her and the others of the free-born. He wondered if they thought Matty and he were dead.

  They found another torch, this one in better condition, and took it with them as a spare. When the pitch-coated length of the first was burned away, Morgan used the stub to light the spare and they continued on. They were angling deeper into the bluff and could no longer see or hear the rain. Sounds grew muffled and then disappeared; there was only their breathing and their footsteps. Morgan tried to set a direct course, but the tunnels intersected and cut back so often that he gave it up. Time ticked away, but there was no way to be certain how much of it had passed. They grew hungry and thirsty, but there was nothing to eat or drink.

  Finally Morgan stopped and turned to Matty. “We’re not getting anywhere. We have to try something else. Let’s find our way back up to the first level. Maybe we can slip out into the city tonight and sneak through the gates tomorrow.”

  It was a faint hope at best—the Federation would be looking for them everywhere—but anything was better than wandering around hopelessly in the dark. Night would be coming soon, and Morgan kept thinking about the Shadowen that Damson had told him prowled the tunnels closest to the Pit. Suppose they stumbled into one of those. It was too dangerous for them to remain down here any longer.

  They worked their way back toward the bluff face, choosing tunnels that angled upward, winding about with their torch slowly burning away. They knew they were running out of time; if they did not regain the streets of the city soon, their light would be used up and they would be stuck there in the dark. But now they were hearing continual sounds in the distance, the movement of men through water and damp, the whisper of voices. Their hunters were out in force, and they were no closer than before to finding a way past them.