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.
He knew he would have to use the wishsong.
Below, Padishar launched himself at their attackers and drove them back a dozen steps.
Par summoned the magic and felt the music rise to his lips, strangely dark and bitter-tasting. It hadn’t been the same since his escape from the Pit. Nothing had. The Federation soldiers rallied in a counterattack that forced Padishar back up the stairs. Sweat gleamed on the outlaw’s strong face.
Then abruptly something shifted above and the trapdoor flew open. Par cried out to Padishar, and heedless of anything else they rushed up the steps, through the opening, and into the mill.
Damson Rhee was there, red hair flying out from her cloaked form as she sped toward a gap in the sideboards of the mill wall, calling for them to follow. Dark forms appeared suddenly to block her way, yelling for others. Damson wheeled into them, quick as a cat. Fire sprang from her empty hand, scattering into shards that flew into her attackers’ faces. She went spinning through them, the street magic flicking right and left, clearing a path. Par and Padishar raced to follow, howling like madmen. The soldiers tried in vain to regroup. None reached Par. Fighting as if possessed, Padishar killed them where they stood.
Then they were outside on the streets, breathing the humid night air, sweat streaking their faces, breath hissing like steam. Darkness had fallen in a twilight haze of grit and dust that hung thickly in the narrow walled corridors. People ran screaming as Federation soldiers appeared from all directions, shouting and cursing, throwing aside any who stood in their way.
Without a word, Damson charged down an alleyway, leading Padishar and Par into a blackened tunnel stinking of garbage and excrement. Pursuit was instant, but cumbersome. Damson took them through a cross alley and into the side door of a tavern. They pushed through the dimly lit interior, past men hunched over tables and slumped in chairs, around kegs, and past a serving bar, then out the front door.
A shabby, slat-board porch with a low-hanging roof stretched away to either side. The street was deserted.
“Damson, what kept you?” Par hissed at her as they ran. “That trapdoor...”
“My fault, Valeman,” she snapped angrily. “I blocked the door with some machinery to hide it. I thought it would be safer for you. I was wrong. But I didn’t bring the soldiers. They must have found the place on their own. Or followed Padishar.” The big man started to speak, but she cut him short. “Quick, now. They’re coming.”
And from out of the shadows in front and behind them, the dark forms of Federation soldiers poured into the street. Damson spun about, cut back toward the far row of buildings, and took them down an alleyway so tight it was a close squeeze just to pass through. Howls of rage chased after them.
“We have to get back to the Tyrsian Way!” she gasped breathlessly.
They burst through an entry to a market, skidding on food leavings, grappling with bins. A pair of high doors barred their way. Damson struggled futilely to free the latched crossbar, and finally Padishar shattered it completely with a powerful kick.
Soldiers met them as they burst free, swords drawn. Padishar swept into them and sent them flying. Two went down and did not move. The rest scattered.
Sudden movement to Par’s left caused him to turn. A Seeker rose up out of the night, wolf’s head gleaming on his dark cloak. Par sent the wishsong’s magic into it in the form of a monstrous serpent, and the Seeker tumbled back, shrieking.
Down the street they ran, cutting crosswise to a second street and then a third. Par’s stamina was being tested now, his breathing so ragged it threatened to choke him, his throat dry with dust and fear. He was still weak from his battle in the Pit, not yet fully recovered from the damage caused by the magic’s use. He clutched the Sword of Shannara to his breast protectively, the weight of it growing with every step.
They rounded a corner and paused in the lee of a stable entry, listening to the tumult about them grow.
“They couldn’t have followed me!” Padishar declared suddenly, spitting blood through cracked lips.
Damson shook her head. “I don’t understand it, Padishar. They’ve known all the safe holes, been there at each, waiting. Even this one.”
The outlaw chief’s eyes gleamed suddenly with recognition. “I should have seen it earlier. It was that Shadowen, the one who killed Hirehone, the one that pretended to be the Dwarf!” Par’s head jerked up. “Somehow he discovered our safe holes and gave them all away, just as he did the Jut!”
“Wait! What Dwarf?” Par demanded in confusion.
But Damson was moving again, drawing the other two after, charging down a walkway and through a square connecting half-a-dozen cross streets. They pushed wearily on through the heat and gloom, moving closer to the Tyrsian Way, to the city’s main street. Par’s mind whirled with questions as he staggered determinedly on. A Dwarf gave them away? Steff or Teel—or someone else? He tried to spit the dryness from his throat. What had happened at the Jut? And where, he wondered suddenly, was Morgan Leah?
A line of soldiers appeared suddenly to block the way ahead. Damson quickly pushed Padishar and Par into the building shadows. Crowded against the darkened wall, she pulled their heads close.
“I found the Mole,” she whispered hurriedly, glancing right and left as new shouts rose. “He waits at the leatherworks on Tyrsian Way to take us down into the tunnels and out of the city.”
“He escaped!” breathed Par.
“I told you he was resourceful.” Damson coughed and smiled. “But we have to reach him if he’s to do us any good—across the Tyrsian Way and down a short distance from those soldiers. If we get separated, don’t stop. Keep going.”
Then before anyone could object, she was off again, darting from their cover into an alleyway between shuttered stores. Padishar managed a quick, angry objection, and then charged after her. Par followed. They emerged from the alleyway into the street beyond and turned toward the Tyrsian Way. Soldiers appeared before them, just a handful, searching the night. Padishar flew at them in fury, broadsword swinging with a glint of wicked silver light. Damson took Par left past the fighters. More soldiers appeared, and suddenly they were everywhere, surging from the dark in knots, milling about wildly. The moon had gone behind a cloud bank, and the streetlamps were unlit. It was so dark that it was impossible to tell friend from foe. Damson and Par struggled through the melee, twisting free of hands that sought to grab them, shoving away from bodies that blocked their path. They heard Padishar’s battle cry, then a furious clash of blades.