Ahead, the night erupted suddenly in a brilliant orange flash as something exploded at the center of the Way.
“The Mole!” Damson hissed.
They charged toward the light, a pillar of fire that flared into the darkness with a whoosh. Bodies rushed past, going in every direction. Par was spun about, and suddenly he was separated from Damson. He turned back to find her and went down in a tangle of arms and legs as a fleeing soldier collided with him. The Valeman struggled up, calling her name frantically. The Sword of Shannara reflected the orange fire as he turned first one way and then the other, crying out.
Then Padishar had him, appearing out of nowhere to lift him off his feet, sling him over one shoulder, and break for the safety of the darkened buildings. Swords cut at them, but Padishar was quick and strong, and no one was his match this night. The leader of the free-born launched himself through the last of the milling Federation soldiers and onto the walkway that ran the length of the buildings on the far side of the Way. Down the walk he charged, leaping bins and kegs, kicking aside benches, darting past the supporting posts of overhangs and the debris of the workday.
The leatherworks sat silent and empty-seeming ahead. Padishar reached it on a dead run and went through the door as if it weren’t there, blunt shoulder lowering to hammer the portal completely off its hinges.
Inside, he swung Par down and wheeled about in fury.
There was no sign of Damson.
“Damson!” he howled.
Federation soldiers were closing on the leatherworks from every direction.
Padishar’s face was streaked red and black with blood and dust. “Mole!” he cried out in desperation.
A furry face poked out of the shadows at the rear of the factory. “Over here,” the Mole’s calm voice advised. “Quickly, please.”
Par hesitated, still looking for Damson, but Padishar snatched hold of his tunic and dragged him away. “No time, lad!”
The Mole’s bright eyes gleamed as they reached him, and the inquisitive face lifted expectantly. “Lovely Damson...?” he began, but Padishar quickly shook his head. The Mole blinked, then swung away wordlessly. He took them through a door leading to a series of storage rooms, then down a stairway to a cellar. Along a wall that seemed sealed at every juncture, he found a panel that released at a touch, and without a backward glance he took them through.
They found themselves on a landing joined to a stairway that ran down the city’s sewers. The Mole was home again. He trundled down into the dank, cool catacombs, the light barely sufficient to enable Padishar and Par to follow. At the bottom of the stairs he passed a sooty blackened torch to the outlaw leader, who knelt wordlessly to light it.
“We should have gone back for her!” Par hissed at Padishar in fury.
The other’s battle-scarred face rose from the shadows, looking as if it were chiseled from stone. The look he gave Par was terrifying. “Be silent, Valeman, before I forget who you are.”
He sparked a flint and produced a small flame at the pitch-coated torch head, and the three started down into the sewer tunnels. The Mole scurried steadily ahead through the smoky gloom, picking his way with a practiced step, leading them deeper beneath the city and away from its walls. The shouts of pursuit had died completely, and Par supposed that even if the Federation soldiers had been able to find the hidden entry, they would have quickly lost their way in the tunnels. He realized suddenly that he was still holding the Sword of Shannara and after a moment’s deliberation slipped it carefully back into its sheath.
The minutes passed, and with every step they took Par despaired of ever seeing Damson Rhee again. He was desperate to help her, but the look on Padishar’s face had convinced him that for the moment at least he must hold his tongue. Certainly Padishar must be as anxious for her as he was.
They crossed a stone walkway that bridged a sluggish flow and passed into a tunnel whose ceiling was so low they were forced to crouch almost to hands and knees. At its end, the ceiling lifted again, and they navigated a confluence of tunnels to a door. The Mole touched something that released a heavy lock, and the door opened to admit them.
Inside they found a collection of ancient furniture and old discards that if not the same ones the Mole had been in danger of losing in his flight from the Federation a week ago were certainly duplicates. The stuffed animals sat in an orderly row on an old leather couch, button eyes staring blankly at them as they entered.
The Mole crossed at once, cooing softly, “Brave Chalt, sweet Everlind, my Westra, and little Lida.” Other names were murmured, too low to catch. “Hello, my children. Are you well?” He kissed them one after the other and rearranged them carefully. “No, no, the black things won’t find you here, I promise.”
Padishar passed the torch he was carrying to Par, crossed to a basin, and began splashing cold water on his sweat-encrusted face. When he was finished, he remained standing there. His hands braced on the table that held the basin, and his head hung wearily.
“Mole, we have to find out what happened to Damson.”
The Mole turned. “Lovely Damson?”
“She was right next to me,” Par tried to explain, “and then the soldiers got between us—”
“I know,” Padishar interrupted, glancing up. “It wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t anybody’s. Maybe she even got away, but there were so many...” He exhaled sharply. “Mole, we have to know if they have her.”
The Mole blinked lazily and the sharp eyes gleamed. “These tunnels go beneath the Federation prisons. Some go right into the walls. I can look. And listen.”
Padishar’s gaze was steady. “The Gatehouse to the Pit as well, Mole.”
There was a long silence. Par went cold all over. Not Damson. Not there.
“I want to go with him,” he offered quietly.
“No.” Padishar shook his head for emphasis. “The Mole will travel quicker and more quietly.” His eyes were filled with despair as they found Par’s own. “I want to go as much as you do, lad. She is...”
He hesitated to continue, and Par nodded. “She told me.”
They stared at each other in silence.
The Mole crossed the room on cat’s feet, squinting in the glare of the light from the torch Par still held. “Wait here until I come back,” he directed.
And then he was gone.
Chapter Three
It had been a long and arduous journey that brought Par Ohmsford from his now long-ago meeting at the Hadeshorn with the shade of Allanon to this present place and time, and as he stood in the Mole’s underground lair staring at the ruins and discards of other people’s lives he could not help wondering how much it mirrored his own.
Damson.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to come. He could not face what losing her would cost. He was only beginning to realize how much she meant to him.
“Par,” Padishar spoke his name gently. “Come wash up, lad. You’re exhausted.”
Par agreed. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He was beaten down in every way possible, the strength drained from him, the last of his hope shredded like paper under a knife.
He found candles set about and lit them off the torch before extinguishing it. Then he moved to the basin and began to wash, slowly, ritualistically, cleansing himself of grime and sweat as if by doing so he was erasing all the bad things that had befallen him in his search for the Sword of Shannara.
The Sword was still strapped to his back. He stopped halfway through his bathing and removed it, setting it against an old bureau with a cracked mirror. He stared at it as he might an enemy. The Sword of Shannara—or was it? He still didn’t know. His charge from Allanon had been to find the Sword, and though once he had believed he had done so, now he was faced with the possibility that he had failed. His charge had been all but forgotten in the aftermath of Coll’s death and the struggle to stay alive in the catacombs of Tyrsis. He wondered how many of Allanon’s charges had been forgotten or ignored. He wondered if Walker or Wren had changed their minds.