Yes, a tournament

Why all this should have thrown the Hon. Samuel Budd into such gloom I could not understand--except that the Wild Dog had been so loyal a henchman to him in politics, but later I learned a better reason, that threatened to cost the Hon. Sam much more than the fines that, as I later learned, he had been paying for his mountain friend.

Meanwhile, the Blight was coming from her Northern home through the green lowlands of Jersey, the fat pastures of Maryland, and, as the white dresses of schoolgirls and the shining faces of darkies thickened at the stations, she knew that she was getting southward.  All the way she was known and welcomed, and next morning she awoke with the keen air of the distant mountains in her nostrils and an expectant light in her happy eyes.  At least the light was there when she stepped daintily from the dusty train and it leaped a little, I fancied, when Marston, bronzed and flushed, held out his sunburnt hand.  Like a convent girl she babbled questions to the little sister as the dummy puffed along and she bubbled like wine over the midsummer glory of the hills.  And well she might, for the glory of the mountains, full-leafed, shrouded in evening shadows, blue-veiled in the distance, was unspeakable, and through the Gap the sun was sending his last rays as though he, too, meant to take a peep at her before he started around the world to welcome her next day.  And she must know everything at once.  The anniversary of the Great Day on which all men were pronounced free and equal was only ten days distant and preparations were going on.  There would be a big crowd of mountaineers and there would be sports of all kinds, and games, but the tournament was to be the feature of the day.

``A tournament?''  ``Yes, a tournament,'' repeated the little sister, and Marston was going to ride and the mean thing would not tell what mediaeval name he meant to take.  And the Hon. Sam Budd--did the Blight remember him?  (Indeed, she did) --had a ``dark horse,'' and he had bet heavily that his dark horse would win the tournament--whereat the little sister looked at Marston and at the Blight and smiled disdainfully.  And the Wild Dog-- DID she remember him?  I checked the sister here with a glance, for Marston looked uncomfortable and the Blight saw me do it, and on the point of saying something she checked herself, and her face, I thought, paled a little.

That night I learned why--when she came in from the porch after Marston was gone.  I saw she had wormed enough of the story out of him to worry her, for her face this time was distinctly pale.  I would tell her no more than she knew, however, and then she said she was sure she had seen the Wild Dog herself that afternoon, sitting on his horse in the bushes near a station in Wildcat Valley.  She was sure that he saw her, and his face had frightened her.  I knew her fright was for Marston and not for herself, so I laughed at her fears.  She was mistaken--Wild Dog was an outlaw now and he would not dare appear at the Gap, and there was no chance that he could harm her or Marston.  And yet I was uneasy.

V BACK TO THE HILLS

V

BACK TO THE HILLS

Winter drew a gray veil over the mountains, wove into it tiny jewels of frost and turned it many times into a mask of snow, before spring broke again among them and in Marston's impatient heart.  No spring had ever been like that to him.  The coming of young leaves and flowers and bird-song meant but one joy for the hills to him--the Blight was coming back to them.  All those weary waiting months he had clung grimly to his work.  He must have heard from her sometimes, else I think he would have gone to her; but I knew the Blight's pen was reluctant and casual for anybody, and, moreover, she was having a strenuous winter at home.  That he knew as well, for he took one paper, at least, that he might simply read her name.  He saw accounts of her many social doings as well, and ate his heart out as lovers have done for all time gone and will do for all time to come.

I, too, was away all winter, but I got back a month before the Blight, to learn much of interest that had come about. The Hon. Samuel Budd had ear-wagged himself into the legislature, had moved that Court-House, and was going to be State Senator.  The Wild Dog had confined his reckless career to his own hills through the winter, but when spring came, migratory-like, he began to take frequent wing to the Gap.  So far, he and Marston had never come into personal conflict, though Marston kept ever ready for him, and several times they had met in the road, eyed each other in passing and made no hipward gesture at all.  But then Marston had never met him when the Wild Dog was drunk--and when sober, I took it that the one act of kindness from the engineer always stayed his hand.  But the Police Guard at the Gap saw him quite often-- and to it he was a fearful and elusive nuisance.  He seemed to be staying somewhere within a radius of ten miles, for every night or two he would circle about the town, yelling and firing his pistol, and when we chased him, escaping through the Gap or up the valley or down in Lee.  Many plans were laid to catch him, but all failed, and finally he came in one day and gave himself up and paid his fines.  Afterward I recalled that the time of this gracious surrender to law and order was but little subsequent to one morning when a woman who brought butter and eggs to my little sister casually asked when that ``purty slim little gal with the snappin' black eyes was a-comin' back.''  And the little sister, pleased with the remembrance, had said cordially that she was coming soon.

Thereafter the Wild Dog was in town every day, and he behaved well until one Saturday he got drunk again, and this time, by a peculiar chance, it was Marston again who leaped on him, wrenched his pistol away, and put him in the calaboose.  Again he paid his fine, promptly visited a ``blind Tiger,'' came back to town, emptied another pistol at Marston on sight and fled for the hills.

The enraged guard chased him for two days and from that day the Wild Dog was a marked man.  The Guard wanted many men, but if they could have had their choice they would have picked out of the world of malefactors that same Wild Dog.

I don't know

So Mart--hard-working Mart--was the Wild Dog, and he was content to do the Blight all service without thanks, merely for the privilege of secretly seeing her face now and then; and yet he would not look upon that face when she was a guest under his roof and asleep.

Still, when we dropped behind the two girls I gave Marston the Hon. Sam's warning, and for a moment he looked rather grave.

``Well,'' he said, smiling, ``if I'm found in the road some day, you'll know who did it.''

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I shook my head.  ``Oh, no; he isn't that bad.''

``I don't know,'' said Marston.


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The smoke of the young engineer's coke ovens lay far below us and the Blight had never seen a coke-plant before.  It looked like Hades even in the early dusk--the snake-like coil of fiery ovens stretching up the long, deep ravine, and the smoke- streaked clouds of fire, trailing like a yellow mist over them, with a fierce white blast shooting up here and there when the lid of an oven was raised, as though to add fresh temperature to some particular male- factor in some particular chamber of torment.  Humanity about was joyous, however.  Laughter and banter and song came from the cabins that lined the big ravine and the little ravines opening into it.  A banjo tinkled at the entrance of ``Possum Trot,'' sacred to the darkies.  We moved toward it.  On the stoop sat an ecstatic picker and in the dust shuffled three pickaninnies--one boy and two girls--the youngest not five years old.  The crowd that was gathered about them gave way respectfully as we drew near; the little darkies showed their white teeth in jolly grins, and their feet shook the dust in happy competition.  I showered a few coins for the Blight and on we went--into the mouth of the many-peaked Gap.  The night train was coming in and everybody had a smile of welcome for the Blight-- post-office assistant, drug clerk, soda-water boy, telegraph operator, hostler, who came for the mules--and when tired, but happy, she slipped from her saddle to the ground, she then and there gave me what she usually reserves for Christmas morning, and that, too, while Marston was looking on.  Over her shoulder I smiled at him.


That night Marston and the Blight sat under the vines on the porch until the late moon rose over Wallens Ridge, and, when bedtime came, the Blight said impatiently that she did not want to go home.  She had to go, however, next day, but on the next Fourth of July she would surely come again; and, as the young engineer mounted his horse and set his face toward Black Mountain, I knew that until that day, for him, a blight would still be in the hills.

They are real ones all right

``Dear,'' she said, ``have our room- mates gone?''

Breakfast at dawn.  The mountain girls were ready to go to work.  All looked sorry to have us leave.  They asked us to come back again, and they meant it.  We said we would like to come back--and we meant it--to see them--the kind old mother, the pioneer-like old man, sturdy little Buck, shy little Cindy, the elusive, hard-working, unconsciously shivery Mart, and the two big sisters.  As we started back up the river the sisters started for the fields, and I thought of their stricken brother in the settlements, who must have been much like Mart.

Back up the Big Black Mountain we toiled, and late in the afternoon we were on the State line that runs the crest of the Big Black.  Right on top and bisected by that State line sat a dingy little shack, and there, with one leg thrown over the pommel of his saddle, sat Marston, drinking water from a gourd.

``I was coming over to meet you,'' he said, smiling at the Blight, who, greatly pleased, smiled back at him.  The shack was a ``blind Tiger'' where whiskey could be sold to Kentuckians on the Virginia side and to Virginians on the Kentucky side.  Hanging around were the slouching figures of several moonshiners and the villainous fellow who ran it.

``They are real ones all right,'' said Marston.  ``One of them killed a revenue officer at that front door last week, and was killed by the posse as he was trying to escape out of the back window.  That house will be in ashes soon,'' he added.  And it was.

As we rode down the mountain we told him about our trip and the people with whom we had spent the night--and all the time he was smiling curiously.

``Buck,'' he said.  ``Oh, yes, I know that little chap.  Mart had him posted down there on the river to toll you to his house--to toll YOU,'' he added to the Blight.  He pulled in his horse suddenly, turned and looked up toward the top of the mountain.

``Ah, I thought so.''  We all looked back.  On the edge of the cliff, far upward, on which the ``blind Tiger'' sat was a gray horse, and on it was a man who, motionless, was looking down at us.

``He's been following you all the way,'' said the engineer.

``Who's been following us?'' I asked.

``That's Mart up there--my friend and yours,'' said Marston to the Blight.  ``I'm rather glad I didn't meet you on the other side of the mountain--that's `the Wild Dog.' ''  The Blight looked incredulous, but Marston knew the man and knew the horse.

That was Mart at last

``Mart!'' she said coaxingly; ``git up thar now an' climb over inter bed with that ar stranger.''

That was Mart at last, over in the corner.  Mart turned, grumbled, and, to my great pleasure, swore that he wouldn't.  The old woman waited a moment.

``Mart,'' she said again with gentle imperiousness, `` git up thar now, I tell ye --you've got to sleep with that thar stranger.''

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She closed the door and with a snort Mart piled into bed with me.  I gave him plenty of room and did not introduce myself.  A little more dark silence--the shaking of the bed under the hilarity of those astonished, bethrilled, but thoroughly unfrightened young women in the dark corner on my left ceased, and again the door opened.  This time it was the hired man, and I saw that the trouble was either that neither Mart nor Buck wanted to sleep with the hired man or that neither wanted to sleep with me.  A long silence and then the boy Buck slipped in.  The hired man delivered himself with the intonation somewhat of a circuit rider.

``I've been a-watchin' that star thar, through the winder.  Sometimes hit moves, then hit stands plum' still, an' ag'in hit gits to pitchin'.''  The hired man must have been touching up mean whiskey himself.  Meanwhile, Mart seemed to be having spells of troubled slumber.  He would snore gently, accentuate said snore with a sudden quiver of his body and then wake up with a climacteric snort and start that would shake the bed.  This was repeated several times, and I began to think of the unfortunate Tom who was ``fitified.''  Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself, and I waited apprehensively for each snorting climax to see if fits were a family failing.  They were not.  Peace overcame Mart and he slept deeply, but not I.  The hired man began to show symptoms.  He would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds, _quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and of religious conversion, in which he feared he was not so great.  Twice he said aloud:

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``An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of 'em have said a word if I'd been killed stone-dead.''  Twice he said it almost weepingly, and now and then he would groan appealingly:

``O Lawd, have mercy on my pore soul!''

Fortunately those two tired girls slept-- I could hear their breathing--but sleep there was little for me.  Once the troubled soul with the hoe got up and stumbled out to the water-bucket on the porch to soothe the fever or whatever it was that was burning him, and after that he was quiet.  I awoke before day.  The dim light at the window showed an empty bed--Buck and the hired man were gone.  Mart was slipping out of the side of my bed, but the girls still slept on.  I watched Mart, for I guessed I might now see what, perhaps, is the distinguishing trait of American civilization down to its bed-rock, as you find it through the West and in the Southern hills--a chivalrous respect for women.  Mart thought I was asleep.  Over in the corner were two creatures the like of which I supposed he had never seen and would not see, since he came in too late the night before, and was going away too early now --and two angels straight from heaven could not have stirred my curiosity any more than they already must have stirred his.  But not once did Mart turn his eyes, much less his face, toward the corner where they were--not once, for I watched him closely.  And when he went out he sent his little sister back for his shoes, which the night-walking hired man had accidentally kicked toward the foot of the strangers' bed.  In a minute I was out after him, but he was gone.  Behind me the two girls opened their eyes on a room that was empty save for them.  Then the Blight spoke (this I was told later).

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen

He liked, too, to see what was doing in art, or in literature; and as he gave pretty extensive orders for anything he admired, he was almost sure to be followed down to Hamley by one or two packages or parcels, the arrival and opening of which began soon to form the pleasant epochs in Ellinor's grave though happy life.

The only person of his own standing with whom Mr. Wilkins kept up any intercourse in Hamley was the new clergyman, a bachelor, about his own age, a learned man, a fellow of his college, whose first claim on Mr. Wilkins's attention was the fact that he had been travelling- bachelor for his university, and had consequently been on the Continent about the very same two years that Mr. Wilkins had been there; and although they had never met, yet they had many common acquaintances and common recollections to talk over of this period, which, after all, had been about the most bright and hopeful of Mr. Wilkins's life.

Mr. Ness had an occasional pupil; that is to say, he never put himself out of the way to obtain pupils, but did not refuse the entreaties sometimes made to him that he would prepare a young man for college, by allowing the said young man to reside and read with him.  "Ness's men" took rather high honours, for the tutor, too indolent to find out work for himself, had a certain pride in doing well the work that was found for him.

When Ellinor was somewhere about fourteen, a young Mr. Corbet came to be pupil to Mr. Ness.  Her father always called on the young men reading with the clergyman, and asked them to his house.  His hospitality had in course of time lost its recherche and elegant character, but was always generous, and often profuse.  Besides, it was in his character to like the joyous, thoughtless company of the young better than that of the old--given the same amount of refinement and education in both.

Mr. Corbet was a young man of very good family, from a distant county.  If his character had not been so grave and deliberate, his years would only have entitled him to be called a boy, for he was but eighteen at the time when he came to read with Mr. Ness.  But many men of five-and-twenty have not reflected so deeply as this young Mr. Corbet already had.  He had considered and almost matured his plan for life; had ascertained what objects he desired most to accomplish in the dim future, which is to many at his age only a shapeless mist; and had resolved on certain steady courses of action by which such objects were most likely to be secured.  A younger son, his family connections and family interest pre-arranged a legal career for him; and it was in accordance with his own tastes and talents.  All, however, which his father hoped for him was, that he might be able to make an income sufficient for a gentleman to live on.  Old Mr. Corbet was hardly to be called ambitious, or, if he were, his ambition was limited to views for the eldest son.

as he expressed himself.

Mr. Wilkins liked to feel his child dependent on him for all her pleasures.  He was even a little jealous of anyone who devised a treat or conferred a present, the first news of which did not come from or through him.

At last it was necessary that Ellinor should have some more instruction than her good old nurse could give.  Her father did not care to take upon himself the office of teacher, which he thought he foresaw would necessitate occasional blame, an occasional exercise of authority, which might possibly render him less idolized by his little girl; so he commissioned Lady Holster to choose out one among her many protegees for a governess to his daughter.  Now, Lady Holster, who kept a sort of amateur county register-office, was only too glad to be made of use in this way; but when she inquired a little further as to the sort of person required, all she could extract from Mr. Wilkins was:

"You know the kind of education a lady should have, and will, I am sure, choose a governess for Ellinor better than I could direct you. Only, please, choose some one who will not marry me, and who will let Ellinor go on making my tea, and doing pretty much what she likes, for she is so good they need not try to make her better, only to teach her what a lady should know."

Miss Monro was selected--a plain, intelligent, quiet woman of forty-- and it was difficult to decide whether she or Mr. Wilkins took the most pains to avoid each other, acting with regard to Ellinor, pretty much like the famous Adam and Eve in the weather-glass:  when the one came out the other went in.  Miss Monro had been tossed about and overworked quite enough in her life not to value the privilege and indulgence of her evenings to herself, her comfortable schoolroom, her quiet cozy teas, her book, or her letter-writing afterwards.  By mutual agreement she did not interfere with Ellinor and her ways and occupations on the evenings when the girl had not her father for companion; and these occasions became more and more frequent as years passed on, and the deep shadow was lightened which the sudden death that had visited his household had cast over him.  As I have said before, he was always a popular man at dinner-parties.  His amount of intelligence and accomplishment was rare in --shire, and if it required more wine than formerly to bring his conversation up to the desired point of range and brilliancy, wine was not an article spared or grudged at the county dinner-tables.  Occasionally his business took him up to London.  Hurried as these journeys might be, he never returned without a new game, a new toy of some kind, to "make home pleasant to his little maid," as he expressed himself.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER III.



From that time the tie between father and daughter grew very strong and tender indeed.  Ellinor, it is true, divided her affection between her baby sister and her papa; but he, caring little for babies, had only a theoretic regard for his younger child, while the elder absorbed all his love.  Every day that he dined at home Ellinor was placed opposite to him while he ate his late dinner; she sat where her mother had done during the meal, although she had dined and even supped some time before on the more primitive nursery fare.  It was half pitiful, half amusing, to see the little girl's grave, thoughtful ways and modes of speech, as if trying to act up to the dignity of her place as her father's companion,
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till sometimes the little head nodded off to slumber in the middle of lisping some wise little speech.  "Old-fashioned," the nurses called her, and prophesied that she would not live long in consequence of her old- fashionedness.  But instead of the fulfilment of this prophecy, the fat bright baby was seized with fits, and was well, ill, and dead in a day!  Ellinor's grief was something alarming, from its quietness and concealment.  She waited till she was left--as she thought--alone at nights, and then sobbed and cried her passionate cry for "Baby, baby, come back to me--come back;" till every one feared for the health of the frail little girl whose childish affections had had to stand two such shocks.  Her father put aside all business, all pleasure of every kind, to win his darling from her grief.  No mother could have done more, no tenderest nurse done half so much as Mr. Wilkins then did for Ellinor.
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If it had not been for him she would have just died of her grief.  As it was, she overcame it--but slowly, wearily--hardly letting herself love anyone for some time, as if she instinctively feared lest all her strong attachments should find a sudden end in death.  Her love-- thus dammed up into a small space--at last burst its banks, and overflowed on her father.  It was a rich reward to him for all his care of her, and he took delight--perhaps a selfish delight--in all the many pretty ways she perpetually found of convincing him, if he had needed conviction, that he was ever the first object with her. The nurse told him that half an hour or so before the earliest time at which he could be expected home in the evenings, Miss Ellinor began to fold up her doll's things and lull the inanimate treasure to sleep.  Then she would sit and listen with an intensity of attention for his footstep.  Once the nurse had expressed some wonder at the distance at which Ellinor could hear her father's approach, saying that she had listened and could not hear a sound, to which Ellinor had replied:

"Of course you cannot; he is not your papa!"

Then, when he went away in the morning, after he had kissed her, Ellinor would run to a certain window from which she could watch him up the lane, now hidden behind a hedge, now reappearing through an open space, again out of sight, till he reached a great old beech- tree, where for an instant more she saw him.  And then she would turn away with a sigh, sometimes reassuring her unspoken fears by saying softly to herself,

"He will come again to-night."

Mamma! mamma!

And one day she went out of it altogether and for evermore.  She had been well in the morning when Edward went down to his office in Hamley.  At noon he was sent for by hurried trembling messengers.  When he got home breathless and uncomprehending, she was past speech.  One glance from her lovely loving black eyes showed that she recognised him with the passionate yearning that had been one of the characteristics of her love through life.  There was no word passed between them.  He could not speak, any more than could she.  He knelt down by her.  She was dying; she was dead; and he knelt on immovable.  They brought him his eldest child, Ellinor, in utter despair what to do in order to rouse him. They had no thought as to the effect on her, hitherto shut up in the nursery during this busy day of confusion and alarm.  The child had no idea of death, and her father, kneeling and tearless, was far less an object of surprise or interest to her than her mother, lying still and white, and not turning her head to smile at her darling.

"Mamma! mamma!" cried the child, in shapeless terror.  But the mother never stirred; and the father hid his face yet deeper in the bedclothes, to stifle a cry as if a sharp knife had pierced his heart.  The child forced her impetuous way from her attendants, and rushed to the bed.  Undeterred by deadly cold or stony immobility, she kissed the lips and stroked the glossy raven hair, murmuring sweet words of wild love, such as had passed between the mother and child often and often when no witnesses were by; and altogether seemed so nearly beside herself in an agony of love and terror, that Edward arose, and softly taking her in his arms, bore her away, lying back like one dead (so exhausted was she by the terrible emotion they had forced on her childish heart), into his study, a little room opening out of the grand library, where on happy evenings, never to come again, he and his wife were wont to retire to have coffee together, and then perhaps stroll out of the glass-door into the open air, the shrubbery, the fields--never more to be trodden by those dear feet.  What passed between father and child in this seclusion none could tell.  Late in the evening Ellinor's supper was sent for, and the servant who brought it in saw the child lying as one dead in her father's arms, and before he left the room watched his master feeding her, the girl of six years of age, with as tender care as if she had been a baby of six months.

Edward was annoyed at all this

Edward was annoyed at all this; Lettice resented it.  She loved her husband dearly, and was proud of him, for she had discernment enough to see how superior he was in every way to her cousins, the young Holsters, who borrowed his horses, drank his wines, and yet had caught their father's habit of sneering at his profession.  Lettice wished that Edward would content himself with a purely domestic life, would let himself drop out of the company of the --shire squirearchy, and find his relaxation with her, in their luxurious library, or lovely drawing-room, so full of white gleaming statues, and gems of pictures.  But, perhaps, this was too much to expect of any man, especially of one who felt himself fitted in many ways to shine in society, and who was social by nature.  Sociality in that county at that time meant conviviality.  Edward did not care for wine, and yet he was obliged to drink--and by-and-by he grew to pique himself on his character as a judge of wine.  His father by this time was dead; dead, happy old man, with a contented heart--his affairs flourishing, his poorer neighbours loving him, his richer respecting him, his son and daughter-in-law, the most affectionate and devoted that ever man had, and his healthy conscience at peace with his God.
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Lettice could have lived to herself and her husband and children.
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Edward daily required more and more the stimulus of society.  His wife wondered how he could care to accept dinner invitations from people who treated him as "Wilkins the attorney, a very good sort of fellow," as they introduced him to strangers who might be staying in the country, but who had no power to appreciate the taste, the talents, the impulsive artistic nature which she held so dear.  She forgot that by accepting such invitations Edward was occasionally brought into contact with people not merely of high conventional, but of high intellectual rank; that when a certain amount of wine had dissipated his sense of inferiority of rank and position, he was a brilliant talker, a man to be listened to and admired even by wandering London statesmen, professional diners-out, or any great authors who might find themselves visitors in a --shire country- house.  What she would have had him share from the pride of her heart, she should have warned him to avoid from the temptations to sinful extravagance which it led him into.  He had begun to spend more than he ought, not in intellectual--though that would have been wrong--but in purely sensual things.  His wines, his table, should be such as no squire's purse or palate could command.  His dinner- parties--small in number, the viands rare and delicate in quality, and sent up to table by an Italian cook--should be such as even the London stars should notice with admiration.  He would have Lettice dressed in the richest materials, the most delicate lace; jewellery, he said, was beyond their means; glancing with proud humility at the diamonds of the elder ladies, and the alloyed gold of the younger. But he managed to spend as much on his wife's lace as would have bought many a set of inferior jewellery.  Lettice well became it all. If as people said, her father had been nothing but a French adventurer, she bore traces of her nature in her grace, her delicacy, her fascinating and elegant ways of doing all things.  She was made

for society; and yet she hated it.

The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn.

The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake and contending with the fire.

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The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire, scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran dry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded roads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next destination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and, abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.

Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter days--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon, Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel with himself The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again withdrew himself to his house-top behind his stack of chimneys; this time resolved, if his door was broken in (he was a small Southern man of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the parapet, and crush a man or two below.

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Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door, combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an ill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate, which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had resolved But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed, and Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that while.

But, not for long.

　　The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all was black again.

　　But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.

　　A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur Gabelle's door. `Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!' The tocsin rang impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The mender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the sky. `It must be forty feet high,' said they, grimly; and never moved.

　　The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire; removed from them, a group of soldiers. `Help, gentlemen-officers! The chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by timely aid! Help, help!' The officers looked towards the soldiers who looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting of lips, `It must burn.'

　　As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything, occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to authority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that post-horses would roast.

About.'`About. Good!

　　As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account. The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips. Fortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no obstacle, tending to centres all over France.

　　The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the pattering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then, the mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready to go down into the village, roused him.

　　`Good!' said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. `Two leagues beyond the summit of the hill?'

　　`About.'`About. Good!'

　　The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed, as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A curious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top alone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need to ring the tocsin by-and-by.

When do you cease to work?

　　He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.

　　`Touch then.' It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.

　　`To-night?' said the mender of roads.

　　`To-night,' said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.`Where?'`Here.'

　　He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.

　　`Show me!' said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.

　　`See.' returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. `You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain---

　　`To the Devil with all that!' interrupted the other, rolling his eye over the landscape. `I go through no streets and past no fountains. Well?'

　　`Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the village.'

　　`Good. When do you cease to work?'`At sunset.'

　　`Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me?'

　　`Surely.'

　　The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly.

this was not the change on the village

　　But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high-caste, chiseled, and otherwise beatified and beatifying features of Monseigneur.

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　　For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if he had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour, and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.

　　Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail.

　　The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible:

　　`How goes it, Jacques?'

　　`All well, Jacques.'

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　　`Touch then!'

　　They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.

　　`No dinner?'

　　`Nothing but supper now,' said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.

　　`It is the fashion,' growled the man. `I meet no dinner anywhere.'

Another dividend from the curve!

Barely missing the crying baby, as the runabout jerked forward, he made a fruitless attempt to run down the raging collie. Then he addressed himself to the business of getting himself and his brother as far out of the way as possible, before the oncoming car should reach the scene of strife.

As a matter of fact, the other car never reached this spot. Its occupants were two youths and two damsels, in search of a sequestered space of road where they might halt for a brief but delectable "petting party," on their way to a dance in the village. They found such a space, about a furlong on the thither side of the curve where the runabout had stopped. And they advanced no farther.

Lad, for a few rods, gave chase to the retreating Schwartzes. Then, the heavy exertions of the past minute or two began to exact toll on his aging body. Also, the baby was still whimpering in a drowsy monotone, as the paregoric sought to renew its sway on the racket awakened brain.
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The dog turned pantingly back to the bundle; pawed it softly, as though to make sure the contents were not harmed; then once more picked it up gingerly between his reddened jaws; and continued his sedate homeward journey.

The Mistress and the Master. were sitting on the veranda. It was almost bedtime. The Master arose, to begin his nightly task of locking the lower windows. From somewhere on the highroad that lay two hundred yards distant from the house, came the confused noise of shouts. Then, as he listened, the far-off sounds ceased. He went on with his task of locking up; and returned in a minute or two to the veranda.
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As he did so, Lad came walking slowly up the porch steps. In his mouth he carried something large and white and dusty. This he proceeded to deposit with much care at the feet of the Mistress. Then he stood back; tail waving, dark eyes mischievously expectant.

"Another dividend from the curve!" laughed the Master. "What is it, this time? A pillow or--?"

He broke off in the middle of his amused query. For, even as he turned his flashlight on the dusty and blood-streaked bundle, the baby began once more to cry.

The local chief of police, in the village across the lake, was making ready for bed, when a telephone summons brought him back to his lower hallway.

"Hello!" came the Master's hail, over the wire. "Chief, has there been any alarm sent out for--for a missing baby?"

"Baby?" echoed the Chief. "No. Have you lost one?"

But, pigs were different.

　　Long before the Chief arrived at the Place with triumphant tidings of his success in "sweating" the truth from the mangled and nerve-racked Schwartzes, the two other actors in the evening's drama were miles away among the sunflecked shadows of Dreamland.

　　The baby, industriously and unsanitarily sucking one pudgy thumb, was cuddled down to sleep in the Mistress's lap. And, in the depths of his cave under the living-room piano, Lad was stretched at perfect ease; his tiny white forepaws straight in front of him.

　　But his deep breathing was interrupted, now and then, by a muttered sigh. For, at last, one of his beautiful presents had failed to cause happiness and praise from his gods. Instead, it had apparently turned the whole household inside out; to judge by the noisy excitement and the telephoning and all. And, even in sleep, the old dog felt justly chagrined at the way his loveliest present to the Mistress had been received.

　　It was so hard to find out what humans would enjoy and what they wouldn't!

　　CHAPTER X. The Intruders

　　It began with a gap in a line fence. The gap should never have been there. For, on the far side of it roamed creatures whose chief zest in life is the finding of such gaps and in breaking through for forage.

　　The Place's acreage ended, to northward, in the center of an oak grove whose northern half was owned by one Titus Romaine; a crabbed little farmer of the old school. Into his half of the grove, in autumn when mast lay thick and rich amid the tawny dead leaves, Romaine was wont to turn his herd of swine.

　　To Lad, the giant collie, this was always a trying season. For longer than he could remember, Lad had been the official watchdog of the Place. And his chief duties were to keep two-footed and four-footed strays from trespassing thereon.

　　To an inch, he knew the boundaries of the Master's land. And he knew that no human intruder was to be molested; so long as such intruder had the sense to walk straight down the driveway to the house. But woe to the tramp or other trespasser who chanced to come cross lots or to wander in any way off the drive! Woe also to such occasional cattle or other livestock as drifted in from the road or by way of a casual fence-gap!

　　Human invaders were to be met in drastic fashion. Quadruped trespassers were to be rounded up and swept at a gallop up the drive and out into the highroad. With cattle or with stray horses this was an easy job;. and it contained, withal, much fun;--at least, for Lad.

　　But, pigs were different.

Do more than that

　　"No. I've found one. At least, Laddie has. He's just brought it home. It is dressed in unusually costly things, my wife says. There was a white baby-blanket strapped around it. And there are dust and streaks of fresh blood on the blanket.  But the baby himself isn't hurt at all. And--"

　　"I'll be over there, in fifteen minutes," said the Chief, alive with professional interest.

　　But in ten minutes he was on the wire once more.

　　"Has the baby blanket got the monogram, 'B.R.R', on one corner?" he asked excitedly.

　　"Yes," answered the Master. "I was going to tell you that, when you hung up. And on--"

　　"That's the one!" fairly shouted the Chief. "As soon as you finished talking to me, I got another call. General alarm out for a kidnaped baby. Belongs to those Rennick people, up the Valley. The artists that rented the old Beasley place this summer. The baby was stolen, an hour ago; right out of the nursery. I'll phone 'em that he's found; and then I'll be over."

　　"All right. There's another queer point about all this. Our dog--"

　　"Speaking of dogs," went on the garrulous Chief, "this is a wakeful evening for me. I just got a call from the drug store that a couple of fellows have stopped there to get patched up from dog-bites. They say a dozen stray curs set on 'em, while they were changing a tire. The druggist thought they acted queer, contradicting each other in bits of their story. So he's taking his time, fixing them; till I can drop in on my way to your house and give 'em the once over. So---"

　　"Do more than that!" decreed the Master, on quick inspiration. "What I started to tell you is that there's blood on Lad's jaws; as well as on the baby's blanket. If two men say they've been bitten by dogs--"

　　"I get you!" yelled the other. "Good-by! I got no time to waste, when a clew like that is shaken in front of me. See you later!"

With resounding howls of pain

　　Eitel had taken advantage of the moment's respite to seize with his uninjured hand his slashed wrist. Then, on second thought, he released the wounded wrist and bent over the baby; with a view to picking him up and regaining the comparative safety of the car's floor. But his well-devised maneuver was not carried out.

　　For, as he leaned over the bundle, extending his hands to pick it up, Lad's teeth drove fiercely into the section of Eitel's plump anatomy which chanced to be presented to him by the stooping down of the kidnaper. Deep clove his sharp fangs. Nor did Eitel Schwartz sit down again with any degree of comfort for many a long day,

　　With resounding howls of pain, Eitel thrashed up and down the road; endeavoring to shake off this rear attack. The noise awakened the baby; who added his wails to the din. Roodie got dizzily to his feet; his left forearm useless and anguished from the tearing of its muscles:

　　"Shut up!" he bellowed. "'you want to bring the whole county down on us? We--"

　　He ceased speaking; and lurched at full speed to the car and to the top of its single seat. For, at sound of his voice, Lad had loosed his grip on the screeching Eitel and whirled about on this earlier adversary.

　　The man reached the car-seat and slammed the door behind him, perhaps a sixth of a second too soon for Lad to reach him.

　　Eitel, warned by his brother's bawled command, made a rush for the other side of the machine and clambered up. He was a trifle less fortunate than had been Roodie, in making this ascent. For Lad's flashing jaws grazed his ankle and carried away in that snap a sample of Eitel's best town-going trousers.

　　Thus, on the seat of the car, swaying, and clutching at each other, crouched the two sore-wounded brethren; while Lad ravened about the vehicle, springing upward now and, again in futile effort to clear the top of the closed door.

　　Far down the road shone the lights of an approaching motor. Eitel dropped into the driving seat and set the runabout into motion. Once more, the dread of pursuit and of capture and of prison danced hideously before his frightened mental vision.

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The identification did little to ease their feeling of incredulous mystification. But it banished their superstitious dread. Both of them were used to dogs. And though neither could guess how this particular dog happened to be stealing the twice-stolen baby, yet neither had the remotest fear of tackling the beast and rescuing its human plunder.

Roodie brought the abused runabout to another jerky stop within a few inches of the unconcerned collie. And he and Eitel swarmed earthward from opposite sides of the machine. In a trice, Roodie had struck Lad over the head; while Eitel grabbed at the bundle to drag it away from the dog.
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Now, the weight of years was beginning to tell on Laddie. But that weight had not robbed him of the ability to call, at will, upon much of his oldtime strength and bewildering swiftness. Nor had it in any way dampened his hero-spirit or dulled his uncannily wise brain.

He had been plodding peacefully along, bearing home a wonderful gift--a gift oftener confided to the care of storks than of collies--when he had been attacked from two sides in most unprovoked fashion. He had been struck! His blood surged hot.

There was no Law governing such a case. So, as usual in new crises, Lad proceeded to make his own Law and to put it into effect.

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A deft turn of the head eluded Eitel's snatching hand. With the lightness of a feather, Lad deposited the bundle in the soft dust of the road. In practically, the same gesture, the dog's curving eye-tooth slashed Eitel's outstretched wrist to the bone.

Then, staggering under a second head-blow from Roodie, the collie wheeled with lightning-swift fury upon this more hostile of his two assailants.

Hurling himself at the man's throat, in silent ferocity, he well-nigh turned the nocturnal battle into a killing. But Roodie's left arm, by instinct, flew up to guard his threatened jugular.

Through coat and shirt and skin and flesh,--as in the case of Lady's slayer,--the great dog's teeth clove their way; their rending snap checked only by the bone of the forearm. The impetus of his eighty-pound body sent the man clean off his balance. And together the two crashed backward to the ground.

Lad was not of the bulldog breed which seeks and gains a hold and then hangs on to it with locked jaws. A collie fights with brain as much as with teeth. By the time he and Roodie struck the earth, Lad tore free from the unloving embrace and whizzed about to face the second of his foes.

Then she heard a new cry

Then she heard a new cry, this one far off to the west, a wild shriek that pierced the suffocating silence. She turned toward it, recognizing it yet unable to place it. A bird, a Roc. It came again, quick and challenging. Spirit! It was Spirit! She watched his dark shadow race out of the night, coming down from high up, as swift as thought. Spirit, she thought- and that meant Tiger Ty! Hope surged through her. She started to rise, to cry out in response, then flattened herself again quickly. Gloon was still out there, looking for an opportunity to finish her off. Her eyes swept the darkness, searching in vain. Where was the shrike? Then Gloon rose out of the dark to meet this new chal- lenger, thick black body gathering speed. Wren scrambled to her feet, shouting in warning. Spirit came on, then at the last possible moment veered aside so that the war shrike swept past harmlessly and wheeled about to give chase. The giant birds circled each other cautiously, feinting and dodging, working for an advantage. Wren gritted her teeth, earthbound and help- less. Gloon was bigger than Spirit and trained to kill. Gloon was a Shadowen, and had the magic to sustain him. Spirit was brave and quick, but what chance did he stand? There was a flurry of movement as the birds came at eacb other, locked momentarily in a shriek of rage, and then broke apart again. Once more they began to circle, each trying to get above the other. Wren came out of the wash and back onto the flat of the plain. She moved after them as they edged away, following because she did not want to lose contact, still deter- mined to help. She could not leave this battle to Tiger Ty and the Roc. This was not their fight. It was hers.

She got up and ran.

She got up and ran. Forcing down all thoughts of pain, she sprinted across the empty grasslands to a wash that lay some hundred feet away. She reached it and dove into it on a dead run. There was the now-familiar rush of wind and the passing of something dark overhead. Gloon had just missed her again. She flattened herself in the wash and peered skyward. The moon was there, and the stars, and nothing else. Shades! She came to her knees. The wash offered her some protection, but not nearly enough. And the night was no friend, for the war shrike's eyesight was ten times better than her own. It could see her clearly in the wash, and she could see nothing of it. She rose and sent the Elven magic stabbing out, hoping to get lucky. The fire raced away, working across the flats, and she felt the power rush through her. She howled in exhilara- tion, unable to help herself, saw the war shrike coming just an instant before it reached her, swung the magic about furiously-too late-and threw herself down once more. But her quickness saved her, the blue fire of the Elfstones forcing the shrike to change direction at the last minute, causing it to miss her once again. She saw Tib Ame this time, just a glimpse as he streaked past, blond hair flying. She heard his cry of rage and frustra- tion, and she shrieked out after him, furious, taunting. The skies went still, the land silent. She huddled in the wash, shaking and sweating, the Elfstones clenched in her hand. She was going to lose this fight if she didn't do some- thing to change the odds. Sooner or later, Gloon was going to get through.

Where is it? Where ... ?

And then she realized what was happening. Gloon was at- tacking. He had dropped level with the ground so that his shadow could no longer be seen, and he was coming at her. How fast? How soon? She panicked, staggering backward in fear. She couldn't see him! She tried to pick out the shrike against the dark horizon, but could see nothing. She tried to hear him, but there was only silence. Where is it? Where ... ? Instinct alone saved her. She threw herself aside on impulse and felt the massive weight of the shrike rip past her, talons tearing at the air inches away. She struck and rolled wildly, tasting dust and blood in her mouth, feeling the pain of her in- jured body rush through her anew. The Talismans of Shannara 337 She came back to her feet instantly, whirled in the direction she thought the shrike had gone, summoned the magic of the Elfstones, and sent it careening out into the night in a fan of blue fire. But the fire blazed into the void and struck nothing. Wren dropped into a crouch, desperately scanning the moonlit blackness. It would be coming back-but she couldn't see it! She had lost it! Below the horizon it was invisible. Despair raced through her. Which way was it coming? Which way? She struck out blindly, right and then left, and threw herself down, rolling, coming up and striking out again. She heard the magic collide with something. There was a shriek, followed by Gloon's heavy passage as the shrike winged off to her left, hissing like steam. She peered after the sound, wiping at the dust in her eyes. Nothing.

Her hand tightened on the Etfstones.

The war shrike would try to take her on his first pass, she thought-quick and decisive, before she could bring the magic of the Elfstones to bear. And it would not be easy using the Elfstones against a moving target. She edged across the plains to put a small rise at her back. Better than nothing, she told herself, keeping her eyes on Gloon. She thought of what the war shrike had done to Grayl. She felt small and cold and vulnerable, alone in the vastness of the grasslands, nothing for as far as she could see, no one to help her. No Morgan Leah this time. No reprieve from an un- expected source. She would fight on her own, and how well she fought-and how lucky she was-would determine whether she lived or died.

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Her hand tightened on the Etfstones. Come see me, Gloon. Come see what I have for you. The war shrike soared and dipped, sweeping out and back again, rising and falling in careless disregard, a dark motion against the sky's blue velvet. Wren waited impatiently. Come on! Come on!

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Then abruptly Gloon dropped Hke a stone and was gone. Wren jerked forward, startled. The night spread away before her, vast and dark and empty. What had happened? She felt sweat run down her back. Where had the shrike gone? Not into the earth, it wouldn't have driven itself into the earth, that didn't make any sense ...

She smiled in bewilderment.

She smiled in bewilderment. And then she saw the dark shadow high overhead winging its way toward her, slow and lazy and as inevitable as winter cold. Her heart lurched in dismay as she watched it take shape. Not for a second did she think it was one of the Wing Riders come in search of her. Not for an instant did she mistake it for a friend. It was Gloon she was seeing. She knew him instantly. She recognized the blocky muscled body, the jut of the war shrike's fierce crested head, the sharp hook of the broad wings. She swallowed against her fear. No wonder the Seekers had fallen back. There was no need to hurry with Gloon to hunt her down.

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Tib Ame would be riding him, of course. In her mind she saw the boy's chameleon face, first friend, then foe; human, then Shadowen. She could hear his grating laughter, feel the heat of his breath on her face as he struck her, taste the blood in her mouth from the blows ... She looked about for a place to hide and quickly discarded the idea. She was already seen, and wherever she hid she would be found. She could either run or fight-and she was tired of running.

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She reached down into her tunic and took out the Elfstones. She balanced them in her hand, as if the weight of their magic could be determined and so the outcome of her battle decided early. She glanced west to the horizon, but there was nothing to see, the forests still lost below the horizon. No one would be searching for her anyway-not this far out and not at night. She gritted her teeth, thinking of Garth again, wondering what he would do. She watched Gloon wing his way closer, taking his time, riding the wind currents smoothly, easily, confident in his power and skill, in what he could do.

Padishar first, he thought.

The smell of food from the cooking fire reached out to him enticingly. For the first time since he had arrived, he was hun- gry- Par and Padishar. Padishar first, he thought. Chandos had said five days. If the Seekers didn't reach him first ... It came to him in a rush, the picture so clear in his mind he almost cried out. He reached over impulsively and put his arm around Damson's shoulders. "I think I know how to free Padishar," he said. x Five days the Four Horsemen circled the walls of Paranor, and five days Walker Boh stood on the castle battlements and watched. Each dawn they assembled at the west gates, shadows come from the gloom of fading night. One would approach, a different one each time, and strike the gates once in challenge. When Walker failed to appear they would resume their grim vigil, spreading out so that there was one at each compass point, one at each of the main walls, riding in slow, ceaseless cadence, circling like birds of prey. Day and night they rode, specters of gray mist and dark imaginings, si- lent as thought and certain as time. "Incarnations of man's greatest enemies," Cogline mused when he saw them for the first time. "Manifestations of our worst fears, the slayers of so many, given shape and form and sent to destroy us." He shook his head. "Can it be that Rimmer Dall has a sense of humor? "

he said again

"I'm sorry," he said again, thinking how inadequate it sounded. Her hands tightened on his and did not let go. They faced each other m the dusk without speaking for a long time. As he held her hands, Morgan was reminded of Quickening, of the way she had felt, of the feelings she had invoked in him. He found that he missed her desperately and would have given anything to have her back again. "Enough testing," Damson whispered. "Let's talk instead. I'll tell you everything that's happened to me. You do the same about yourself. Par and Padishar need us. Maybe together we can come up with a way to help." She squeezed his hands as if there were no pain in her own and gave him an encouraging smile. He bent to retrieve the Sword of Leah, then started back with her through the trees to- ward the glow of the cooking fires. His mind was spinning, working through what she had told him, sorting out impres- sions from facts, trying to glean something useful. Damson was right. The Valeman and the leader of the free-born needed them. Morgan was determined not to let either down. But what could he do?

I'm sorry. Damson.

"A Shadowen couldn't do that, could it? " she whispered. He reached down quickly and pried her fingers away. "No," he said. "Not without triggering the magic." He lay the talis- man aside, tore strips of cloth from his cloak, and began to bind her hands. "You didn't have to do that," he reproached her.

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Her smile was faint and wistful. "Didn't I? Would you have been sure of me otherwise, Morgan Leah? I don't think so. And if you're not sure of me, how can we be of help to each other? There has to be trust between us." She fixed him with her gentle eyes. "Is there now? " He nodded quickly. "Yes. I'm sorry. Damson."

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Her bound hands reached up to clasp his own. "Let me tell you something." The tears were back in her eyes. "You said that your friend Steff was in love with Teel? Well, Highlander, I am in love with Par Ohmsford." He saw it all then, the reason she had stayed with Par, had given herself so completely to him, following him even into the Pit, watching over him, protecting him- It was what he would have done-had tried to do-for Quickening. Damson Rhee had made a commitment that only death would release.

She did not respond,

She did not respond, her gaze distant and lost. She might have been looking right through him. There were tears in her eyes. 102 The Talismans of Shannara He reached back suddenly and drew out the Sword of Lean. Damson watched him without moving, her green eyes fixing on the gleaming blade as he placed it point downward in the earth between them, his hands fastened on the pommel. "Put your hands on the flat of the blade. Damson," he said softly. She looked at him without answering, and for a long time she did not move. He waited, listening to the distant sounds of the free-bom as they gathered for dinner, listening to the si- lence closer at hand. The light was fading rapidly now, and there were shadows all about. He felt oddly removed from ev- erything about him, as if he were frozen in time with Damson Rhee. Not this girl, he found himself praying. Not again. At last she reached out and touched the Sword of Leah, her palms tight against the metal. Then she deliberately closed her fingers about the edge. Morgan watched in horror as the blade cut deep into her flesh, and her blood began to trickle down its length.

I'm not

He realized Damson was studying him, a hard, probing look, and without warning his suspicions flared anew. Damson Rhee-was she the friend that Par believed or the enemy he sought so desperately to escape. Certainly she could have been the reason he'd had so many narrow escapes, the reason the Shadowen had almost trapped him so many times. But then, too, wasn't she also the reason he had escaped?

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"You're not certain of me, are you? " she asked quietly. "No," he admitted. "I'm not." She nodded. "I don't know what I can do to convince you, Morgan. I don't know that I even want to try. I have to spend whatever energy is left me finding a way to free Padishar. Then I will go in search of Par."

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He looked away into the trees, thinking of the dark suspi- cions that the Shadowen bred in all of them, wishing it could be otherwise. "When I was at the Jut with Padishar," he said, "I was forced to kill a girl who was really a Shadowen." He looked back at her. "Her name was Teel. My friend Steff was in love with her, and it cost him his life." He told her then of Teel's betrayals and the eventual con- frontation deep within the' catacombs of the mountains behind the Jut where he had killed the Shadowen who had been Teel and saved Padishar Creel's life. "What frightens me," he said, "is that you could be another Teel and Par could end up like Steff."

Which set of monsters?

"Which set of monsters?" she asked softly. "What?" "Which set? The demons or the Elves? Which do you mean?" He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she felt her heart break apart inside. His eyes were clear and angry, his face in- tense. He seemed so convinced. "The Elves," she whispered, "are the ones who destroyed Morrowindi." "No," he answered instantly, without hesitation. "They made the demons, Gavilan." He shook his head vehemently. "Old men made them in another time. A mistake like that wouldn't happen again. I wouldn't let it. The magic can be better used, Wren. You know that to be true. Haven't the Ohmsfords always found a way? Haven't the Druids? Let me try! I can stand against these things; I can do what is needed! You don't want the Staff; you said so yourself! Give it to me!" She shook her head. "I can't." Cavilan stiffened, and his hands drew away. "Why not, Wren? Tell me why not." She couldn't tell him, of course. She couldn't find the words, and even if she had been able to find the words, she wouldn't have been able to speak them. "I have given my promise," she said instead, wishing he would let the matter die, that he would give up his demand, that he would see how wrong it was for him to ask. "Your promise?" he snapped. "To whom?" "To the queen," she insisted stubbornly. "To the queen? Shades, Wren, what's the worth of that? The queen is dead!"

He bent to her,

He bent to her, his hands closing firmly on her own. She didn't try to pull away, both fascinated and repelled by what she saw in his eyes. She felt something like grief well up inside. "Listen to me, Wren," he said, shaking his head at something she couldn't see. "There is a special bond between us. I felt it the moment I first saw you, the night you came to Arborlon, still wondering what it was that you had been sent to do. I knew. I knew it even then, but it was too early to speak of it. You are Alleyne's daughter and you have the Elessedil blood. You have courage and strength. You have done more already than anyone had a right to expect from you. "But, Wren, none of this is your problem. The Elves are not your people or Arborlon your city. I know that. I know how foreign it must all feel. And Ellenroh never understood that you couldn't ask people to accept responsibility for things when the responsibility was never theirs to begin with. She never under- stood that once she sent you away, she could never have you back the same. That was how she lost Alleyne! Now, look. She has given you the Ruhk Staff and the Loden, the Elves and Arborlon, the whole of the future of a nation, and told you to be queen. But you don't really want any part of it, do you?" "I didn't," she admitted. "Once." He missed her hesitation. "Then give it up! Be finished with it! Let me take the Staff and the Stone and use them as they should be used-to fight against the monsters that track us, to destroy the ones that have turned Morrowindl into this night- mare!"

You can't know that!

His face hardened. "Why? Because something went wrong when it was used before? Because those who used it hadn't the ability or strength or sense of what was needed to use it prop- erly?" She shook her head, voiceless.

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"Wren! The magic has to be used! It has to be! That is why it is there in the first place! If we don't make use of it, someone else will, and then what? This isn't a game we play. You know as much. There are things out there so dangerous that . . "Things the Elves made!" she said angrily. "Yes! A mistake, I agree! But others would have made them if we had not!" "You can't know that!"

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"It doesn't matter. The fact remains we made them for a good cause! We have learned a lot! The making is in the soul of the wielder of the power! It simply requires strength of pur- pose and channeling of need! This time we can do it right!" He broke off, waiting for her response. They faced each other in silence. Then Wren took a deep breath and reached down to remove his hand from the Staff. "I don't think you had better say anything more." His smile was bitter, ironic. "Once you were angry because I hadn't said enough." "Gavilan," she whispered. "Do you think this will all go away if we don't talk about it, that everything will somehow just work out?" She shook her head slowly, sadly.

Think about it

He turned. "Think about it, Wren. We have in our posses- sion both the Loden and the Elfstones-magic enough to accom- plish almost anything. Yet we seem afraid to invoke that magic, almost as if we were restrained from doing so. But we aren't, are we? I mean, what is to prevent it? Look at how much better things became when you used the Elfstones to find a way out of Eden's Murk. We should be using that magic every step of the way! If we did, we might be to the beach by now." "It doesn't work that way, Gavilan. It doesn't do just any- thing . . But he wasn't listening. "Even worse is the way we ignore the magic contained in the Loden. Yes, it is needed to preserve the Elves and Arborlon for the journey back. But all of it? I don't believe it for a moment!" He let his hand come to rest momentarily on the Ruhk Staff. His words were suddenly fer- vent. "Why not use the magic against these things that hunt us? Why not just burn a path right through them? Or better still, why not make something that will go out there and destroy them!" Wren stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Gavilan," she said quietly. "I know about the demons. Eowen told me." He shrugged. "It was time, I suppose. Ellenroh was the only reason no one told you sooner." "However that may be," she continued, her voice lowering, taking on a firmness, "how can you possibly suggest using the magic to make anything else?"

She smiled.

Wren sat back against a half-fallen acacia whose exposed roots maintained a tenuous grip on the mountain rock. The Ruhk Staff rested on her lap, momentarily forgotten. Faun bur- rowed into her shoulder for a time as the tremors continued, then disappeared down inside her blanket to hide. She watched the small, solid figure of Dal slip past to take the first watch.

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Her eyes were heavy as she stared out at the dark, but she found she was not yet ready to sleep. She needed to think awhile first. She had been sitting there for only a few moments when Gavilan appeared. He came out of the darkness rather suddenly, and she started in spite of herself. "Sorry," he apologized hurriedly. "Can I sit with you awhile?" She nodded wordlessly, and he settled himself next to her, his own blanket wrapped loosely about his shoulders, his hair tangled and damp. His handsome face was etched with fatigue, but a hint of the familiar smile appeared. "How are you feeling?" "I'm all right," she answered.

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"You look very tired." She smiled. "Would that we had known," he murmured. She glanced over. "Known what?" "Everything. Anything! Something that would have prepared us better for what we're going through." His voice sounded odd to her, almost frenetic. "It is almost like being cast adrift in an ocean without a map and being told to navigate to safety and at the same time to refrain from using the little bit of drinking water we are fortunate enough to carry with us." "What do you mean?"

She was not smiling now.

She was not smiling now. It was late, well after midnight, and her weariness was like a chain that would not let her go. She could not sleep and had come to walk in the Gardens, to listen to the night, to be alone with her thoughts, and to try to find some small measure of peace. But peace was elusive, her thoughts were small demons that taunted and teased, and the night was a great, hungering black cloud that waited patiently for the moment when it would at last extinguish the frail spark of their lives. Fire, again. Fire to give life and fire to snuff it out. The image whispered at her insidiously. She turned abruptly and began walking through the Gar- dens. Cort trailed behind her, a silent, invisible presence. If she bothered to look for him, he would not be there. She could picture him in her mind, a small, stocky youth with incredible quickness and strength. He was one of the Home Guard, pro- tectors of the Elven rulers, the weapons that defended them, the lives that were given up to preserve their own. Cort was her shadow, and if not Cort, then Dal. One or the other of them was always there, keeping her safe. As she moved along the pathway, her thoughts slipped rapidly, one to the next. She felt the roughness of the ground through the thin lining of her slip- pers. Arborlon, the city of the Elves, her home, brought out of the Westland more than a hundred years ago-here, to this . She left the thought unfinished. She lacked the words to complete it. Elven magic, conjured anew out of faerie time, sheltered the city, but the magic was beginning to fail. The mingled fragrances of the Garden's flowers were overshadowed by the acrid smells of Killeshan's gases where they had penetrated the outer barri- er of the Keel. Night birds sang gently from the trees and cov- erings, but even here their songs were undercut by the guttural sounds of the dark things that lurked beyond the city's walls in the jungles and swamps, that pressed up against the Keel, wait- ing.

If any of them remained by then.

If any of them remained by then. She stood at the edge of the Gardens of Life close to where the Elicrys grew. The ancient tree lifted skyward as if to fight through the vog and breathe the cleaner air that lay sealed above. Silver branches glimmered faintly with the light of lan- terns and torches; scarlet leaves reflected the volcano's darker glow. Scatterings of fire danced in strange patterns through breaks in the tree as if trying to form a picture. She watched the images appear and fade, a mirror of her thoughts, and the sadness she felt threatened to overwhelm her. What am I to do? she thought desperately. What choices are left me? None, she knew. None, but to wait. She was Ellenroh Elessedil, Queen of the Elves, and all she could do was to wait. She gripped the Ruhk Staff tightly and glanced skyward with a grimace. There were no stars or moon this night. There had been little of either for weeks, only the vog, thick and impene- trable, a shroud waiting to descend, to cover their bodies, to enfold them all, and to wrap them away forever. She stood stiffly as a hot breeze blew over her, ruffling the fine linen of her clothing. She was tall, her body angular and long limbed. The bones of her face were prominent, shaping features that were instantly recognizable. Her cheekbones were high, her forehead broad, and her jaw sharp-edged and smooth beneath her wide, thin mouth. Her skin was drawn tight against her face, giving her a sculpted look. Flaxen hair tumbled to her shoulders in thick, unruly curls. Her eyes were a strange, pierc- ing blue and always seemed to be seeing things not immediately apparent to others. She seemed much younger than her fifty- odd years. When she smiled, which was often, she brought smiles to the faces of others almost effortlessly.

CHAPTER I

The Elf Queen of Shannara Terry Brooks CHAPTER I

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FIRE. It sputtered in the oil lamps that hung distant and solitary in the windows and entryways of her people's homes. It spat and hissed as it licked at the pitch-coated torches bracketing road intersections and gates. It glowed through breaks in the leafy branches of the ancient oak and hickory where glassed lanterns lined the treelanes. Bits and pieces of flickering light, the flames were like tiny creatures that the night threatened to search out and consume. Like ourselves, she thought. Like the Elves. Her gaze lifted, traveling beyond the buildings and walls of the city to where Killeshan steamed. Fire. It glowed redly out of the volcano's ragged mouth, the glare of its molten core reflected in the clouds of vog-volcanic ash- that hung in sullen banks across the empty sky. Killeshan loomed over them, vast and intractable, a phenomenon of nature that no Elven magic could hope to withstand. For weeks now the rumbling had sounded from deep within the earth, dissatisfied, purposeful, a buildingup of pressure that would eventually de- mand release.

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For now, the lava burrowed and tunneled through cracks and fissures in its walls and ran down into the waters of the ocean in long, twisting ribbons that burned off the jungle and the things that lived within it. One day soon now, she knew, this secondary venting would not be enough, and Killeshan would erupt in a conflagration that would destroy them all.

His daughter had done well, he reflected.

His daughter had done well, he reflected. But the thought was strangely bleak and empty. He had cre- ated an elemental out of the life of his Gardens and sent that elemental forth to serve his needs. She had been nothing to him-a daughter in name only, a child merely by designation. She had been only a momentary reality, and he had never in- tended that she be anything more. Yet he missed her. Shaping her as he did, breathing his life into her, he had brought himself too close. The human feelings they had shared would not dissolve as easily as their human forms. She should have meant nothing to him, now that she was gone. Instead, her absence formed a void he could not seem to fill. Quickening. A child of the elements and his magic, he repeated. He would do the same again-yet perhaps not so readily. There was some- thing in the ways of the creatures of the mortal Races that en- dured beyond the leaving of the flesh. There was a residue of 370 The Druid of Shannara their emotions that lingered. He could still hear her voice, see her face, and feel the touch of her fingers against him. She was gone from him, yet remained. Why should it be so? He sat there as darkness cloaked the land and wondered at himself.

in which Uhl Belk was imprisoned.

The eyes that could see everything had seen the death of his child and the transformation of the land of the Stone King. The Maw Grint was no more. The city of Eldwist had gone back into the earth, returned to the elements that had created it, and the land was green and fertile again. The magic of his child was rooted deep, a river that flowed invisibly about the solitary dome

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The Druid of Shannara 369 in which Uhl Belk was imprisoned. It would be long before his brother could emerge into the light again. Iridescent dragonflies buzzed past him without slowing and disappeared into the twilight's glow. Elsewhere, the battle against the Shadowen went on. Walker Boh had invoked the magic of the Black Elfstone, as AUanon had charged him, and the Druid's Keep had been summoned out of the mists that had hidden it for three centuries. What would the Dark Uncle make, the King of the Silver River won- dered, of what he found there? West, where the Elves had once lived. Wren Ohmsford continued her search to discover what had become of them-and, more important, though she did not yet realize it, what would become of herself. North, the brothers Par and Coil Ohmsford struggled toward each other and the secrets of the Sword of Shannara and the Shadowen magic. There were those who would help and those who would betray, and all of the wheels of chance that AUanon had set in motion could yet be stopped.

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The King of the Silver River rose and slipped into the waters of the pond momentarily, reveling in the cool wetness, letting himself become one with the flow. Then he emerged and passed down the Garden pathways, through stands of juniper and hem- lock onto a hillock ofcentauries and bluebells that reflected gold about the edges of their petals with the day's fading light. He paused there, staring out again into the worid beyond.

Or suppressed, he chided harshly.

Or suppressed, he chided harshly. Certainly he had worked hard at denying it even existed. Mist curled through the rocks, tendrils of white that formed strange shapes and patterns against the gray of the land. Par distant, beyond and below the peaks and the valley they cradled, Walker could hear the crash of the ocean waters against the shoreline, a dull booming that resonated through the silence. He slowed, conscious now that the Koden was just ahead, un- able to dispel entirely his apprehension that he was being lured to his doom, that the magic would not protect him, and he would be killed. Would it matter if he was? he wondered suddenly. He brushed the thought away. Within, he could feel the magic bum- ing like a fire stoked to life. He came down from between two boulders into a depression, and the Koden rose up before him, cat-quick. It seemed to ma- terialize out of the earth, as if the dust that lay upon the rock " had suddenly come together to give it form. It was huge and old and grizzled, three times his own size, with great shaggy limbs and ragged yellow claws that curied down to grip the rock. It lifted onto its hind legs to show itself to him, and its twisted snout huffed and opened to reveal a glistening row of teeth. Sightless white eyes peered down at him. Walker stood his ground, his life a slender thread that a single swipe of one huge paw could sever. He saw that the Koden's head and body had been distorted by some dark magic to make the creature appear more grotesque and that the symmetry of shape that had once given grace to its power had been stripped away.

He required it.

Once he had wished it would be so, that the magic would disappear and he would be left in peace, a man like any other. But it had become increasingly clear to him on this journey, his sense of who and what he was heightened by the passing of Cogline and his own physical and emotional devastation, that his wish had been foolish. He would never be like other men, and he would never be at peace without the magic. He could not change who and what he was; Cogline had known that and told him so. On this journey he had discov- ered it was true. He needed the magic. He required it. Now he would test whether or not he could still call it his own. He had sensed the presence of the Koden before Pe Ell had. He had sensed what it was before Homer Dees had de- 190 The Druid of Shannara scribed it. Amid the strewn rock, hunched down and silent, it had reached out to him as creatures once had when he ap- proached. He could feel the Koden call to him. Walker Boh was not certain of its purpose in doing so, yet knew he must respond. It was more than the creature's need that he was answering; it was also his own. He moved directly through the jumble of boulders and pet- rified wood to where the Koden waited. It had not moved, not even an inch, since the company had arrived. But Walker knew where it lay concealed nevertheless, for its presence had brought the magic awake again. It was an unexpected, exhilarating, and strangely comforting experience to have the power within him stir to life, to discover that it was not lost as he had believed, but merely misplaced.

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He had almost died from the poison of the Asphinx and again from the attack of the Shadowen at Hearthstone. A part of him had surely died with the loss of his arm, another part with the failure of his magic to cure his sick- ness. A part of him had died with Cogline. He had been empty and lost on this journey, compelled to come by his rage at the Shadowen, his fear at being left alone, and his wish to discover the secrets of Uhl Belk and the Black Elfstone. Even Quicken- ing, despite ministering to his needs, both physical and emo- tional, had not been strong enough to give him back to himself. He had been a hollow thing, bereft of any sense of who and what he was supposed to be, reduced to undertaking this quest in the faint hope that he would discover his purpose in the world.

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And now, here within this vast, desolate stretch of land, where fears and doubts and weaknesses were felt most keenly, Walker Boh thought he had a chance to come alive again.

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It was the presence of the Koden that triggered this hope. Until now the magic had been curiously silent within him, a worn and tired thing that had failed repeatedly and at last seemed to have given up. To be sure, it was there still to protect him when he was threatened, to frighten off the Urdas when they came too close, to deflect their hurled weapons. Yet this was a poor and sorry use when he remembered what it had once been able to do. What of the empathy it had given him with other living things? What of his sense of emotions and thoughts? What of the knowledge that had always just seemed to come to him? What of the glimpses of what was to be? All of these had de- serted him, gone away as surely as his old world, his life with Cogline and Rumor at Hearthstone.

"Where?" Pe Ell asked.

' 'The Koden?'' Dees asked sharply. He came forward a step. "Where?" Pe Ell asked. Walker's gesture was obscure. Morgan looked anyway and saw nothing. He glanced at the others. None of them appeared to be able to find it either. But Walker Boh was paying no atten- tion to any of them. He seemed instead to be listening for some- thing. "If you really can see it, point it out to me," Pe Ell said finally, his voice carefully neutral. Walker did not respond. He continued to stare.' 'It feels ..." he began and stopped. "Walker?" Quickening whispered and touched his arm. The pale countenance shifted away from the Hollow at last and the dark eyes found her own. "I must find it," he said. He glanced at each of them in turn. ' 'Wait here until I call for you.'' Morgan started to object, but there was something in the other man's eyes that stopped him from doing so. Instead, he watched silently with the others as the Dark Uncle walked alone into Bone Hollow. The day was still, the air windless, and nothing moved in the ragged expanse of the Hollow save Walker Boh. He crossed the broken stone in silence, a ghost who made no sound and left no mark. There were times in the past few weeks when he had The Druid of Shannara 189 thought himself little more.

Pe Ell stared at him expressionlessly.

Pe Ell stared at him expressionlessly. "Like you said, old man-lucky for you." Dees rose, as bearish as any Koden Morgan might have imag-

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188 The Druid of Shannara ined, sullen and forbidding when he set his face as he did now. He faced Pe Ell as if he meant to have at him. Then he said, "There's all sorts of luck. Some you've got and some you make. Some you carry with you and some you pick up along the way. You're going to need all kinds of it getting in and out of Eldwist. The Koden, he's a thing you wouldn't want to dream about on your worst night. But let me tell you something. After you see what else is down there, what lies beyond Bone Hollow, you won't have to worry about the Koden anymore. Because the dreams you'll have on your worst nights after that will be con- cerned with other things!"

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Pe Ell's shrug was scornful and indifferent. "Dreams are for frightened old men, Homer Dees." Dees glared at him. "Brave words now." "I can see it," Walker Boh said suddenly. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it silenced the others instantly and brought them about to face him. The Dark Uncle was staring out across the broken desolation of the Hollow, seemingly unaware that he had spoken.

eyes blurred with tears.

He emerged into the outside world at daybreak, the sun's light chill and faint as it shone out of a sky thick with clouds and rain that lingered from the previous night's storm. With his arm tucked beneath his cloak like a wounded child, he made his way down the mountain trail toward the plains south. He never looked back. He could just manage to look ahead. He was on his feet only because he refused to give in. He could barely feel himself anymore, even the pain of his poisoning. He walked as if jerked along by strings attached to his limbs. His black hair blew wildly m the wind, whipping about his pale face, lashing it until his The Druid of Shannam 13 eyes blurred with tears. He v/as a scarecrow figure of madness as he wandered out of the mist and gray. Dark Uncle, the Grimpond's voice whispered in his mind and laughed in glee. He lost track of time completely. The sun's weak light failed to disperse the stormclouds and the day remained washed of color and friendless. Trails came and went, an endless proces- sion of rocks, defiles, canyons, and drops. Walker remained oblivious to all of it. He knew only that he was descending, working his way downward out of the rock, back toward the world he had so foolishly left behind. He knew that he was trying to save his life.

Luck was with him.

him. He ignored it, ignored the pain and weariness as well, and stumbled toward the heavy, ironbound entry doors that had brought him in. He shut away the sounds of everything about him, everything within, concentrating the whole of his effort on making his way across the cavern floor to the passageway that lay beyond. If the serpent was alive and found him now, he knew he was finished. Luck was with him. The serpent did not emerge. Nothing appeared. Walker reached the doors leading from the tomb and pushed his way through into the darkness beyond. What happened then was never clear afterward in his mind. Somehow he managed to work his way back through the Hall of Kings, past the Banshees whose howl could drive men mad, and past the Sphinxes whose gaze could turn men to stone. He heard the Banshees wail, felt the gaze of the Sphinxes burning down, and experienced the terror of the mountain's ancient magic as it sought to trap him, to make him another of its vic- tims. Yet he escaped, some final shield of determination pre- serving him as he made his way clear, an iron will combining with weariness and pain and near madness to encase and pre- serve him. Perhaps his magic came to aid him as well; he thought it possible. The magic, after all, was unpredictable, a constant mystery. He pushed and trudged through near darkness and phantasmagoric images, past walls of rock that threatened to close about him, down tunnels of sight and sound in which he could neither see nor hear, and finally he was free.

Then he realized that something had changed.

Then he realized that something had changed. He pushed himself upright and looked down at his arm. The blow had shattered the stone limb at the point of impact. His wrist and hand remained fastened to the Asphinx in the gloom of the hidden compartment'of the cavern floor. But the rest of him was free. He knelt in stunned disbelief for a long time, staring down at the ruin of his arm, at the gray-streaked flesh above the elbow and the jagged stone capping below. His arm felt leaden and stiff. The poison already within it continued to work its damage. There were jolts of pain all through him. But he was free! Shades, he was free! Suddenly there was a stirring in the chamber beyond, a faint 12 The Druid of Shannam and distant mstling like something had come awake. Walker Boh went cold in the pit of his stomach as he realized what had happened. His scream had given him away. The chamber be- yond was the Assembly, and it was in the Assembly that the serpent Valg, guardian of the dead, had once lived. And might live still. Walker came to his feet, sudden dizziness washing through