The fourth volume of The Heritage of Shannara, which continues one of the most popular fantasy series of all time. The Shadowen still swarm over the Four Lands, poisoning everything with their dark magic. And their leader is determined to destroy all the Scions of Shannara. For Walker Boh, he dispatches the Four Horsemen. For Wren, he sends an untrue friend. And for Par, he devises the most terrible fate of all. With these traps cleverly laid, the charges given by the shade of the Druid Allanon are doomed to failure—unless Par can discover a way to harness the power of the Sword of Shannara. Thus continues the enthralling Shannara epic, a spellbinding tale of adventure, magic, and myth… "If Harry Potter has given you a thirst for fantasy and you have not discovered the magic of Terry Brooks, you are in for a treat." --Rocky Mountain News "If you were delighted and entranced by Michael Ende's The Never Ending Story , you will definitely want to sample one of more of Terry Brooks's books." --Santa Cruz Sentinel Although some of the goals to keep Shannara safe had been met, the work of Walker Boh, Wren, and Par was not yet done. For The Shadowmen still swarmed over the Four Lands, poisoning all with their dark magic. Each Shannaran had a special death waiting for him- at the hands of The Shadowmen-unless Par could find a way to free them all with the Sword of Shannara. Although some of the goals to keep Shannara safe had been met, the work of Walker Boh, Wren, and Par was not yet done. For The Shadowmen still swarmed over the Four Lands, poisoning all with their dark magic. Each Shannaran had a special death waiting for him- at the hands of The Shadowmen-unless Par could find a way to free them all with the Sword of Shannara. Terry Brooks  has thrilled readers for decades with his powers of imagination and storytelling. He is the author of more than thirty books, most of which have been  New York Times  bestsellers. He lives with his wife, Judine, in the Pacific Northwest. Dusk settled down about the Four Lands, a slow graying of light, a gradual lengthening of shadows. The swelter of the late summer’s day began to fade as the sun’s red fireball sank into the west and the hot, stale air cooled. The hush that comes with day’s end stilled the earth, and leaves and grass shivered with expectation at the coming of night. At the mouth of the Mermidon where it emptied into the Rainbow Lake, Southwatch rose blackly, impenetrable and voiceless. The wind brushed the waters of the lake and river, yet did not approach the obelisk, as if anxious to hurry on to some place more inviting. The air shimmered about the dark tower, heat radiating from its stone in waves, forming spectral images that darted and flew. A solitary hunter at the water’s edge glanced up apprehensively as he passed and continued swiftly on. Within, the Shadowen went about their tasks in ghostly silence, cowled and faceless and filled with purpose. Rimmer Dall stood at a window looking out on the darkening countryside, watching the color fade from the earth as the night crept stealthily out of the east to gather in its own. The night, our mother, our comfort. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rigid within his dark robes, cowl pulled back from his rawboned, red-bearded face. He looked hard and empty of feeling, and had he cared he would have been pleased. But it had been a long time since his appearance had mattered to the First Seeker--a long time since he had bothered even to wonder. His outside was of no consequence; he could be anything he chose. What burned within mattered. That gave him life. His eyes glittered as he looked beyond what he was seeing to what one day would be. To what was promised. He shifted slightly, alone with his thoughts in the tower’s silence. The others did not exist for him, wraiths without substance. Below, deep within the bowels of the tower, he could hear the sounds of the magic at work, the deep hum of its breathing, the rumble of its heart. He listened for it without thinking now, a habit that brought reassurance to his troubled mind. The power was theirs, brought from the ether into substance, given shape and form, lent purpose. It was the gift of the Shadowen, and it belonged to them alone. Druids and others notwithstanding. He tried a faint smile, but his mouth refused to put up with it and it disappeared in the tight line of his lips. His gloved left hand squirmed within the clasp of the bare fingers of his right. Power for power, strength for strength. On his breast, the silver wolf’s-head insignia glittered. Thrum, thrum, came the sound of the magic working down below. Rimmer Dall turned back into the grayness of the room--a room that until recently had held Coll Ohmsford prisoner. Now the Valeman was gone--escaped, he believed; but let go in fact and made prisoner another way. Gone to find his brother, Par. The one with the real magic. The one who would be his. The First S