Blood of the Fold

Richard stood stone still, the focus of all eyes, while he frantically tried to think of what to do next. He hadn't expected laughter. He couldn't think of any other magic he could use, and this man didn't seem to know real magic from a trick, anyway. Unable to come up with a better idea at the moment, Richard sought to at least make his voice sound confident.

"I am Richard Rahl, son of Darken Rahl. He is dead. I am now Lord Rahl. If you wish to continue to serve in your post, you will bow down and recognize me. If not, then I will replace you."

Chuckling once more, General Reibisch hooked a thumb behind his belt. "Perform another trick, and if I judge it worthy, I'll give you and your troupe a coin before I send you on your way. I'm inclined to give you one for your temerity, if nothing else."

The soldiers moved closer, the mood shifting with them to an edge of menace.

"Lord Rahl does not do 'tricks, " Rally snapped.

Reibisch put his meaty hands on the table as he leaned toward her. "Your outfits are quite convincing, but you shouldn't play at being a Mord-Sith, young lady. If one of them ever got her hands on you, she would not take kindly to your pretense; they take their profession seriously."

Rally drove her Agiel down on his hand. With a shriek, General Reibisch leapt back, his face a picture of shock. He pulled a knife.

Gratch's growl rattled the windowpanes. His green eyes glowed as he bared his fangs. His wings spread with a snap, like sails in a gale. Men backed away, cocking arms holding weapons.

Inwardly, Richard groaned. Things were rapidly spinning out of control. He wished he had done a better job of thinking this through, but he had been sure that appearing invisible would awe the D'Harans into believing. He should have at least given thought to an escape plan. He didn't know how they were going to get out of the building alive. Even if they managed, it might be at great cost; it could be a bloodbath. He didn't want that. He had only started into this Master Rahl business to prevent people from being hurt, not to cause it. Shouts rose around him.

Almost before he realized what he was doing, Richard drew his sword. The unique ring of steel filled the room. The sword's magic surged into him, rising to his defense, inundating him with its fury. It was like being hit by a furnace blast that burned to the bone. He knew the feeling well, and urged it onward; there was no choice. Storms of rage erupted within. He let the spirits of those who had used the magic before soar with him on the winds of wrath.

Reibisch slashed the air with his knife. "Kill the frauds!"

As the general leapt over the table toward Richard, the room suddenly resounded with a peal of thundering noise. Shards of glass rilled the air, refracting light in glittering flashes.

Richard ducked into a crouch as Gratch bounded over him. Pieces of window mullions spiraled over their heads. Officers behind the table pitched forward, many cut by the glass. Dumbfounded, Richard realized the windows were exploding inward.

Blurs of color streaked through the rain of glass. Shadows and light in midair crashed to ground. Startled, through the sword's rage, Richard felt them.

Mriswith.

They became solid as they hit the floor.

The room burst into battle. Richard saw flashes of red, streaks of fur, and sweeping arcs of steel. An officer smashed face-first atop the table, blood splashing across papers. Ulic heaved two men back. Egan hurled another two over the table-Richard ignored the tumult around him as he seized the calm center within. The cacophony faded away as he touched cold steel to his forehead, silently beseeching his blade to be true this day.

He saw only the mriswith, felt only them. With every fiber of his being, he wanted nothing else.

The closest sprang up, its back to him. With a scream of fury, Richard unleashed the wrath of the Sword of Truth. The tip whistled as it came around, the blade found its mark: the magic had its taste of blood. Headless, the mriswith collapsed, its three-bladed knives clattering across the floor.

Richard whirled to the lizardlike creature at his other side. Rally leapt between them, into his way. Still turning, he used his momentum to shoulder her aside as he swept his sword around, cleaving the second mriswith before the head of the first had hit the ground. Reeking blood misted the air.

Richard spun ahead. In the grip of fury, he was one with the blade, with its spirits, with its magic. He was, as the ancient prophecies in High D'Haran had named him, as he had named himself, fuer grissa ost drauka: the bringcr of death. Anything less would mean his friends' deaths, but he was beyond reasoned thought. He was lost in need.

Though the third mriswith was dark brown, the color of the leather, Richard still picked it out as it darted through the men. With a mighty thrust, he drove his sword home between its shoulder blades. The mriswiuYs death howl shuddered in the air.

Men froze at the sound, and the room fell silent.