Blood of the Fold

Grunting with effort, and with rage, Richard heaved the mriswith aside. The lifeless carcass slid off the blade and across the floor, slamming into a table leg. The leg snapped, and the corner of the table collapsed under a flutter of papers.

Teeth gritted, Richard swept his sword back around to the man standing just beyond where the mriswith had been a moment before. The point halted at his throat, rock steady and dripping blood. The magic raged out of control, craving for more in its hunger to eliminate the threat.

The Seeker's deadly glare met General Reibisch's eyes. Those eyes saw for the first time who stood before him. The magic dancing in Richard's eyes was unmistakable; to see it was to see the sun, to feel its heat, to know it without question.

No one made a sound, but even if they had, Richard wouldn't have heard it; his entire focus was on the man at the point of his sword, at the point of his vengeance. Richard had leapt headlong over the edge of lethal commitment into a cauldron of seething magic, and returning was an agonizing struggle.

General Reibisch went to his knees and gazed up the length of the blade into Richard's hawklike glare. His voice filled the ringing silence.

"Master Rahl guide us. Master Rahl teach us. Master Rahl protect us. In your light we thrive. In your mercy we are sheltered. In your wisdom we are humbled. We live only to serve. Our lives are yours."

They weren't false words to save his own life, they were the reverent words of a man who had seen something he truly hadn't expected.

Richard had chanted those same words countless times at devotions. For two hours each morning and afternoon everyone at the People's Palace in D'Hara went to a devotion square when the bell tolled and, bowing forehead to the ground, chanted those same words. Richard, as commanded, had said those same words the first time he had met Darken Rahl.

Looking down at the general, now, and hearing those same words, Richard was repulsed, and yet another part of him was relieved at the same time.

"Lord Rahl," Reibisch whispered, "you saved my life. You saved all our lives. Thank you."

Richard knew that if he were to try to use the Sword of Truth against him now, it wouldn't touch his flesh. In his heart, Richard knew this man was no longer a threat, or his enemy. The sword, unless he turned it white and used the love and forgiveness of the magic, couldn't harm anyone who was not a threat. The wrath, though, responded not to reason, and denying it the attempt was agony. Richard finally exerted his dominion over the rage and drove the Sword of Truth into its scabbard, driving back the magic, the anger, at the same time.

It had ended as swiftly as it had begun. To Richard, it almost seemed an unexpected dream, a twitch of violence, and it was over.

Across the sloping tabletop lay a dead officer, his blood running down the incline of polished wood. Glass littered the floor, along with scattered papers and stinking mriswith blood. The roomful of soldiers, and those in the hall, were on their knees. Their eyes, too, had seen the unequivocal.

"Is everyone else all right?" Richard realized his voice was hoarse from screaming. "Is anyone else hurt?"

Silence echoed in the room. A few of the men were nursing injuries that looked painful, but not life-threatening. Ulic and Egan, both panting, both with their swords still in their scabbards, both with bloody knuckles, were standing among the men on their knees. They had been at the People's Palace; their eyes had already seen.

Gratch folded his wings and grinned. At least there was one, Richard thought, who was bonded through friendship. Four dead mriswith lay sprawled on the floor; Gratch had killed one, and Richard three, fortunately before they were able to kill anyone else. It could have easily been much worse. Cara drew a hank of hair back from her face, while Berdine brushed glass fragment off her head, and Raina released her grip on a soldier's arm, letting him slump forward to catch his breath.

Richard glanced past the severed torso of a mriswith on the floor. Hally, her red leather standing out in sharp contrast to her blond hair, stood stooped with her arms folded across her abdomen. Her Agiel dangled from its chain at her wrist. Her face was ashen.

As Richard looked down, a tingle of icy dread flushed across his flesh. Her red leather had hidden what he now saw; she was standing in a pool of blood. Her blood.

He vaulted the mriswith and caught her in his arms.

"Hally!" Richard took up her weight and lowered her to the floor. "Dear spirits, what happened?" Before the words were out of his mouth, he knew; that was the way mriswith killed. The other three women were there, kneeling behind him as he put her head in his lap. Gratch squatted beside him.

Her blue eyes fixed on his. "Lord Rahl…"

"Oh, Hally, I'm so sorry. I should never have let you — "