Stone of Tears

He called the magic onward. Before he even realized what he was doing, he pulled off his shirt and threw it aside, to be free of any hindrance to his movement. Why would he think to do that? It seemed the right thing to do, but he had no idea where the thought came from. He drew the blade up straight before him. His muscles flexed and tightened, glistening with sweat.

He found the center of himself, that place of quiet, of focus. He sought his Han within the white-hot center of his rage.

Use what you have, a voice within him said. Use what is there. Let it loose.

In the quiet of his mind, Richard remembered the time he had stood on Zedd’s wizard’s rock, to use its magic to hide the cloud that Darken Rahl had sent to track him. The rock had been used by many wizards before Zedd. As Richard had stood on it, calling the magic onward, letting it flow through him, he had felt the essence of those who had come before. He remembered the way it had felt to feel the things they had felt, to know the things they had known. It had given him insight into those who had once used the magic.

Suddenly, he knew what the prophecy meant.

He wondered how it was possible to have used the sword before without seeing it, without seeing what the magic held. Just like the wizard’s rock.

Others had used the Sword of Truth’s magic, and in the bargain, the magic retained a memory of their talents at fighting, of every move in which it had ever been used. The talent of untold hundreds who had wielded this blade, men and women alike, was there for the taking. The skill of both the good and the wicked was bound into the magic.

In his stillness, he saw the first come from the left.

Be a feather, not a rock. Float on the wind of the storm.

Richard unleashed the magic and spun with the attack, letting it sweep past him. He didn’t strike, but let himself float with the press of the charge. He let the sword’s magic guide him. The attacker tumbled to the ground when he didn’t make the expected contact.

Instantly, another came, twirling his spear. Richard spun around again, and as the attacker passed, he used the sword to splinter the shaft in two. A spearpoint thrusted toward him. Without stopping, he glided past it and brought the sword up, cutting the shaft in half. Another charge came from behind. He met it with a foot to the chest, throwing the man back.

Richard gave himself over to the magic from the sword, and to the peace within himself. Things he didn’t even understand, he was doing without thought.

He controlled the rage to keep from killing. He used the flat of the blade to strike the back of a head here, used his feet to trip an advance there. The faster they came, the faster he reacted, the magic feeding off their energy. Fluidly, he slipped among the attackers, splintering spears when he could, trying to disarm the Baka Ban Mana without killing them.

“Du Chaillu! Stop this before I have to hurt them!”

Yelling at her was a mistake. It distracted him. It allowed a spear through his flowing defense. He had a choice as the rage instantly exploded at the threat. He could kill the attacker, or do only what was necessary to stop him.

His sword spun, its tip whistling through the air, and lopped off the hand that thrust the spear. Blood and fragments of bone filled the air. The scream was a woman’s.

Some of the Baka Ban Mana were women, he realized. It didn’t matter. They would kill him if he didn’t defend himself. Losing a hand was better than losing your head. First blood brought the rage, the need to kill, boiling up within him, hot and thirsty for more.

He fought the attackers and fought the things within himself that wanted to press the attack to those around him. He didn’t want to press the attack. He only wanted them to stop. But if they didn’t stop…

When he broke their spears, they picked up others and threw themselves at him again. He slipped among them like a phantom, conserving his energy as he let them wear themselves out.

The outer ring, who had continued to circle while the inner one had attacked, stopped, and then, swords awhirl, began advancing. Those with the spears—the ones who were still standing—stepped back through the outer ring as it came forward.

Swords spun in the air. Instead of waiting for them to come to him, Richard went to them. They flinched in surprise as the Sword of Truth shattered two of the flashing blades.

“Du Chaillu! Please! I don’t want to kill any of you!”

The ones with the swords were faster than the ones with the spears. Too fast. Talking, and trying to disarm them without killing, was a dangerous distraction. Richard felt a hot pain flash through the flesh over his ribs. He hadn’t even seen the blade coming, but he had moved by instinct and received a shallow slash instead of a killing cut.