Blood of the Fold

by Terry Goodkind

  Richard was a wizard, too, he now knew. The gift, the force of magic within him called Han, had been passed down from two lines of wizards: Zedd, his grandfather on his mother’s side, and Darken Rahl, his father. That combination had spawned in him magic no wizard had possessed in thousands of years—not only Additive but also Subtractive Magic. Richard knew precious little about being a wizard, or about magic, but Zedd would help him learn, help him control the gift and use it to aid people.

  Richard swallowed the bread he had been chewing. “That sounds like the Kahlan I know.”

  Mistress Sanderholt shook her head ruefully. “She always felt a deep responsibility for the people of the Midlands. I know it hurt her to her very soul to have them turn against her for the promise of gold.”

  “Not all did that, I’d bet,” Richard said. “But that’s why you mustn’t tell anyone she’s still alive. In order to keep Kahlan safe, and protect her, no one must know the truth.”

  “You know you have my promise, Richard. But I expect they’ve forgotten about her by now. I expect that if they don’t get the gold they were promised, they’ll soon be rioting.”

  “So that’s why all those people are gathered outside the Confessors’ Palace?”

  She nodded. “They now believe they’re entitled to it, because someone from the Imperial Order said that they were to have it. Though the man who promised it is now dead, it’s as if once his words were spoken aloud, the gold magically became theirs. If the Imperial Order doesn’t soon begin handing out the gold in the treasury, I imagine it won’t be long before those people in the streets decide to storm the palace and take it.”

  “Maybe the promise was only made as a diversion, and the troops of the Order intended all along to keep the gold for themselves, as plunder, and will defend the palace.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” She stared off. “Come to think of it, I don’t even know what I’m still doing here. I’m of no mind to see the Order set up quarters in the palace. I’m of no mind to end up working for them. Maybe I should leave, and see if I couldn’t find a place to work where people are still free of that lot. It seems so strange to think of doing that, though; the palace has been my home for most of my life.”

  Richard looked away from the white splendor of the Confessors’ Palace, out over the city again. Should he flee, too, and leave the ancestral home of the Confessors, and the wizards, to the Imperial Order? But how could he do anything about it? Besides, the Order’s troops were probably searching for him. Best if he slipped away while they were still confused and disorganized after the death of their council. He didn’t know what Mistress Sanderholt should do, but he should be going before the Order found him. He needed to get to Kahlan and Zedd.

  Gratch’s growl deepened into a primal rumble that rattled Richard’s bones, and brought him out of his thoughts. The gar rose smoothly to his feet. Richard scanned the area below again, but saw nothing. The Confessors’ Palace sat on a hill, with a commanding view of Aydindril, and from his vantage point he could see that there were troops beyond the walls, in the streets of the city, but none were close to the three of them in the secluded side courtyard outside the kitchen entrance. There was nothing alive in sight where Gratch was watching.

  Richard stood, his fingers briefly finding reassurance on the hilt of his sword. He was bigger than most men, but the gar towered over him. Though little more than a youngster, for a gar, Gratch stood close to seven feet, Richard guessing his weight at half again his own. Gratch had another foot to grow, maybe more; Richard was far from an expert on short-tailed gars—he had not seen that many, and the ones he had seen had been trying to kill him at the time. Richard, in fact, had killed Gratch’s mother, in self-defense, and had inadvertently ended up adopting the little orphan. Over time, they had become fast friends.

  Muscles under the pink skin of the powerfully built beast’s stomach and chest knotted in rippling bulges. He stood still and tensed, his claws poised out to his sides, his hairy ears perked toward things unseen. Even in taking prey when he was hungry, Gratch had never displayed this level of intent ferocity. Richard felt the hackles on the back of his neck rising.

  He wished he could remember when or where it was he had seen Gratch growling like this. He finally put aside his pleasant thoughts of Kahlan and, with mounting urgency, focused his attention.

  Mistress Sanderholt stood beside him, peering nervously from Gratch to where he was looking. Thin and frail-looking, she was not a timid woman by any means, but had her hands not been bandaged, he thought she would be wringing them; she looked as if she wanted to.

  Richard suddenly felt quite exposed on the open, wide sweep of steps. His keen gray eyes scrutinized the murky shadows and concealed places among the columns, walls, and assortment of elegant belvederes spread across the lower parts of the palace grounds. Sparkling snow lifted on an occasional ripple of wind, but nothing else moved. He stared so hard it made his eyes hurt, but he saw nothing alive, no sign of any threat.

  Though he saw nothing, Richard began to feel a burgeoning sense of danger—not a simple reaction from seeing Gratch so riled, but welling up from within himself, from his Han, welling from the depths of his chest, coursing into the fibers of his muscles, drawing them tight and ready. The magic within had become another sense that often warned him when his other senses did not. He realized that that was what was warning him now.

  An urge to run, before it was too late, gnawed deep in his gut. He needed to get to Kahlan; he didn’t want to get tangled in any trouble. He could find a horse, and just go. Better yet, he could run, now, and find a horse later.

  Gratch’s wings unfolded as he crouched in a menacing posture, ready to launch into the air. His lips drew back further, vapor hissing from between his fangs as the growl deepened, vibrating the air.

  The flesh on Richard’s arms tingled. His breathing quickened as the palpable sense of danger coalesced into points of threat.

  “Mistress Sanderholt,” he said as his gaze skipped from one long shadow to another, “why don’t you go inside. I’ll come in and talk to you after—”

  His words caught in his throat as he saw a brief movement down among the white columns—a shimmer to the air, like the heat rippling the air above a fire. He stared, trying to decide if he had really seen it, or just imagined it. He frantically tried to think of what it could be, if indeed he had seen something. It could have been a wisp of snow carried on a brief gust of wind. He didn’t see anything as he squinted in concentration. It was probably nothing more than the snow in the wind, he tried to assure himself.

  Abruptly, the manifest realization welled up within him, like cold black water surging up through a rift in river ice—Richard remembered when it was he had heard Gratch growl like that. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood out like icy needles in his flesh. His hand found the wire-wound hilt of his sword.

  “Go,” he whispered urgently to Mistress Sanderholt. “Now.”

  Without hesitation, she dashed up the steps and made for the distant kitchen entrance behind him as the ring of steel announced the arrival of the Sword of Truth in the crisp dawn air.

  How was it possible for them to be here? It wasn’t possible, yet he was sure of it; he could feel them.

  “Dance with me Death. I am ready,” Richard murmured, already in a trance of wrath from the magic coursing into him from the Sword of Truth. The words were not his, but came from the sword’s magic, from the spirits of those who had used the weapon before him. With the words came an instinctive understanding of their meaning: it was a morning prayer, meant to say that you could die this day, so you should strive to do your best while you still lived.

  From the echo of other voices within came the realization that the same words also meant something altogether different: they were a battle cry.

  With a roar, Gratch shot into the air, his wings lifting him after only one bounding stride. Snow swirled, curling into the air under him, stirred up by the powerful stroke
s of his wings that also billowed open Richard’s mriswith cape.

  Even before he could see them materialize out of the winter air, Richard could sense their presence. He could see them in his mind even though he couldn’t yet see them with his eyes.

  Howling in fury, Gratch descended in a streak toward the the base of the steps. Near the columns, just as the gar reached them, they began to become visible—scales and claws and capes, white against the white snow. White as pure as a child’s prayer.

  Mriswith.

  3

  The mriswith reacted to the threat, materializing as they flung themselves at the gar. The sword’s magic, its rage, inundated Richard with its full fury as he saw his friend being attacked. He bounded down the steps, toward the erupting battle.

  Howls assailed his ears as Gratch tore into the mriswith. In the heat of combat they were now visible. Against the white of stone and snow, they were difficult to distinguish clearly, but Richard could see them well enough; there were close to ten as near as he could tell in all the confusion. Under their capes, they wore simple hides as white as the rest of them. Richard had seen them black before, but he knew the mriswith could appear to be the color of their surroundings. Taut, smooth skin covered their heads down to their necks, where it began welting up into tight, interlocking scales. Lipless mouths spread to reveal small, needle-sharp teeth. In the fists of their webbed claws, they gripped the cross-members of three-bladed knives. Beady eyes, intense with loathing, fixed on the raging gar.

  With fluid speed, they swept around the dark form in their midst, their white capes billowing behind as they skimmed across the snow, some tumbling under the attack, or spinning out of reach, just escaping the gar’s powerful arms. With brutal efficiency, the gar caught others on claws, ripping them open, throwing a shock of blood across the snow.

  So intent were they on Gratch that Richard descended upon their backs unopposed. He had never fought more than one mriswith at a time, and that had been a formidable ordeal, but with the fury of the magic pounding through him he thought only of helping Gratch. Before they had a chance to turn to the new threat, Richard cut down two. Shrill death howls sundered the dawn air, the sound needle-sharp and painful in his ears.

  Richard sensed others behind him, back toward the palace. He spun just in time to see three more abruptly appear. They were racing to join the fight, with only Mistress Sanderholt in their way. She cried out at finding her escape route blocked by the advancing creatures. She turned and ran ahead of them. Richard could see that she was going to lose the race, and he was too far away to make it in time.

  With a backhanded swing of his sword, Richard slashed open a scaled form that turned on him. “Gratch!” he cried out. “Gratch!”

  Twisting the head off a mriswith, Gratch looked up. Richard pointed with his sword.

  “Gratch! Protect her!”

  Gratch instantly grasped the nature of Mistress Sanderholt’s peril. Flinging aside the limp, headless carcass, he bounded into the air. Richard ducked. Swift strokes of the gar’s leathery wings lifted him over Richard’s head and up the steps.

  Reaching down, Gratch snatched the woman up in his furry arms. Her feet jerked off the ground and over the sweeping knives of the mriswith. Spreading his wings wide, Gratch banked before the woman’s weight could cost him his momentum, swooped down beyond the mriswith, and then, with a powerful stroke, broke his descent to set Mistress Sanderholt on the ground. Without pause, he sprang back into the fray and, deftly avoiding the flashing knives, struck out with his claws and fangs.

  Richard spun back to the three mriswith at the base of the steps. Losing himself to the sword’s rage, he became one with the magic and the spirits of those who had wielded the sword before him. Everything moved with the slow elegance of a dance—the dance with death. The three mriswith came at him, whirling with cold grace, an onslaught of flashing blades. Pivoting, they split rank, skimming up the steps to go around him. With detached efficiency, Richard caught the lone creature on the point of his blade.

  To his surprise, the other two cried out, “No!”

  Astonished, Richard froze. He hadn’t known that mriswith could speak. They paused on the steps, holding him in beady, snakelike gazes. They had almost made it past him on their way up the steps, toward Gratch. Intent on the gar, he surmised, they wanted most to get past him.

  Richard bolted up the steps, blocking their way. Again they split ranks, one going to each side. Richard feinted at the one to his left, and then reeled to strike out at the other. His sword shattered the triple blades in one of its claws. Without pause, the mriswith spun, evading the killing thrust of Richard’s blade, but as the creature came around, closing the distance to deliver its own strike, he drew his sword back, slicing across its neck. With a howl, the mriswith toppled to the ground, writhing, spilling blood across the snow.

  Before Richard could turn to the other, it crashed into him from behind. The two of them tumbled down the steps. His sword and one of the three-bladed knives clattered across the stone at the bottom, skittering out of reach, and disappeared under the snow.

  They rolled over, each trying to gain the advantage. With its scaled arms constricting around his chest, the wiry beast tried to muscle Richard onto his stomach. He could feel fetid breath on the back of his neck. Though he couldn’t see his sword, he could feel its magic, and knew exactly where it lay. He tried to lunge for it, but the mriswith’s weight hobbled him. He tried to drag himself, but the snow-slicked stone denied him enough purchase. The sword remained out of reach.

  Powered by his anger, Richard staggered to his feet. Still clutching him with both scaled arms, the mriswith slithered a leg around his. Richard crashed face-first to the ground, the weight of the mriswith on his back driving the wind from his lungs. The mriswith’s second knife hovered inches from his face.

  Grunting with effort, Richard pushed himself up with one arm and with the other hand seized the wrist that held the knife. In one smooth, mighty movement, he heaved the mriswith back, ducked under the arm, and, as he came back up, wrenched it around one full turn. Bone popped. With his other hand, Richard brought his belt knife to the creature’s chest. The mriswith, cape and all, flushed to a sickening, weak greenish color.

  “Who sent you!” When it didn’t answer, Richard twisted its arm, pinning it behind the beast’s back. “Who sent you!”

  The mriswith sagged. “The dreamssss walker,” it hissed.

  “Who’s the dream walker? Why are you here?”

  Waves of waxy yellow suffused the mriswith. Its eyes widened as it struggled anew to escape. “Greeneyesss!”

  A sudden blow slammed Richard back. A flash of dark fur snatched the mriswith. Claws yanked its head back. Fangs sank into its neck. A powerful jerk ripped the throat away. Startled, Richard gasped for air.

  Before he could catch his breath, the gar, his green eyes wild, lunged at him. Richard threw his arms up as the huge beast smashed into him. The knife flew from his hand. The sheer size of the gar was smothering, his awesome strength overpowering. Richard might as well as have been trying to hold back a mountain that was falling on him. Dripping fangs drove for his face.

  “Gratch!” He snatched fistfuls of fur. “Gratch! It’s me, Richard!” The snarling face drew back a bit. Vapor huffed out with each breath, reeking of the putrid stench of mriswith blood. The glowing green eyes blinked. Richard stroked the heaving chest. “It’s all right, Gratch. It’s over. Calm down.”

  The iron-hard muscles of the arms that held him slackened. The snarl wrinkled into a grin. Tears welling in his eyes, Gratch crushed Richard to his chest.

  “Grrratch luuug Raaaach aaarg.”

  Patting the gar’s back, Richard struggled to get air into his lungs. “I love you too, Gratch.”

  Gratch, the green gleam back in his eyes, held Richard out for a critical inspection, as if to assure himself that his friend was intact. He let out a purling gurgle that bespoke his relief, whether at finding Richard safe
or at having stopped before tearing him apart, Richard wasn’t sure, but he did know that he, too, was relieved that it was over. His muscles, the fear, anger, and fury of the fight abruptly gone from them, throbbed with a dull ache.

  Richard took a deep breath at the heady feeling of having survived the sudden attack, but he was unsettled by the mutability of Gratch’s usual gentle disposition into such deadly ferocity. He glanced around at the startling amount of foul-smelling gore spilled across the snow. Gratch hadn’t done it all. As he put down the last vestige of the magic’s anger, it struck him that perhaps Gratch saw him in a similar light. Just as Richard, Gratch had risen to the threat.

  “Gratch, you knew they were here, didn’t you?”

  Gratch nodded enthusiastically, adding a bit of a growl to make his point. It occurred to Richard that when he had last seen Gratch growling with such vehemence, outside the Hagen Woods, it must have been because he sensed the presence of the mriswith.

  The Sisters of the Light had told him that occasionally the mriswith strayed from the Hagen Woods, and that no one, not Sisters of the Light—sorceresses—or even wizards, had been able to perceive their presence, or had ever survived an encounter with them. Richard had been able to sense them because he was the first in near to three thousand years to be born with both sides of the gift. So how did Gratch know they were there?

  “Gratch, could you see them?” Gratch pointed to a few of the carcasses, as if to point them out for Richard. “No, I can see them now. I mean before, when I was talking to Mistress Sanderholt and you were growling. Could you see them then?” Gratch shook his head. “Could you hear them, or smell them?” Gratch frowned in thought, his ears twitching, and then shook his head again. “Then how did you know they were there, before we could see them?”