Faith of the Fallen tsot-6

by Terry Goodkind

  “No . . .” General Reibisch said as he shifted his shoulders inside his uniform while giving the question careful thought. “No, Lord Rahl’s words were that we must not commit our forces to an attack directly against the army of the Imperial Order, or our side will be destroyed and any chance for winning in the future will be forever lost.”

  The feeling began to return to Zedd’s fingers. He wiped a bead of sweat from the side of his forehead. He was able to draw an easier breath. “Well, that only makes sense. If they are as large a force as Warren says, then any direct attack would be foolhardy.”

  It did make sense. Zedd wondered, though, why Richard would make such a point of it to a man of General Reibisch’s experience. Perhaps Richard was only being cautious. There was nothing wrong with being cautious.

  Adie slipped her hand under Zedd’s and cuddled her loose fist under his palm. “If you believe you must let Richard be in this, then you will stay? Help teach the gifted here what they must know?”

  Every face was etched with concern as they watched him, hanging on what he might decide. The general idly stroked a finger down the white scar on the side of his face. Sister Philippa knitted her fingers together. Verna and Warren entwined theirs.

  Zedd smiled and hugged Adie’s shoulders. “Of course I’m not going to abandon you.”

  The three on the bench opposite him each let out a little sigh. Their posture relaxed as if ropes around their necks had been slackened.

  Zedd passed a hard look among them all. “War is nasty business. It’s about killing people before they can kill you. Magic in war is simply another weapon, if a frightening one. You must realize that it, too, in this, must be used for the end result of killing people.”

  “What do we need to do?” Verna asked, clearly relieved that he had agreed to stay, but not to the obvious extent of General Reibisch, Warren, or Sister Philippa.

  Zedd pulled some of his robes from each side of his legs over into the middle, between them, as he gave the question some thought. It was not the sort of lesson he relished.

  “Tomorrow morning, we will begin. There is much to learn about countering magic in warfare. I will teach all the gifted some things about the awful business of using what you always hoped to use for good, for harm, instead. The lessons are not pleasing to endure, but then, neither is the alternative.”

  The thought of such lessons, and worse, the use of such knowledge, could not be pleasant for any of them to contemplate. Adie, who knew a little bit about the horrific nature of such struggle, rubbed his back in sympathy. His heavy robes stuck to his skin. He wished he had his simple wizard’s robes back.

  “We will all do as we must to prevent our own people from falling to the monstrous magic of the Imperial Order,” Verna said. “You have my word as Prelate.”

  Zedd nodded. “Tomorrow, then, we begin.”

  “I fear to think of magic added to warfare,” General Reibisch said as he stood.

  Zedd shrugged. “To tell the truth, the ultimate object of magic in warfare is to counter the enemy’s magic. If we do our job properly, we will bring balance to this. That would mean that all magic would be nullified and the soldiers would then be able to fight without magic swaying the battle. You will be able to be the steel against steel, while we are the magic against magic.”

  “You mean, your magic won’t be of direct help to us?”

  Zedd shrugged. “We will try to use magic to visit harm on them in any way we can, but when we try to use magic as a weapon, the enemy will try to counter ours. Any attempt to use their power against us, we will try to counter. The result of magic in warfare, if properly and expertly done, is that it seems as if magic did not exist at all.

  “If we fail to rise to the challenge, then the power they throw at us will be truly horrific to witness. If we can best them, then you will see such destruction of their forces as you can’t imagine. But, in my experience, magic has a way of balancing, so that you rarely see such events.”

  “A deadlock, then, is our goal?” Sister Philippa asked.

  Zedd turned his palms up, moving his hands up and down in opposition, as if they were scales holding great weight. “The gifted on both sides will be working harder than they have ever worked before. I can tell you that it’s exhausting. The result, except with small shifts in the advantage, is that it will seem as if we are all doing nothing to earn our dinner.”

  Zedd let his hands drop. “It will be punctuated with brief moments of sheer horror and true panic when it seems beyond doubt that the world itself is about to end in one final fit of sheer madness.”

  General Reibisch grinned in an odd, gentle, knowing way. “Let me tell you, war, when you’re holding a sword, looks about the same way.” He held up a hand in mock defense. “But I’d rather that, I guess, than have to swing my sword at every magic mosquito that came along. I’m a man of steel against steel. We have Lord Rahl to be the magic against the magic. I’m relieved we have Lord Rahl’s grandfather, the First Wizard, to aid us, too. Thank you, Zedd. Anything you need is yours. Just ask.”

  Verna and Warren added silent nods as the general stepped to the entrance of the tent. When Zedd spoke, General Reibisch turned back, gripping the flap in one hand.

  “You’re still sending messengers to Richard?”

  The general confirmed that they were. “Captain Meiffert was up there, too. He might be able tell you more about Lord Rahl.”

  “Have all of the messengers returned safely?”

  “Most of them.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “We’ve lost two, so far. One messenger was found by chance at the bottom of a rockslide. Another never returned, but his body wasn’t found—which wouldn’t be unusual. It’s a long and difficult journey. There are any number of hazards on such a journey; we have to expect we might lose a few men.”

  “I’d like you to stop sending men up there to Richard.”

  “But Lord Rahl needs to be kept informed.”

  “What if the enemy should capture one of those messengers and find out where Richard is? If you have no scruples, most any man can eventually be made to talk. The risk is not worth it.”

  The general rubbed his palm on the hilt of his sword as he considered Zedd’s words. “The Order is far to the south of us—way down in Anderith. We control all the land between here and the mountains where Lord Rahl is staying.” He shook his head in resignation at Zedd’s unflinching gaze. “But if you think it’s a concern, I’ll not send another. Won’t Lord Rahl wonder, though, what’s going on with us?”

  “What’s going on with us is not really relevant to him right now; he is doing as he must do, and he can’t allow our situation to influence him. He has told you already that he won’t be able to give you any orders, that he must stay out of it.”

  Zedd tugged his sleeves straight and sighed as he thought about it.

  “Perhaps when the summer is over, before the full grip of winter descends and they’re snowed in way up there, I’ll go and see how they fare.”

  General Reibisch gave a departing smile. “If you could talk to Lord Rahl, it would be a relief for us all, Zedd; he would trust your word. Good night, then.”

  The man had just betrayed his true feelings. No one in the tent really trusted what Richard was doing, except, perhaps, Zedd, and Zedd had his doubts, too. Kahlan had said that she believed Richard viewed himself as a fallen leader; these people who claimed not to understand how he could believe such a thing, at the same time didn’t trust his actions.

  Richard was all alone with only the strength of his beliefs to support him.

  After the general had gone, Warren leaned forward eagerly. “Zedd, I could go with you to see Richard. We could get him to tell us everything, and we could then determine if it really is a prophecy, or as he says, just an understanding he’s come to. If it’s not really a prophecy, we might be able to make him see things differently.

  “More important, we could begin teaching him—or you could, anyway—about his gift, abou
t using magic. He needs to know how to use his ability.”

  As Zedd paced, Verna let out a little grunt to express her misgivings about Warren’s suggestion. “I tried to teach Richard to touch his Han. A number of Sisters attempted it, too. No one was able to make any progress.”

  “But Zedd believes a wizard is the one to do it. Isn’t that right, Zedd?”

  Zedd halted his pacing and regarded them both a moment as he considered how to put his thoughts into words. “Well, as I said before, teaching a wizard is not really the work for sorceresses, but another wizard—”

  “With Richard, I don’t think you would have any better luck than we did,” Verna railed.

  Warren didn’t give ground. “But Zedd believes—”

  Zedd cleared his throat, bidding silence. “You’re right, my boy; it is the job of a wizard to teach another wizard born with the gift.” Verna rose an angry finger to object, but Zedd went right on. “In this case, however, I believe Verna is right.”

  “She is?” Warren asked.

  “I am?” Verna asked.

  Zedd waved in a mollifying gesture. “Yes, I believe so, Verna. I think the Sisters can do some teaching. After all, look at Warren, here. The Sisters have managed to teach him something about using his gift, even if it was at the cost of time. You’ve taught others—if in a limited way, to my view of it—but you couldn’t manage to teach Richard the most simple of things. Is that correct?”

  Verna’s mouth twisted with displeasure. “None of us could teach him the simple task of sensing his own Han. I sat with him hours at a time and tried to guide him through it.” She folded her arms and looked away from his intent gaze. “It just didn’t work the way it should have.”

  Warren touched a finger to his chin while he frowned, as if recalling something. “You know, Nathan said something to me once. I told him that I wanted to learn from him—that I wanted him to teach me about being a prophet. Nathan said that a prophet could not be made, but that they were born. I realized, then, that everything I knew and understood about prophecy—really understood about it, in a whole new way—I had learned on my own, and not from anyone else. Could this, with Richard, be something like that? Is that your point, Zedd?”

  “It is.” Zedd sat down once more on the hard wooden bench beside Adie.

  “I would love, not only as his grandfather, but as First Wizard, to teach Richard what he needs to know about using his ability, but I’m coming to doubt that such a thing is possible. Richard is different from any other wizard in more ways than just his having the gift for Subtractive Magic in addition to the usual Additive.”

  “But still,” Sister Philippa said, “you are First Wizard. Surely, you would be able to teach him a great deal.”

  Zedd pulled a fold of his heavy robes from between his bony bottom and the hard bench as he considered how to explain it.

  “Richard has done things even I don’t understand. Without my training, he has accomplished more than I can even fathom. On his own, Richard reached the Temple of the Winds in the underworld, accomplished the task of stopping a plague, and returned from beyond the veil to the world of life. Can any of you even grasp such a thing? Especially for an untrained wizard? He banished the chimes from the world of the living—how, I have no idea. He has worked magic I’ve never heard of, much less seen or understand.

  “I’m afraid my knowledge could be more of an interference than an aid. Part of Richard’s ability, and advantage, is the way he views the world—through not just fresh eyes, but the eyes of a Seeker of Truth. He doesn’t know something is impossible, so he tries to accomplish it. I fear to tell him how to do things, how to use his magic, because such teaching also might suggest to him limits of his powers, thus creating them in reality. What could I teach a war wizard? I know nothing about the Subtractive side of magic, much less the gift of such power.”

  “Lacking another war wizard with Subtractive Magic, are you suggesting it would maybe take a Sister of the Dark to teach him?” Warren asked.

  “Well,” Zedd mused, “that might be a thought.” He let out a tired sigh as he turned more serious. “I have come to realize that it would not only be useless to try to teach Richard to use his ability, but it may even be dangerous—to the world.

  “I would like to go see him, and offer him my encouragement, experience, and understanding, but help?” Zedd shook his head. “I don’t dare.”

  No one offered any objection. Verna, for one, had firsthand experience that very likely confirmed the truth of his words. The rest of them probably knew Richard well enough to understand much the same.

  “May I help you find a spare tent, Zedd?” Verna finally asked. “You look like you could use some rest. In the morning, after you get a good night’s rest, and we all think this over, we can talk more.”

  Warren, who had just been about to ask another question before Verna spoke first, looked disappointed, but nodded in agreement.

  Zedd stretched his legs out straight as he yawned. “That would be best.” The thought of the job ahead was daunting. He ached to see Richard, to help him, especially after searching for him for so long. Sometimes it was hard to leave people alone when that was what they most needed. “That would be best,” he repeated, “I am tired.”

  “Summer be slipping away from us. The nights be turning chilly,” Adie said as she pressed against Zedd’s side. She looked up at him with her white eyes that in the lamplight had a soft amber cast. “Stay with me and warm my bones, old man?”

  Zedd smiled as he embraced her. It was as much of a comfort to be with her again as he had expected. In fact, at that moment, if she had given him another hat with a feather, he would have donned it, and with a smile.

  Worry, though, ached through his bones like an approaching storm.

  “Zedd,” Verna said, seeming to notice in his eyes the weight of his thoughts, “Richard is a war wizard who, as you say, has in the past proven his remarkable ability. He’s a very resourceful young man. Besides that, he is none other than the Seeker himself and has the Sword of Truth with him for protection—a sword that I can testify he knows how to use. Kahlan is a Confessor—the Mother Confessor—and is experienced in the use of her power. They have a Mord-Sith with them. Mord-Sith take no chances.”

  “I know,” Zedd whispered, staring off into a nightmare swirl of thoughts. “But I still fear greatly for them.”

  “What is it that worries you so?” Warren asked.

  “Albino mosquitoes.”

  Chapter 18

  Panting in exhaustion, Kahlan had to dance backward through the snarl of hobblebush stitched through with thorny blackberry to dodge the swing of the sword. The tip whistled past, missing her ribs by an inch. In her mad dash to escape, she ignored the snag and tug of thorns on her pants. She could feel her heartbeat galloping at the base of her skull.

  As he relentlessly pressed his attack, forcing her back over a low rise of ledge and through the swale beyond, mounds of fallen leaves kicked aloft by his boots boiled up into the late-afternoon air like colorful thunderheads. The bright yellow, lustrous orange, and vivid red leaves rained down over rocky outcrops swaddled in prickly whorls of juniper. It was like doing battle amid a fallen rainbow.

  Richard lunged at her again. Kahlan gasped but blocked his sword. He pressed his grim attack with implacable determination. She gave ground, stepping high as she did so in order to avoid tripping over the snare of roots around a huge white spruce. Losing her footing would be fatal; if she fell, Richard would stab her in an instant.

  She glanced left. There loomed a tall prominence of sheer rock draped with long trailers of woolly moss. To the other side, the brink of the ridge ran back to eventually meet that rock wall. Once the level ground tapered down to that dead end, the only option was going to be to climb straight up or straight down.

  She deflected a quick thrust of his sword, and he warded hers. In a burst of fury, she pressed a fierce assault, forcing him back a dozen steps.

  He eff
ortlessly parried her strikes, and then returned her attack in kind.

  What she had gained was quickly lost twice over. She was once again desperately defending herself and trading ground for her life.

  On a low, dead branch of a balsam fir not ten feet away, a small red squirrel, with his winter ear tufts already grown in, plucked a leathery brown rosette of lichen growing on the bark. With his white belly gloriously displayed, he sat on his haunches at the end of the broken-off deadwood, his bushy tail raised up, holding the crinkled piece of lichen in his tiny paws, eating round and round the edges, like some spectator at a tournament eating a fried bread cake while he watched the combatants clash.

  Kahlan gulped air as her eyes darted around, looking for clear footing among the imposing trunks of the highland wood while at the same time watching for an opportunity that might save her. If she could somehow get around Richard, around the menace of his sword, she might be able to gain a clear escape route. He would run her down, but it would buy her time. She dodged a quick thrust of his sword and ducked around a maple sapling into a bed of brown and yellow bracken ferns dappled by glowing sunlight.

  Richard, driving forward in a sudden mad rush to end it, lifted his sword to hack her.

  It was her opening—her only chance.

  In a blink, Kahlan reversed her retreat and sprang ahead a step, ducking under his arm. She drove her sword straight into his soft middle.

  Richard covered the wound with both hands. He teetered a moment, and then crumpled into the bed of ferns, sprawling flat on his back. Leaves lying lightly atop taller ferns were lifted by the disturbance. They somersaulted up into the air, finally drifting down to brightly decorate his body. The fierce red of the maple leaves was so vibrant it would have made blood look brown by comparison.

  Kahlan stood over Richard, gasping to catch her breath. She was spent.

  She dropped to her knees and then threw herself across his supine body. All around them, fern fronds, the color of caramel candy, were curled into little fists as if in defiance of having to die with the season. The sprinkling of lighter, yellowish, hayscented ferns lent a clean, sweet scent to the afternoon air. There were few things that could equal the fragrance of the woods in late autumn. In a spectacular bit of chance, a tall maple nearby, sheltered as it was by a protective corner in the rock wall, was not yet denuded, but displayed a wide spread of leaves so orange they looked tangy against the powder blue sky above.