The panic, Richard thought, was a good sign. At least they wouldn’t be ignored. Of course, it was hard to ignore a seven-foot gar walking through a city in broad daylight. Richard suspected that Gratch was having the time of his life. Not sharing his innocent view of the task at hand, the rest of them wore grim expressions as they marched down the center of the street.
Gratch walked behind Richard, Ulic and Egan in front, Cara and Berdine at his left, and Hally and Raina to the right. It was no chance order. Ulic and Egan had insisted that they were to be to each side, as they were Lord Rahl’s bodyguards. The women didn’t think much of that idea, and argued that they would be the last line of defense around Lord Rahl. Gratch hadn’t cared where he walked as long as he was close to Richard.
Richard had had to raise his voice to bring a halt to the argument. He had told them that Ulic and Egan would be in front to clear the way if need be, the Mord-Sith would protect each side, and Gratch would be at his back, since the gar could see over them all. Everyone had seemed satisfied, thinking they had received the stations that would prove the best protection for Lord Rahl.
Ulic and Egan’s capes were pushed back over their shoulders, baring the bands with sharpened projections worn above their elbows, but they carried their swords sheathed at their belts. The four women, covered from neck to toes in closely tailored bloodred leather displaying the yellow star and crescent of the Mord-Sith at their stomachs, carried their Agiel in fists swathed with armor-backed, red leather gloves.
Richard knew all too well the pain it caused to hold an Agiel. Just as the Agiel Denna had trained him with, and had given him, hurt whenever he held it, it was not possible for these women to hold their own Agiel without its magic causing them pain. The pain, Richard knew, was excruciating, but Mord-Sith were trained to endure pain, and they stubbornly prided themselves in their ability to tolerate it.
Richard had tried to convince them to give up their Agiel, but they would not. He could order it, he supposed, but to do so would be to withdraw the freedom he had granted them, and he was loath to do that. If they were to give up their Agiel, it was for them to do. Somehow, he didn’t think they would. Having carried the Sword of Truth as long as he had, Richard could understand how wishes could be at variance with principles; he hated the sword, and wanted to be rid of it, of the things he did with it, of what it did to him; but at every turn, he had fought to keep it.
A good fifty or sixty troops milled about outside the square, two-story building occupied by the D’Haran command. Only six, up on the entrance landing, appeared to be formally posted. Without slowing, Richard and his small company cut a straight line through the knot of men and toward the steps. The men all stumbled back out of the way, shock registering on their faces as they took in the odd sight.
They didn’t panic the way the people in the market had, but most moved back to make way. Glares from the four women moved the rest back as efficiently as bared steel. Some of the men gripped the hilts of their swords as they took a few steps in retreat.
“Make way for Lord Rahl!” Ulic called out. In disorder, the soldiers stumbled back farther. Confused, but not willing to take a chance, a few bowed.
In a private cocoon of concentration, Richard watched it all from under the hood of his mriswith cape.
Before anyone had the presence of mind to stop or question them, they were through the crowd of soldiers and climbing the dozen steps to the simple ironbound door. At the top, one of the guards, a man about Richard’s size, decided he wasn’t sure they should be allowed in. He stepped in front of the door.
“You will wait—”
“Make way for Lord Rahl, you fool!” Egan growled without slowing.
The guard’s eyes fixed on the armbands. “What…?”
Still not slowing, Egan backhanded the man, knocking him aside. The guard toppled off the landing. Two of the others jumped off to get out of the way, and the other three opened the door, backing through.
Richard winced. He had told them all, even Gratch, that he didn’t want anyone hurt unless it was necessary. He worried about what each of them might imagine was necessary.
Inside, soldiers, having heard the commotion outside, rushed toward them from halls dimly lit with a few lamps. Seeing Ulic and Egan, and the gold bands above their elbows, they didn’t draw weapons, but they didn’t look to be far from doing so. A menacing growl from Gratch slowed them. The sight of the Mord-Sith in their red leather stopped them.
“General Reibisch” was all Ulic said.
A few of the men moved forward.
“Lord Rahl to see General Reibisch,” Egan said with quiet authority. “Where is he?”
Suspicious, the men stared, but didn’t speak. A husky officer on the right, fists on his hips and a glare on his pockmarked face, pushed through his men.
“What’s this about?”
He took an aggressive step forward, one too many, and lifted a threatening finger toward them. In a blink, Raina had her Agiel on his shoulder, dropping him to his knees. She canted it up, pressing the tip into the nerve at the side of his neck. His shriek echoed through the halls. The rest of the men flinched back.
“You answer questions,” Raina said in the unmistakable, smoldering tone of a Mord-Sith in complete control, “you don’t ask them.” The man’s whole body convulsed as he screamed. Raina leaned toward him, her red leather creaking. “I grant you but one more chance. Where is General Reibisch?”
His arm jerked up, waggling uncontrollably, but still managing to point in the general direction of the central of three halls. “Door… end… hall.”
Raina withdrew her Agiel. “Thank you.” The man collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Richard didn’t spare any of his concentration to wince in sympathy. As much pain as an Agiel could give, Raina hadn’t used it to kill; he would recover, but the other men stared wide-eyed as he writhed in the lingering agony. “Bow to the Master Rahl,” she hissed. “All of you.”
“Master Rahl?” one panicked voice asked.
Hally lifted a hand toward Richard. “Master Rahl.”
The men stared in consternation. Raina snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor. They dropped to their knees. Before they had time to think, Richard and his company were off down the hall, their boot strikes on the wide-planked wood floor reverberating off the walls. Some of the men, drawing swords, followed.
At the end of the hall, Ulic flung open the door to a large high-ceilinged room that had been stripped of decoration. Here and there, hints of the former blue color scheme showed through the utilitarian whitewash. Gratch, bringing up the rear, had to bend to fit through the doorway. Richard ignored the worry in his gut that they were sliding down into a viper pit.
Inside the room they were greeted by three formidable ranks of D’Haran soldiers, all with battle-axes or swords to hand. It was a solid wall of grim faces, muscle, and steel. Behind the soldiers was a long table before a wall of unadorned windows looking out on a snowy courtyard. Above the far courtyard wall, Richard could see the spires of the Confessors’ Palace, and above it, on the mountain, the Wizard's Keep.
A row of austere-looking men sat behind the table watching the intruders. On their upper arms partially veiled by sleeves of chain mail were neat scars that Richard presumed denoted rank. The row of men certainly had the demeanor of officers; their eyes shined with confidence and indignation.
The man in the center tipped his chair back and folded his muscular arms, arms with more scars that the others. His curly rust-colored beard covered part of an old white scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. His heavy eyebrows drew down with displeasure.
Hally glared at the soldiers. “We are here to see General Reibisch. Move out of our way, or be moved.”
The captain of the guards reached for her. “You will—”
Hally clouted the side of his skull with an armor-backed glove. Egan swept his elbow up to slash the captain’s shoulder. In mid-recoil, Egan snatched the cap
tain by the hair, bent his neck back over a knee, and gripped his windpipe.
“If you wish to die, speak.”
The captain pressed his lips together so hard they turned white. Angry curses rose from the other men as they pressed forward. Agiel rose in warning.
“Let them through,” the bearded man behind the table said.
The men moved back, allowing only enough room for them to squeeze through. The women to each side brandished their Agiel, and the soldiers yielded more room. Egan dropped the captain. He knelt on his good arm and knees as he coughed and gasped for his breath. Behind, the doorway and hall beyond filled with more men, all armed.
The man with the rust-colored beard let the front legs of his chair thump down. He folded his hands atop a scattering of papers between stacks laid out neatly to each side.
“What’s your business?”
Hally stepped forward between Ulic and Egan. “You are General Reibisch?” The bearded man nodded. Hally inclined her head to him. It was a slight bow; Richard had never seen a Mord-Sith grant more, even to a queen. “We bring a message from Commander General Trimack of the First File. Darken Rahl is dead, and his spirit has been banished to the underworld by the new Master Rahl.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
She drew the scroll from its pouch and handed it to him. He inspected the seal briefly before breaking it with a thumb. He tipped his chair back once more while he unfurled the letter. His grayish green eyes flicked from side to side as he read. At last he let the chair thump down again.
“And it took all of you to bring me a message?”
Hally planted her armored knuckles on the table and leaned toward him. “We bring you not only the message, General Reibisch, we also bring you Lord Rahl.”
“Is that so. And where is this Lord Rahl of yours?”
Hally flashed her best Mord-Sith expression, looking as if she didn’t expect to be asked again. “He stands before you now.”
Reibisch glanced past her to the company of strangers, his eyes momentarily taking in the gar. Hally straightened, holding her arm out toward Richard.
“May I present Lord Rahl, the Master of D’Hara and all its people.”
Men whispered, passing her words back to those in the hall. Puzzled, General Reibisch gestured toward the women.
“One of you, is claiming to be Lord Rahl?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Cara said. She held a hand out toward Richard. “This is Lord Rahl.”
The general’s brow drew together in a scowl. “I don’t know what kind of game this is, but my patience is just about…”
Richard pushed back the hood of his mriswith cape and let his concentration relax. Before the eyes of the general and all his men, Richard appeared to materialize out of the air.
Soldiers all around gasped. Some fell back. Some dropped to their knees in deep bows.
“I,” Richard said in a quiet voice, “am Lord Rahl.”
There was a moment of dead silence, and then General Reibisch burst into laughter as he slapped a hand to the table. He threw his head back and roared. Some of the men snickered with him, but by the way their eyes moved, it was clear they didn’t know why they were joining in, only that they thought it best they did.
His laughter dying out, General Reibisch rose to his feet. “Quite a trick, young man. But I’ve seen a lot of tricks since I’ve been stationed in Aydindril. Why, I one day had a man entertain me by having birds fly out of his trousers.” The scowl returned. “For a moment, I almost believed you, but a trick doesn’t make you Lord Rahl. Maybe in Trimack’s eyes, but not in mine. I don’t bow down to street-corner magicians.”
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,’” Hally 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.”
Hally 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 filled 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. Hally 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 fur
y, 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 bringer 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 mriswith’s death howl shuddered in the air.
Men froze at the sound, and the room fell silent.
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.”
Blood of the Fold Page 12