“It’s better. Can I have more?”
“Of course, my son. With Father Rahl, there is always more.”
21
Wearily, Richard searched the ground where the trail resumed at the end of the slide, his hopes fading. Dark clouds scudded low overhead, occasionally bringing a few fat drops of cold rain to splatter on the back of his head as he hunted. It had occurred to him that maybe Kahlan had made it through the Narrows, that she had only become separated from him, and had continued on. She was wearing the bone Adie had given her, and it should have kept her safe. She should have been able to make it through. But he was wearing the tooth, and Adie had said he couldn’t be seen either, yet the shadows had come for them anyway. It seemed odd; the shadows hadn’t moved until it was dark, at the split rock. Why didn’t they come for them before?
There were no tracks. Nothing had been through the Narrows for a long time. Fatigue and despair enveloped him again as fits of icy wind flapped his forest cloak around him, seeming to urge him on, away from the Narrows. All hope gone, he turned once more to the path, toward the Midlands.
He had taken only a few steps when a thought brought him to a sudden halt.
If Kahlan had become separated from him, if she thought the underworld had taken him, if she had thought she had lost him and was alone, would she have continued on, to the Midlands? Alone?
No.
He turned to the Narrows. No. She would have gone back. Back to the wizard.
It would be no use for her to go to the Midlands alone. She needed help, that’s why she had come to Westland in the first place. Without the Seeker, the only help was the wizard.
Richard dared not put too much faith in the thought, but it wasn’t that far back to the place where he had fought the shadows, where he had lost her. He couldn’t go on without checking, without knowing for sure. Fatigue forgotten, he plunged back into the Narrows.
Green light welcomed his return. Following his tracks back, in a short time he found the place where he had fought the shadows. His footprints wandered all about in the mud of the slide, telling the tale of his battle. He was surprised at how much ground he had covered in the fight. He didn’t remember all the circling, the back and forth. But then he didn’t remember much of the fight, until the last part.
With a jolt of recognition, he saw what he was looking for. The tracks of the two of them, together, then hers, alone. His heart pounded as he followed them, hoping so hard it hurt, that they wouldn’t lead into the wall. Squatting, he inspected them, touched them. Her tracks wandered about a while, seemingly confused, and then they stopped, and turned. Where their pair of tracks led in from the other way, one set of tracks lead back.
Kahlan’s.
Richard stood in a rush, his breathing rapid, his pulse racing. The green light glowed irritatingly about him. He wondered how far she could have gone. It had taken them most of the night to laboriously cross the Narrows. But they hadn’t known where the trail was. He looked down at the footprints in the mud. He did now.
He would have to go fast; he couldn’t be timid in following the way back. A memory of something Zedd had told him when the old man had given him the sword came into his mind. The strength of rage, the wizard had said, gives you the heedless drive to prevail.
The clear metallic ringing filled the dim morning air as the Seeker drew his sword. Anger flooded through him. Without a second thought, Richard dashed down the trail, following the tracks. The pressure of the wall buffeted him as he jogged through the cool mist. When the tracks turned, switching back and forth, he didn’t slow, but set his feet to one side or the other to throw his weight the other way down the path.
Keeping a steady, sustainable pace, he was able to traverse the span of the Narrows before midmorning. Twice, he had come across a shadow floating in place on the path. They didn’t move or seem to be aware of him. Richard charged through, sword first. Even without faces, they had seemed surprised as they howled apart.
Without slowing he went through the split rock, kicking a gripper out of the way. On the other side he stopped to catch his breath. He was overwhelmed with relief that her footprints went all the way. Now, back on the forest trail, her tracks would be harder to see, but it didn’t matter. He knew where she was going, and he knew she was safely through the Narrows. He felt like crying with joy in the knowledge that Kahlan was alive.
He knew he was getting closer to her; the mist hadn’t yet had time to soften the sharp edges of her footprints, the way it had when he had first found them. When it had gotten light, she must have followed their tracks instead of using the walls to show the way, or else he would have caught her long before now. Good girl, he thought, using your head. He would make a woodswoman of her yet.
Richard trotted off down the trail, keeping the sword—and his anger—out. He didn’t waste time to stop and look for signs of her trail, but whenever there was a soft or muddy patch, he looked down, checking, as he slowed a little. After running over an area of mossy ground, he came to a small bare patch with footprints. He gave a cursory glance as he went by. Something he saw made him stop so suddenly that he fell. On his hands and knees, he peered down at the prints. His eyes widened.
Overlapping part of her footprint was a man’s bootprint, nearly three times as large as hers. He knew without a doubt who it belonged to: the last man of the quad.
Rage brought him to his feet scrambling into a dead run. Branches and rock flashed by in a blur. His only concern was to stay on the trail and avoid accidentally running into the boundary, not out of fear for himself, but because he knew he couldn’t help Kahlan if he got himself killed. His lungs burned for air as his chest heaved with exertion. The anger of the magic made him ignore his exhaustion, his lack of sleep.
Clambering to the top of a small jut of rock, he saw her at the bottom of the other side. For an instant, he froze. Kahlan stood on the left, feet apart, in a half crouch, a rock wall at her back. The last man of the quad stood in front of her, to Richard’s right. Panic slashed through his anger. The man’s leather uniform glistened in the wet. The hood of his chain-mail shirt covered his head of blond hair. His sword rose in his massive fists, and muscles stood out in knots along his arms. He howled a battle cry.
He was going to kill her.
Wrath exploded through Richard’s mind. He screamed “No!” in a murderous rage as he leapt off the rock. With both hands he brought the Sword of Truth up while still in midair. When he hit the ground he recoiled, swinging it around from behind, in an arc. The sword whistled with its speed. The man had turned as Richard hit the ground. Seeing Richard’s sword coming, he brought his own up defensively with lightning speed, the tendons in his wrists and hands making a popping sound as he did so.
Richard watched as if in a dream as his sword came around.
Every ounce of his strength went into trying to make the sword go faster, go truer. Be deadlier. The magic raged with his need. Richard looked from the man’s sword, hard into the steel blue eyes. The Seeker’s sword followed the track of his eyes. He heard himself still screaming. The man held his sword straight up, to deflect the blow.
Everything else around the man dissolved in Richard’s vision. His anger, the magic, was unleashed like never before. No power on earth could deny him the man’s blood. Richard was beyond all reason. Beyond all other need. Beyond all other cause for living. He was death, brought to life.
Richard’s entire life force focused lethal hatred into the drive of his sword.
With a beat of his heart that he could feel in the straining muscles of his neck, Richard watched out of his peripheral vision with expectant elation as he held the man’s blue eyes, watched his sword finally sweep the rest of the agonizing distance around in a smooth arc, at long last contacting the enemy’s raised sword. He saw the detail of it shattering ever so slowly in a burst of hot fragments, freeing the bulk of the severed blade to lift into the air, twisting as it went, its polished surface glinting in the light with a f
lash upon each of the three revolutions it made before the Seeker’s sword, with all the power of his rage and the magic behind it, reached the man’s head, contacting the chain mail, making the head deflect only the tiniest bit before the sword exploded through the steel links of the mail, through the man’s head at eye level, filling the air with a shower of steel pieces and links.
The misty morning erupted with a burst of red fog that made Richard feel a flush of exhilaration as he watched clumps of blond hair and bone and brain tumble madly away as the blade continued its sweep through the crimson air, clearing the last ragged fragments of the enemy’s skull, continuing its journey around, while the body with only a neck and jaw and little else recognizable above that, began dropping away as if all its bones had dissolved, leaving nothing to hold it up, finally hitting the ground with a hard jolt. Globs of blood were flung up into the air in long strings which finally arced and fell back to the ground and onto Richard, offering the victor the hot satisfying taste of it in his mouth where some of it had landed as he screamed his rage. More pumped thick and copious out into the dirt at the same time as bits of steel from the chain mail and shattered sword rained to earth while other bits of bone and steel that had already flown past Richard bounced and skittered across the rock behind him and still more bone and brain and blood from up in the air fell back at last onto the ground all about, tinting everything a rich red.
The bringer of death stood victorious over the object of his hate and rage, soaked in blood and the glory of joy such as he had never imagined. His chest-heaved in rapture. Bringing the sword to the front again, he checked for any other threat. There was none.
And then the world imploded upon him.
Everything about jolted back into his sight. Richard saw a wide-eyed look of shock on Kahlan’s face before the pain took him to his knees, ripping through him, doubling him over.
The Sword of Truth dropped from his hands.
Sudden realization of what he had done slashed through him. He had killed a man. Worse, he had killed a man he had wanted to kill. It didn’t matter that he was protecting another life; he had wanted to kill. Had reveled in it. He would have allowed nothing to deny him the killing.
The vision of his sword exploding through the man’s head flashed over and over in his mind. He couldn’t make it stop.