Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

Tobias stumbled to a halt, blinking at what he was seeing. D’Harans all around him were dropping. Shrieks lifted on the howling wind. He saw snow stained red. He saw men fall in their tracks, spilling their guts.

Tobias licked his lips, afraid to move lest the wind take him, too. His gaze darted in every direction as he tried to make sense of what was happening, tried to see the attackers.

“Dear Creator,” he called out, “spare me! I do your work!”

Men were converging on the stable yard from every direction, and they were being brought down as fast as they came. Well over a hundred corpses already littered the snowy field. He had never seen men slain with such speed or brutality.

Tobias crouched down, and was startled to realize that the twirling gusts were moving deliberately.

They were alive. He began to make them out. White-caped men slipped all around him, attacking the D’Haran soldiers with swift and deadly grace. Not one of the D’Harans tried to flee; they all came on fiercely, but none managed to engage the enemy before they were quickly dispatched.

The night fell silent but for the wind. Before there was time to run, it was over. The ground was cluttered with a jumble of still, dark shapes. Tobias turned all about, but saw none left alive. Already, the snow was beginning to drift over the bodies. In another hour they would vanish under the white fury.

The caped men skimmed fluidly through the snow, graceful and slithery, moving as if they were made of wind. As they came toward him, his sword slipped from his numb fingers. Tobias wanted to call out to Lunetta to strike them down with a spell, but as they came into the light, his voice failed him.

They were not men.

Scales the color of the snowy night undulated over rippling muscles. Smooth skin sheathed earless, hairless, blunt heads set with beady eyes. The beasts wore only simple hide clothes beneath capes that billowed and flapped in the wind, and in each clawed hand they gripped blood-slicked three-bladed knives.

They were the creatures he had seen impaled on the poles outside the Confessors’ Palace—the creatures Lord Rahl had killed: mriswith. Having seen them slaughter all these experienced soldiers, Tobias couldn’t imagine how Lord Rahl, or anyone, could have bested one, much less the number he had seen.

One of the creatures skulked toward him, watching with unblinking eyes. It glided to a stop, not ten feet away.

“Leave,” the mriswith hissed.

“What?” Tobias stammered.

“Leave.” It slashed the air with its clawlike knife, a quick gesture, graceful with murderous mastery. “Esssscape.”

“Why? Why would you do this? Why do you want us to escape?”

The lipless mouth slit widened, mimicking a gruesome grin. “The dreamssss walker wants you to esssscape. Go now, before more skin walkerssss come. Go.”

“But…”

With a scaled arm, the mriswith drew its cape against the wind, turned, and vanished into the blowing snow. Tobias peered into the night, but the wind had gone vacant and lifeless.

Why would such vile creatures want to help him? Why would they kill his enemies? Why would they want him to escape?

Comprehension came over him in a loving, warm rush. The Creator had sent them. Of course. How could he have been so blind? Lord Rahl had said he killed the mriswith. Lord Rahl fought for the Keeper. If the mriswith were evil creatures Lord Rahl would fight on their side, not against them.

The mriswith had said the dream walker sent them. The Creator came to Tobias in his dreams. That had to be it; the Creator had sent them.

“Lunetta.” Tobias turned to her. She was cowering behind him. “The Creator comes to me in my dreams. That was what they were trying to tell me when they said the one from my dreams had sent them. Lunetta, the Creator sent them to help protect me.”

Lunetta’s eyes widened. “The Creator Himself has intervened on your behalf to thwart the Keeper’s plans. The Creator Himself watches over you. He must have great things planned for you, Tobias.”

Tobias retrieved his sword from under the snow and straightened with a smile. “Indeed. I have kept His wishes above all else, and so He has protected me. Hurry, we must do as His messengers have told us. We must be off to do the Creator’s work.”

As he trudged through the snow, winding his way among the bodies, he looked up to see a dark shape suddenly leap before him, blocking his path.

“Well, well, Lord General, going someplace?” A menacing grin came to the face. “Do you wish to cast a spell on me, sorceress?”

Tobias still had his sword in his hand, but he knew he wouldn’t be quick enough.

He flinched at the sound of a bone-jarring thunk. The one before him pitched face-first into the snow at his feet. Tobias looked up to see Galtero standing with the cudgel above the unconscious figure.

“Galtero, you have earned your rank this night.”

The Creator had just given him a priceless prize, showing him, again, that nothing was out of the reach of the pious. Thankfully, Galtero had the presence of mind to use the cudgel, and not a blade.

He saw blood from the blow, but he saw the breath of life, too. “My, my, but this be turning out to be quite the good night. Lunetta, you have some work to do on behalf of the Creator before you heal this one.”

Lunetta bent beside the still form, pressing her fingers into the blood-matted, wavy, brown hair. “Perhaps I ought to do a healing first. Galtero be stronger than he thinks.”

“That, my dear sister, would not be advisable, at least not from what I have heard. The healing can wait.” He glanced to his colonel and gestured to the stables. “Are the horses ready?”

“Yes, Lord General, as soon as you are.”

Tobias drew the knife Galtero had given him. “We must hurry, Lunetta. The messenger told us we must escape.” He squatted down and rolled the unconscious figure over. “And then we be off after the Mother Confessor.”

Lunetta leaned close, peering at him. “But Lord General, I told you, the wizard’s web hides her identity from us. We cannot see the strands of a web like that. We will not know her.”

A grin tightened the scar at the side of Tobias Brogan’s mouth.

“Oh, but I have seen the strands of the web. The Mother Confessor’s name be Kahlan Amnell.”

18

As she had feared, she was a prisoner. She flipped another page over after making the appropriate entry in the ledger book. A prisoner of the highest station, a prisoner behind a paper lock, but a prisoner nevertheless.

Verna yawned as she scanned the next page, checking the records of palace expenses. Each report required her approval and had to be initialed to show that the Prelate herself had certified the expenses. Why it was necessary was a mystery to her, but having only held the office for a few days she was loath to declare it a waste of her time, only to have Sister Leoma, or Dulcinia, or Philippa divert their eyes and explain under their breath, so as not to cause the Prelate embarrassment, why it was indeed necessary, and go on in great detail to explicate the dire consequences of not doing such a simple thing that would require hardly any effort on her part, but would be of such benefit to others.

She could a

nticipate the reaction should she declare she was not going to bother to check the tallies: Why, Prelate, if the people didn’t fear that the Prelate herself was concerned enough to be watching their work orders, they would be emboldened to gouge the palace. The Sisters would be thought wasteful fools without an ounce of sense. And then, on the other side, if the work orders weren’t paid while waiting the Prelate’s directive, the poor workers’ families would go hungry. You wouldn’t want those children to go hungry, would you, simply because you didn’t want to pay them the courtesy of approving payment for their hard work already done? Just because you don’t wish to glance at the report and go to the trouble of initialing it? Would you really want them to think the Prelate so callous?

Verna sighed as she skimmed the report of expenses for the stables: hay and grain, the farrier, the tack upkeep, replacement of lost tack, repair to the stable after a stallion staved in a stall, and repair needed after several horses apparently panicked in the night, broke down a fence, and bolted off into the countryside. She was going to have to have a talk to the stable personnel and insist they keep better order under their roof. She jammed the pen in the ink bottle, sighed again, and initialed the bottom of the page.

As she turned the stable tallies over on top of the pile of other tallies she had already perused, initialed, and entered in the ledger, someone knocked softly at the door. She pulled another paper from the stack of reports yet to be worked, a lengthy reckoning from the butcher, and started scanning down the figures. She had had no idea how expensive it was to run the Palace of the Prophets.

The soft knock came again. Probably Sister Dulcinia or Phoebe wanting to bring in another stack of reports. She was not initialing as fast as they could bring them in. How did Prelate Annalina manage to get it all done? Verna hoped it wasn’t Sister Leoma, come again to bring to her attention news of some calamity the Prelate had caused by an unthinking action or comment. Maybe they would think her too busy and go away if she didn’t answer.