The Third Kingdom. Terry Goodkind
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was feeling dizzy, both from his injuries and from fear for his friends and loved ones after what Henrik had told him about the mysterious attack. The long war had ended. He had thought they were finally at peace and that life was returning to normal. He guessed that there was no such thing as normal out in the Dark Lands. He knew, though, that even for the Dark Lands this was out of the ordinary.
Sick with worry for the fate of his friends, his bite wound throbbing painfully, and his head pounding with what might be a developing fever, he needed to lie down.
After learning a little more about Zedd and Nicci beginning to heal them despite the Hedge Maid’s vile touch of death, he needed to have Sammie see to helping Kahlan. He needed help as well, but he knew that he could wait a bit. He didn’t know if she could.
Richard was about to ask Ester if she knew anything at all about the people who had attacked his friends, when he saw the cat across the room suddenly turn to the doorway and arch its back.
Teeth bared, the cat hissed. Its dark gray fur lifted until it was all standing on end.
Richard felt the hair on his own neck stiffen.
“Does it do that often?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Sammie pulled a long lock of curly black hair back from her face as she frowned at the cat. “No. Just when it’s frightened for some reason.”
The flames of several candles withered and died out, leaving a wisp of smoke to curl up into the still air.
Richard heard other cats out in the corridors beyond the doorway let out feral yowls.
Ester started to get up. “What in the world …”
Richard caught her arm, pulling her back, keeping her from going to the door. Henrik’s eyes widened at the chorus of feline screeches. Sammie’s frown deepened.
And then, someone in the distance let out a bloodcurdling scream.
Richard sprang up. Dizzy and light-headed, he struggled to keep from falling over as he focused his attention on the sounds outside in the corridors.
His hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword resting in its sheath at his hip. His fingers tightened around the wire-wound hilt as sudden cries of terror and pain rang out and echoed through the halls. At first there was only one scream, but others soon joined in a chorus of terror.
The sword’s anger instantly inundated him. The suddenness of it felt like being abruptly dropped into an icy river. The shock of it made him draw a sharp breath.
His own anger rose up out of those dark waters to join with the rage spiraling up from the ancient weapon. The icy shock turned hot with rage as a storm of power from the sword called forth its twin from somewhere deep within him.
With his hand on the hilt of that ancient weapon, whatever sickness he felt, whatever pain, whatever exhaustion and weakness weighed on him, it melted before the heat of rage that had sparked to life. The sword’s power, its anger, crackled within him, hungry for violence in reaction to the screams of terror and pain he was hearing from out in the passageways.
The unique sound of steel rang through the room as Richard drew his sword.
It felt exhilarating having it out, intoxicating to hold it in his fist. With the blade free, with the sword’s anger awakened, the Seeker and the Sword of Truth were now forged together in purpose and fierce intent.
They were now a singular weapon.
Ester shrank back at seeing him with his sword to hand. Distantly, Richard realized that his grim expression, and especially the look in his eyes, was probably frightening her.
Henrik scooted back toward the wall, wanting to be out of his way.
Sammie crouched protectively over Kahlan, ready to protect her from whatever might come through the door.
Richard didn’t intend to let anything come through the door.
He pointed the sword back at Kahlan as he spoke with quiet fury to Sammie. “Stay here and protect her.”
Looking determined, Sammie nodded.
Richard flipped the sheepskin covering up out of the way as he ducked under it and out into the hallway, headed toward the sound of the screams.
As Richard raced out into the hallway, he heard not only terrified screams, but a kind of animalistic growl that could not have sounded more out of place in the world of life. The malevolent roar, a manifest threat to the living, reverberated through the dark passageways.
Richard didn’t know the layout of the labyrinth of corridors excavated through the soft rock of the mountain, or where all the passageways led and connected, but he knew the direction the screams were coming from, so he raced to follow the sound. He knew that the kind of cries he was hearing only came from people in mortal terror. Other screams he recognized as coming from those who were grievously injured or dying. He had heard those dreadful, primal shrieks before. With the war over, he had hoped never again to hear such gut-wrenching cries.
As he raced down the passageways, he began encountering clumps of people racing away from the screams of the injured and bone-chilling bellows of the attackers. Many of the people he ran past were screaming as well, but they were crying out in panic, not the kind of screams that people let out in the throes of death.
As he ran, Richard realized that he was getting lost in the confusing maze of passageways, but it wasn’t hard to follow the agonized cries toward their source. It didn’t really matter if he knew where he was, only that he knew where he was going, and the screams marked the route all too clearly. With his own pain and sickness forgotten for the moment—a distant concern banished by the rage of the sword—his only need was to get to those being hurt.
The part of the rage that came from his sword wanted to get at the ones doing the hurting. That part of the rage wanted the blood of the attacker.
Some of the people saw him coming with his sword to hand and flattened themselves against a wall to stay out of his way, but many others didn’t see him coming and he had to shove them aside. Women hurriedly herded children past, paying attention only to their charges. A few men helped older people. At times, as people desperate to escape the threat came racing past Richard, he had to use an arm to shield them from running into his sword. Other people, men and women, old and young alike, stampeded through, too terrorized by what was behind them to care about what was in front of them.
Before he saw the threat, he encountered a smell that was alien to the cavelike village of Stroyza. It was the unmistakable stench of decomposing flesh, a smell so sickening, so repulsive, that it made his throat clench shut to lock his breath in his lungs. He had to force himself to breathe.
As he rounded a curve in the passageway, Richard saw a broad open area out ahead. It was the entrance cavern of the village, the place where he first came in after he had climbed the narrow trail up the side of the mountain. Out the opening a gentle rain fell through the dark night.
A few lamps hung on pegs in the walls to one side and a fire burning in a pit to the other side provided the only light. In that dim, flickering light he could see people trying to stay out of the clutches of two big men. Both of the dark shapes stormed clumsily around the room, charging first one way, then another, swiping at people trapped in the room. Both of the big attackers glistened in the lamplight, wet from the climb up in the rain.
Some of the people cornered in nooks and crannies around the broad cavern pressed themselves back against the walls, hoping not to be noticed. Others inched toward openings, hoping for a chance to escape. Men keeping what they hoped was a safe distance waved their arms and threw stones, trying to distract and confuse the attackers.
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