Faith of the Fallen

Chapter 61

As Kahlan rode out of her home city of Aydindril for the last time, she pulled her wolf-fur mantle up over her shoulders for protection against the bitter wind. She recalled that the last time the weather had been about to close in for the winter was the last time she had seen Richard. With the world in such constant turmoil and the battle burning hot, her thoughts, by necessity, always seemed to be on urgent matters. The unexpected memory of Richard was a welcome, if bittersweet, respite from the worries of war.

She took a last look before cresting the hill, to see the splendor of the Confessors’ Palace on the distant rise. It made her ache with the sense of home whenever she saw the soaring white marble columns and rows of tall windows. Other people were stricken with awe or fear at the sight of the palace, but Kahlan’s heart was always warmed by it. She had grown up there, and it was a place of many happy memories for her.

“It won’t be forever, Kahlan.”

Kahlan glanced over at Verna. “No, it won’t.”

She wished she could believe that.

“Besides,” Verna said, offering a smile, “we will be denying the Imperial Order the people, and that is what they are really after. The rest is just stone and wood. What matters stone and wood, if the people are safe?”

Kahlan, despite her desolate tears, was overcome with a smile. “You’re right, Verna. That really is all that matters. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Don’t worry, Mother Confessor,” Cara said, “Berdine and the rest of the Mord-Sith, along with the troops, will watch over the people and see them safely to D’Hara.”

Kahlan’s smile widened. “I wish I could see Jagang’s face when he finally gets here next spring to be greeted by ghosts.”

The season of war was drawing to an end. If the summer with Richard in their mountain home had been a wonderful dream, then the summer of endless warfare had been a nightmare.

The fighting had been desperate, intense, and bloody. There were times when Kahlan thought she and the army could not go on, that they were finished. Each of those times, they had managed to pull through. There were occasions when she almost welcomed death, just to have the nightmare end, just to stop seeing people in agony and pain, to stop seeing all the precious lives in ruins.

Against the seemingly indomitable millions of the Imperial Order, the forces of the D’Haran Empire had managed to slow the enemy enough to keep them from taking Aydindril this year. With thousands of lives lost in the fighting, they had bought the hundreds of thousands of people of Aydindril and other cities that lay along the path of the Order the time they needed to escape.

As autumn had turned bitter, the immense force of the Imperial Order had reached a broad valley at a convergence of the Kern River and a large tributary, where the lay of the land provided space to accommodate their entire force. With winter closing in, Jagang knew better than to be caught unprepared. They had dug in while they had the opportunity. The D’Haran forces had set up their defensive lines to the north, bulwarking the way to Aydindril.

Just as Warren had forecast, Aydindril was more than Jagang’s army could take in this season of war. Jagang, once again, had proven his prudent patience; he had chosen to preserve the viability of his army so he would be able to press on successfully when conditions allowed. In the short run, it gave Kahlan and her forces breathing room, but in the long run, it would spell their doom.

Kahlan felt sweet relief that Warren’s prediction, of Aydindril falling the following year, at least would not be at the cost of a slaughter of the city’s citizens. She didn’t know what hardships the people would have to endure escaping to D’Hara, but it was better than the certain slavery and widespread death of remaining behind in Aydindril.

Some people, she knew, would refuse to leave. In cities along the Order’s march up the Midlands, some people put their faith in “Jagang the Just.” Some people believed that the good spirits, or the Creator, would watch over them no matter what. Kahlan knew they couldn’t save everyone from themselves. Those who wished to live, and were willing to see reason, stood a chance. Those who saw only what they wished to see, would, at the least, fall under the pall of the Order’s domination.

Kahlan reached back and touched the hilt of the Sword of Truth sticking up behind her shoulder. It was comforting, sometimes, to touch it. The Confessors’ Palace was no longer her home. Home was wherever Richard and she were together.

The fighting was often so intense, the fear so palpable, that there were times—days at a stretch—when she never thought of him. Sometimes, she had to devote all her physical and mental effort to just staying alive one more day.

Some men, feeling the war was hopeless, had deserted. Kahlan could understand the way they felt. All they ever did, it seemed, was to fight for their lives against overwhelming odds as they backed their way up through the Midlands.

Galea had fallen. That there was no word from any city in Galea probably said it all.

They had lost Kelton, too. Many of the Keltans in Winstead, Penverro, and other cities had fled, first. Most of Kelton’s army were still with them, though some had rushed home in desperation.

Kahlan tried not to think too long on everything that had gone wrong, lest she give up. They had saved a good many people—gotten them out of the way of the Order. At least for the time being. It was the best they could do.

Along the long retreat north, tens of thousands of their joint forces had lost their lives in the fierce battles. The Order had lost many times that number. In the high summer heat, the Order had lost a quarter million men to fever alone. It made little difference; they continued to grow and to roll onward.

Kahlan recalled the things Richard had told her, that they could not win, that the New World was going to fall to the Order, and if they resisted, it would only cause greater bloodshed. She was reluctantly coming to understand that hopeless outlook.

She feared she was only getting people killed to no good end. Yet giving up still was out of the question for her.

Kahlan looked over her shoulder, past the long column of men escorting her, past the trees and up the mountain, to the great dark mass of the Wizard’s Keep looming up on the mountain overlooking Aydindril.

Zedd would have to go there; they could not stop the Imperial Order from having Aydindril, but they dared not let them have the Keep.

It was dusk, ten days later, when Kahlan and her company rode back into the D’Haran camp. It was obvious from the first instant that something was wrong. Men were running through camp, swords drawn. Others were rushing pole weapons to the barricades. Men were donning leather and chain mail as they ran to their posts. It was a tense scene, but one Kahlan had seen repeated so often that it seemed almost routine.

“I wonder what this is all about,” Verna said with a scowl. “I’ll not like it if Jagang spoils my dinner.”

Kahlan, not wearing her leather armor, suddenly felt naked. It was uncomfortable to wear on long rides, so, going through friendly territory, she had tied it to her saddle. Cara moved close as they dismounted. They handed the reins to soldiers as men closed in protectively.

Kahlan couldn’t remember what color cloth would be used to mark the command tents. She had lost track of the exact number of days she had been gone. It had been somewhat over a month. She took the arm of an officer among the men who had swept in around her.

“Where are the commanders?”

He pointed with his sword. “Down that way, Mother Confessor.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“No, Mother Confessor. The alarm sounded. As a Sister rushed past, I heard her say it was genuine.”

“Do you know where my Sisters, or Warren, are?” Verna asked the officer.

“I’ve seen Sisters running around everywhere, Prelate. I’ve not seen Wizard Warren.”

Darkness was settling in, leaving only the fires to guide them through camp. Most of the fires, though, had been doused at the alarm, so the camp was becoming a black maze.

Horses with D’Haran riders flashed past, headed out on patrol. Foot soldiers raced out of camp to scout. No one seemed to know what the threat was, but that wasn’t unusual. Besides being frequent and varied, attacks were usually confusing, in addition to being frightening.

It was over an hour before Kahlan, Cara, Verna, and their heavy ring of guards made it through the sprawling camp that was the size of a city, to the officers’ tents. None of the officers were there.

“This is a foolish way to go about it,” Kahlan muttered. She found her tent, with Spirit standing on the little table, and tossed her saddlebags inside, along with her armor. “Let’s just wait here so people can find us.”

“I agree,” Verna said.

Kahlan gestured to include a number of the group of men who had set up a defensive guard around her. “Spread out and find the officers. Tell them that the Mother Confessor and the Prelate are at the command tents. We’ll wait here for reports.”

“Tell any Sisters you see,” Verna added. “And if you see Warren or Zedd, tell them, too, that we’ve returned.”

The men raced off into the night to carry out their instructions.

“I don’t like this,” Cara muttered.

“I don’t, either,” Kahlan said as she stepped into her tent.

Cara stood guard, along with a small army of men, as Kahlan took off her fur mantle and slipped on her leather armor. It had saved her from taking wounds often enough that she was not shy about wearing it. All it would take was one man to slip up close and thrust a sword into her, and that might well be the end. If she got lucky, and they ran it through a leg, or even her belly, she had a chance of being healed by a Sister, but if it was in some other place—heart, head, some major artery so that the loss of blood was too fast—then even the gifted wouldn’t be able to heal her.

The leather was extremely tough, and while not impervious to blades, spears, or arrows, it afforded a good degree of protection while allowing enough freedom of movement to enable her to fight. A blow with a blade had to be landed just right, or it would glance harmlessly off the leather. Many of the men wore chain mail, which afforded better protection, but it was too heavy for Kahlan to be practical for her to wear. In combat, speed and maneuverability were life.

Kahlan knew better than to risk her life needlessly. She was more valuable to their cause in her capacity as a leader than as a combatant.

Still, while she rarely went directly into combat, the fighting had often enough come to her.

A sergeant finally arrived to give her a report.

“Assassins” was all he said.

That one chilling word was enough. It was what she had figured, and explained the state of the camp.

“How many casualties?” Kahlan asked.

“I only know for sure that one attacked Captain Zimmer. He was eating at a campfire with his men. The captain managed to miss a killing blow, but took a nasty wound in the leg. He’s lost a lot of blood. The surgeons are seeing to him right now.”

“What about the assassin?” Verna asked.

The sergeant looked surprised at the question. “Commander Zimmer killed the assassin.” He screwed up his face with the distaste of the rest of what he had to say. “The assassin was dressed in a D’Haran uniform. He walked through the camp without notice until he found a target—Captain Zimmer—and attacked.”

Verna let out a worried breath. “A Sister might be able help the captain.”

Kahlan dismissed him with a nod. The sergeant saluted with a fist to his heart before rushing off to his duties.

It was then that Kahlan spotted Zedd approaching. The front of his robes was wet and dark—undoubtedly with blood. Tears ran down his face.

Gooseflesh tingled up Kahlan’s arms and legs.

Verna gasped when Zedd suddenly saw her and for an instant faltered before rushing toward them. Verna clutched Kahlan’s arm.

Zedd seized Verna’s hand. “Hurry” was all he said.

It was all he needed to say; they all understood.

Verna let out a mournful cry as she was pulled along after the old wizard. Kahlan and Cara ran behind as Zedd led them on a winding charge through the confusion of shouting men, galloping horses, squads in formation dashing in every direction, and unit officers taking roll call.

The roll call was needed because the assassins were in D’Haran uniforms so they could sneak up close to their quarry. It was necessary to account for every man in order to single out those who didn’t belong. It was tedious and difficult, but essential.

They rushed into the swirl of turmoil around the tents where wounded men were being treated. Men shouted orders as others brought in men crying out in pain, or men with their limp arms dragging the ground. Each tent could hold up to ten or twelve men.

Verna’s composure was frayed with panic. Zedd stopped her, holding her by her arms. His voice was choked with his emotion.

“A man stabbed Holly. Warren was nearby and tried to protect the girl. Verna, I swear to you on my dead wife’s soul . . . I did everything I could do. Dear spirits forgive me, but I must be the one to tell you . . . he is beyond my power to help him. He asked for you and Kahlan.”

Kahlan stood in a stupor, her heart in her throat. Zedd’s hand on her back urged her to move quickly. She followed Verna, ducking into the tent.

Half a dozen dead men lay at the far end of the tent, covered with blankets. Here and there a bloody hand stuck out from under a cover. One man was missing a boot. Kahlan stared, unable to make her mind work, unable to understand how the soldier had lost a boot. It seemed so silly—dying and losing a boot. Tragedy and comedy together under a shroud.

Warren lay on his back on a pallet on the ground. Sister Philippa was on the far side of him, her tall frame bent over the youthful wizard, holding his hand. Sister Phoebe was on the near side, holding his other hand. Both women turned tearstained faces up to see Verna above them.

“Warren,” Sister Philippa said, “it’s Verna. She’s here. And Kahlan, too.”

The two Sisters quickly moved out of the way for Verna and Kahlan to take their places. They covered their mouths to hold in their cries as they fled the tent.

Warren was as white as the stacks of clean bandages lying nearby. His eyes were open wide as he stared up . . . as if he could no longer see. His curly blond hair was matted in sweat. His robes were soaked in blood.

“Warren,” Verna moaned. “Oh, Warren.”

“Verna? Kahlan?” he asked in a breathy whisper.

“Yes, my love.” Verna kissed his hand a dozen times.

Kahlan squeezed his other limp hand. “I’m here, too, Warren.”

“I had to hold on. Till you both came back. To tell you both.”

“Tell us what, Warren?” Verna asked through her tears.

“Kahlan . . .” he whispered.

She leaned in. “I’m here, Warren. Don’t try to talk, just—”

“Listen to me.”

Kahlan pressed his hand to her cheek. “I’m listening, Warren.”

“Richard is right. His vision. I had to tell you.”

Kahlan didn’t know what to say.

A smile came to his ashen face. “Verna . . .”

“What is it, my love?”

“I love you. Always have.”

Verna could hardly get her words past her choking tears. “Warren, don’t die. Don’t die. Please don’t die.”

“Give me a kiss,” Warren whispered, “while I still live. And don’t mourn what ends, but what a good life we’ve had. Kiss me, my love.”

Verna bent over him and met his lips with hers, giving him a gentle, loving kiss as her tears dripped onto his face.

Unable to bear the scene, Kahlan staggered out of the tent, finding Zedd’s protective arms waiting. She hid her weeping against his shoulder.

“What are we doing?” she cried. “What’s it all for? What good is any of it? We’re losing everything.”

Zedd had no answer for her tears at the futility of it all.

The minutes dragged on. Kahlan forced herself to be strong, to be the Mother Confessor. She couldn’t let the men see her giving up.

Silent men stood nearby, not wanting to look in the direction of the tent where Warren lay dying.

When General Meiffert materialized out of the darkness, the relief on Cara’s face was evident. He rushed up close to Cara, but didn’t touch her.

“I’m glad to see you safely returned,” he said to Kahlan. “How is Warren?”

Kahlan couldn’t speak.

Zedd shook his head. “I didn’t think he would live this long. I think he held on so he could see his wife.”

The general nodded sorrowfully. “We caught the man who did it.”

Kahlan came to full attention. “Bring him to me,” she growled.

Without hesitation the general hurried off to retrieve the assassin.

When Kahlan gestured, Cara went with him.

“What did he say to you?” Zedd asked in a quiet voice so that others wouldn’t hear. “He wanted to tell you something.”

Kahlan took a purging breath. “He said, ‘Richard is right.’ ”

Zedd looked away in forlorn misery. Warren was his friend. Kahlan never knew Zedd to take a liking to anyone the way he had taken to Warren. They shared things she knew she could never understand. Despite his young appearance, Warren was over a hundred and fifty years old, close to the same age as Verna. To Zedd, who was always looked up to as the wise old wizard, it must have been a particular comfort to share wizardly matters with one who understood such things, instead of constantly needing explanation and direction.

“He said the same to me,” Zedd whispered tearfully.

“Why didn’t Warren use his gift?” Kahlan asked.

Zedd wiped a finger across his cheek. “He was walking past, just as the man seized and stabbed Holly. Perhaps the assassin couldn’t find his target, or maybe he became lost and confused, or he could have just panicked and decided to stab someone and Holly was handy at that moment.”

Kahlan wiped her hands back across her cheeks. “Maybe he had been told to look for a wizard in such robes, and when he saw Warren, he stabbed Holly to cause a commotion so he could get at Warren.”

“That could be. Warren doesn’t really know. It all happened in an instant. Warren was right there, and just reacted. I asked, but he didn’t know why he didn’t use his power. Perhaps in that terrible flash of the knife, he feared to kill Holly in the process, since the man had her and was stabbing her. His instinct to save her just caused him to snatch for the knife. It was a fatal mistake.”

“Maybe Warren simply hesitated before using his power.”

Zedd shrugged painfully. “A split-second hesitation has been the end of a lot of wizards.”

“If I hadn’t hesitated,” Kahlan said as she stared off into bitter memories, “Nicci wouldn’t have had me. She wouldn’t have Richard, now.”

“Don’t try to fix the past, dear one—it can’t be done.”

“What about the future?”

Zedd’s gaze sought hers. “Meaning?”

“Remember at the end of last winter, when we left camp—when the Order began moving?” When Zedd nodded, she went on. “Warren pointed at this place on the map. He said we had to be here to stop the Order.”

“Are you suggesting he knew he would die here?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m a wizard, not a prophet.”

“But Warren is.” When he said nothing, Kahlan asked in a whisper, “What about Holly?”

“I don’t know. I was just arriving to talk to Warren. It had just happened. Soldiers were jumping the man. Warren yelled orders for them not to kill him. I guess he was thinking the assassin might have valuable information. I saw Holly, bleeding from her wounds, in shock. I immediately had Warren brought in here and started to work on him. Sisters rushed in and took Holly to another tent.”

Zedd’s heartsick gaze sank to the cold ground. “I did everything I know to do. It wasn’t enough.”

Kahlan enclosed his shoulders protectively in her arm. “It was out of your hands from the first, Zedd.”

It was disorienting to see her source of strength in a state of such painful weakness. It was irrational to expect him to be unemotional and strong in such circumstances, but it was still disconcerting. In that moment, Kahlan was overcome with a sense of all the loss Zedd had suffered in his life; it was all there in his wet hazel eyes.

Men made way for the returning General Meiffert and Cara. Behind them, two burly soldiers had a wiry young man—little more than a boy, really. He was muscular, but no match for the men who had him. His hair tumbled down across a forehead above dark contemptuous eyes. He wore a proud sneer.

“So,” the lad said, trying to sound tough, “I guess that in my service to the Order I knifed someone important. That makes me a hero of the Order.”

“Make him kneel before the Mother Confessor,” General Meiffert said with quiet command.

The two soldiers kicked the back of the young man’s knees to take him down. He snickered as he knelt before her.

“So, you’re the big important whore I’ve heard so much about. Too bad you weren’t around—I’d have loved to have cut you. I guess I showed some people I’m pretty good with a knife.”

“So in my absence,” Kahlan said, “you cut a child, instead.”

“Just for practice. I’d have cut a lot more people if these big dumb oxen wouldn’t have lucked into jumping me. But I still did my duty to the Order and the Creator.”

It was the bravado of someone who knew he was about to pay the ultimate price for his actions. He was trying to convince himself that he had fulfilled a valuable service. He wanted to die a hero, and then go straight to the Creator for his reward in the afterlife.

Verna emerged from the tent. There was no hurry in her movements. Her face was ashen and drawn. Kahlan took hold of her arm, ready to help if Verna should need it.

Verna stopped when she saw the young man on his knees.

“This is him?” she asked.

Kahlan put her other hand tenderly to Verna’s back, silently offering support.

“This is him,” Kahlan confirmed.

“That’s right.” The lad sneered up at Verna. “I’m the one who knifed the enemy wizard. I’m a hero. The Order will bring relief and justice to the people, and I helped do it. Your kind is always trying to keep us down.”

“Keep you down,” Verna repeated in a dead tone.

“Those who are born with all the luck and advantages—they never want to share. I waited, but no one ever gave me a chance in life until the Order did. I’m a hero of downtrodden people everywhere. I’ve struck a blow against the oppressors of mankind. I’ve helped bring justice to those who are never given a chance. I killed an evil man. I’m a hero!”

The silence of everyone nearby was all the more grim with the backdrop of activity going on as men searched the camp for other assassins. Officers called out names, getting quick replies. Troops searching for invaders trotted through the night, their chain mail and weapons jingling like thousands of tiny bells.

The man on his knees grinned at Verna. “The Creator will give me my reward in the next life. I’m not afraid to die. I’ve earned eternity in his everlasting Light.”

Verna passed her gaze among the eyes of all those gathered.

“I don’t care what you do to him,” she said, “but I want to hear his screams the entire night. I want this camp to hear his screams the entire night. I want the Order’s scouts to hear his screams. That will be my tribute to Warren.”

The young man licked his lips, realizing things weren’t going as he had expected.

“That isn’t fair!” the young assassin shouted in protest.

Panic began to tremble through his body. He had been prepared for a martyr’s death, a quick end. This was something unforeseen.

“He died quick. I should have the same consideration! This isn’t fair!”

“Fair? What isn’t fair,” Verna said with terrible calmness, “is that your mother ever opened her legs for your father. We shall now belatedly correct her mistake. What isn’t fair is that a good and kind man died at the hands of a sniveling little coward so lacking in sense that he is incapable of recognizing the lies he now spews out at us.

“You wish to trade your life for the one you have taken? You wish to die in a cause you foolishly believe to be noble? You shall have your wish, young man. But before you die, you shall fully understand what it is you have surrendered, how precious is your life, and how utterly wasted. You shall come to regret your mother’s act of creation as much as do we.”

Verna swept a look of finality over the group watching. “This is my wish. Please see to its execution.”

Cara took a step forward. “Let me do it, then.” Her grim face held no hint of relish. “I would be best at carrying out your wish as you intend it, Verna.”

The lad laughed hysterically. “A woman? You all think you’re going to have some big blond bitch try to teach me a lesson? You’re all as crazy as I’ve heard.”

Verna nodded. “I will be indebted to you, Cara.” She started to leave, but paused. “Don’t let him die before morning, when I will come to witness it. I wish to look into his eyes and see if this young man has come to understand the nature of reality, and its lack of fairness, before he forfeits his fife for nothing of worth and for his part in a great evil.”

“I promise you,” Cara said softly to Verna, “that even though this night will seem forever to you in your grief, it will be infinitely longer for him.”

Verna simply touched Cara’s shoulder in appreciation on her way past.

After Verna had walked off into the darkness, Cara turned to Kahlan. “I would ask to use a tent. No one should have to see what I do to him. His screams will be knowledge enough.”

“As you wish.”

“Mother Confessor!” The young man struggled frantically, but the soldiers had him in a firm grip. “If you’re so good as you claim, then show me mercy!”

Drool ran from the corner of the boy’s mouth and hung swinging in rhythm with his panting.

“But I have,” Kahlan said. “I am allowing you to suffer the sentence Verna has named, and not the one I would impose.”

Cara snapped her fingers and pointed at the young man as she marched off. The soldiers dragged the shrieking boy after her.

“The others we captured?” the general asked Kahlan.

Kahlan started for her tent. “Cut their throats.”