Faith of the Fallen

Chapter 68

Richard didn’t know what stunned him more: to see his statue in rubble, or to see the crowd charging up the steps after Victor had declared himself a free man.

The mob rolled without pause over armed guards descending the steps to meet them. A number of people fell wounded or killed. The bodies were trampled beneath the surge of people. Those in front couldn’t stop if they wanted to—the weight of tens of thousands behind them propelled them onward.

But they didn’t want to stop. The roar was deafening.

The brothers panicked. The officials in the rear panicked. The few thousand armed guards panicked. In that instant, the nature of the world transformed from the omnipotent power of the Order assembled on the plaza, to every man for himself.

Richard wanted Brother Narev. He saw, instead, armed men rushing in at him. Richard swung and buried the head of the sledgehammer in the chest of a man who came at him with sword raised high. As the man flew past, the handle of the sledgehammer sticking from the crater in his chest, Richard snatched the sword from his fist, and then, blade in hand, he unleashed himself.

A small group of guards saw fit to protect the brothers. Richard charged into them, cutting with every stroke. Every slash or thrust took a man down.

But guards were not what Richard was mainly interested in. If he was to lose everything, he wanted Narev’s head in the bargain. As he fought his way through the chaos of people crushing into the plaza, he couldn’t find Brother Narev anywhere.

Victor appeared out of the melee gripping a brother by the hair. Other men had joined Victor—and each had a hand on the brother. The burly blacksmith wore a scowl that would bend iron. The brother’s eyes were rolling around as if he’d been hit on the head, and couldn’t gather his senses.

“Richard!” Victor called out.

The men, some still grasping the brother’s brown robes, rushed in around Richard. They stood in a sweep around him, ten or fifteen deep.

“What should we do with him?” one man asked.

Richard glanced around at all the people. He saw men he knew from the site. Priska was among them, and Ishaq, too.

“Why ask me? It’s your revolt.” He met the eyes of the men with challenge. “What do you think you should do with him?”

“You tell us, Richard,” one of the carvers said.

Richard shook his head. “No. You tell me what you intend to do with him. But you should know, this man is a wizard. When he comes around, he’s going to start killing people. This is a matter of life and death, and he knows it. Do you? This is about your lives. It is for you to decide what to do, not me.”

“We want you with us this time, Richard,” Priska called out. “But if you still won’t join us, then we’re having our lives back, having this revolt, without you. That’s the way it’s going to be!”

The men all shook their fists as they yelled their agreement.

Victor hugged the groggy brother to his chest and wrenched his head until his neck broke. The limp body slipped to the floor.

“And that’s what we intend to do with him,” Victor said.

Richard held out his hand as he smiled. “Always glad to meet a free man.” They clasped forearms. Richard looked into Victor’s eyes. “I’m Richard Rahl.”

Victor blinked; then his belly laugh rolled out. With his free hand, he clapped Richard on the side of his shoulder.

“Sure you are. We all are! You had me going for a second, there, Richard. You really did.”

The press of the crowd drove them back to the columns. Richard reached down and snatched the dead brother’s robes, pulling the body along with him.

The mass of towering stone walls and marble columns afforded some protection from the raging river of people.

The ground shuddered. A blast from the inside blew a hole out through the wall. The darkness ignited with light. Stone fragments whistled through the air. Dozens of bloodied people were thrown back.

“What was that!” Victor called out through the din of screaming, yelling, and the roar of the explosion.

Ignoring the danger, the crowd continued to advance on the men who had enslaved them. Throngs swarmed over the spot where the statue had stood, scooping up shards of marble. They kissed their fingers and, as they swept past, planted those kisses on the words on the back of the fallen bronze ring. They were choosing life.

Hordes of people had captured a number of the brothers and officials, and were beating them to death with chunks of white marble from the rubble of the statue.

“Brother Narev is a sorcerer,” Richard said. “Victor, you have to organize some of these men—get control of this mob. Narev can use powerful magic. I commend people’s desire to be free, but we’re going to have a great many killed and injured if we don’t get this under control.”

“I understand,” Victor said as he fought to keep from being swept away.

A number of men who had been crowded around Richard, protecting him, heard what he said and nodded their agreement. The commands to organize started to spread through the crowd. These people wanted to succeed. They were willing to work toward their goal, and saw reason in the orders beginning to be called out. Many of these men were used to handling large groups of workers. They knew the business of organizing men.

Richard started pulling off the dead brother’s robes. “You men have to keep these people out of the palace. Narev is in there. Anyone who goes in could easily be killed. You have to keep people out. It will be a death trap in there with the brothers.”

“I understand,” Victor said.

“We’ll keep them back,” men called to Richard.

Richard threw the dead brother’s brown robes up over his head. Victor snatched him by the arm. “What are you doing?”

Richard popped his head up through the neck opening. “I’m going in there. In the darkness, Narev will think I’m a brother, and I’ll be able to get close to him.” He poked his confiscated sword through the robes to hide the blade. He covered the hilt with his wrist. “Keep people out. Narev commands dangerous magic. I have to stop him.”

“You watch yourself,” Victor said.

The men who had assumed command began fanning out, urging people to follow their orders. Some people did, and as they did, yet more followed.

With all the officials who they’d captured now dead, the mob was slowly being brought to task, and not a moment too soon. The crushing weight of people flooding up onto the plaza was a danger to everyone.

Passing people wept as they picked up pieces of marble from the statue, holding the tokens of freedom and beauty to their breast as they moved on to allow others to do the same. These were people who had been offered life, and had taken it. They had proven themselves.

Victor saw what everyone was doing. “Richard . . . I’m so sorry—”

A fiery blast exploded through the plaza, cutting down well over a hundred people. Bodies were ripped apart in the violence of it. A huge stone column toppled, crushing people who couldn’t get out of the way because of the press of the throng.

“Later!” Richard yelled over the pandemonium. “I’ve got to stop Narev! Keep these people out—they’ll only die in there!”

Victor nodded before he rushed off with the other men he knew to try to gain control of the situation.

Richard put the tumult and confusion behind him, and stepped through a gaping doorway between the columns . . . into the darkness.

There were miles of unfinished corridors, some clogged with bodies. In the first crush, as the people swept up onto the plaza, they had chased brothers and officials into the labyrinth of the palace. Many of those people had been unfortunate enough to find Brother Narev. The stench of burned flesh filled Richard’s nostrils as he moved silently through the darkness.

Richard had been a woods guide long before he became the Seeker, long before he became Lord Rahl. Darkness was his element. In his mind, he gathered that cloak of darkness around himself.

Within the massive stone walls, under the heavy beams, partial wooden floors, and slate roofs overhead, the riot of the crowd was a distant, echoing rumble. Through the gaping openings of undressed doorways stood rooms without roofs or floors above, allowing in a flood of moonlight. It all created a tangled mesh of shadows and faint light that suggested every form of danger.

Richard came across an older woman lying bleeding in the hall, whimpering in agony. He bent to one knee, putting a hand gently to her shoulder as he kept his eyes on the dark hall ahead and its sockets of blackness to each side.

He could feel the woman trembling beneath his fingers. “Where are you hurt?” he whispered. He pushed the hood of the robe back so that in the moonlight coming between the unfinished beams above she could see his face. “I’m Richard.”

A smile of recognition overcame her. “Leg,” she said.

She pulled her dress up. In faint light, he saw a dark wound just above the knee. With his sword, he sliced off the hem of her dress to use as a bandage to close the wound.

“I want to live. I wanted to help.” She took the strip of cloth and pushed his hands away. “Thank you for cutting me the cloth. I can do it, now.” She clutched his robe, pulling him closer. “You’ve showed us life with your statue. Thank you.”

Richard smiled as he squeezed her shoulder.

“I was trying to get that cockroach. Will you do it?”

Richard kissed his finger and pressed the kiss to her forehead. “I will. Bandage up your leg and lie still until we have the situation under control; then we’ll send people in to help.”

Richard started moving again. From the distance came screams of rage, and pain. Guards who had escaped into the maze of the unfinished palace were battling people who had gone in after them.

Richard spotted a brother trembling behind a corner. It wasn’t Narev—there was a hood, not a cap. Playing the part of a brother, Richard pulled his hood up again and strode to the man. The brother looked relieved to see a comrade.

“Who are you?” he whispered toward Richard, lifting his hand to use his magic to light a small flame above his palm.

“Justice,” Richard said to the wide eyes as he drove his sword through the man’s heart.

Richard pulled his sword free and concealed it once more under his robes.

Nicci would no doubt take her revenge. There seemed nothing he could do about it. Nicci had often enough made Richard’s choices clear. He was bound and determined to at least lay waste to the Order. If only there were a way to get Nicci to see reason, to get her to help him. At times, the look in her blue eyes seemed so tantalizingly close to comprehension. He knew Nicci had feelings for him. He wished he could use those feelings to get her to see reason, to help him, to cast off her chains, but he didn’t know how.

Richard stepped back into the blackness of a room as he heard guards running his way. As they turned into the hallway, Richard again drew his sword. When they were close, he burst out of the doorway and took off the first guard’s head. The second swung his sword, missed, and lifted it for another strike. Richard ran his sword through the man’s belly. The wounded guard pulled back, off the blade. Before Richard could finish him, more men burst into the hall. The man with the gut wound wasn’t going to be a problem anymore; it would take him hours of agony to die.

Richard retreated through the dark doorway, tempting men in after him.

He stood still in the dark, and as they rushed in, panting, crunching debris beneath the balls of their feet as they turned, Richard located them by sound alone and cut them down. Half a dozen men died in the pitch black room before the rest ran.

Richard raced onward toward the sounds of explosions. Every time gouts of flame flashed through the morass of hallways, he hid his eyes with a hand in order to preserve his night vision. When the blinding flashes ceased, he quickly continued in the direction from which they had come.

There were mile upon mile of halls in the palace. Some opened out into grounds where nothing had yet been built. Others went along between walls open overhead. Still others tunneled through the darkness, enclosed by upper floors or roofs. Richard descended stairs into blackness, into the palace underground, following the roar of conjured flames.

Down below the main floor were networks of interconnected rooms, made up of a confusing snarl of chambers and narrow halls. As he plunged through a labyrinth of shadowy rooms, going through holes in unfinished walls and empty doorways, he came suddenly upon a cloaked man with a sword. He knew none of the people were armed.

The man spun around, his sword leading, but since Richard was disguised in robes, he knew the man might not be a true foe.

In a flash of moonlight, Richard was stunned to see the Sword of Truth over the shoulder of the person. It was Kahlan.

He froze in shock.

She saw only a figure in brown robes—a brother—standing in a shaft of moonlight. The hood shadowed his face.

In the same instant, before he could call her name, he saw, over Kahlan’s shoulder, someone running their way. Nicci.

In one terrible blinding instant, Richard knew what he had to do. It was his only chance—Kahlan’s only chance—to be free.

In that crystal clear instant of understanding, terror flashed through him. He didn’t know if he could do it.

He had to.

Richard drew his sword and blocked Kahlan’s thrust.

And then he attacked her.

He drove into her with controlled violence, careful not to hurt her. He knew how she fought. He knew because he had taught her. He played the role of a clumsy, but lucky, opponent.

Nicci was getting closer.

Richard couldn’t drag it out. It had to be timed just right. He waited until Kahlan was slightly off balance and then with a powerful clash, caught her sword near the cross guard. She cried out with the shock as her sword flew from her hand and the blow spun her around, just as he had intended.

She didn’t hesitate for an instant. Without pause, still spinning, her hand reached up and pulled free the Sword of Truth. The air rang with the unique sound of steel he knew so well.

Kahlan whirled around, the blade leading. He saw for a split second the terrible violent rage in her eyes. It hurt him to see that in Kahlan’s beautiful eyes. He knew what it did to a person.

Richard entered a numb world all his own. He knew what he had to do. He felt no emotion. He blocked high, controlling her attack and where he wanted her to go with the blade. He had to get her to put it where he intended, if there was to be any chance.

Teeth gritted, Kahlan drove her sword for the opening he deliberately left her.

Kahlan was in the realm of uncontrollable rage. The instant she seized the hilt, the Sword of Truth had inundated her with pounding fury. Nothing in the world felt better than knowing she was going to kill with it. The weapon, too, demanded blood.

These people had Richard. These brothers had twisted their lives. These men had sent murderers to her homeland. These men had sent assassins to slaughter Warren.

Now, she had one of them.

She screamed as she spun, screamed with the rage, screamed with the demand for blood. It was glorious to have the object of such perfect rage within reach.

He made a mistake—leaving an opening. Without hesitation, she went for it with cold fury, the blade leading.

He was hers.

Richard felt the blade hit him. It was shocking. It felt unlike what he expected. It felt something like he imagined the mighty blow of the sledgehammer on the statue might feel.

His mouth opened. Now was the time; he had to stop her—keep her from doing any more. He had to do it now. If she wrenched the blade through him, ripped him open any more, Nicci would never be able to heal him. Her power could only heal so much.

Nicci would have to free Kahlan from the spell in order to regain the use of her sorceress’s magic—in order to heal him.

He reasoned that she cared enough for him to do that.

Richard’s mouth was open as he felt the blade still driving through him. It was a sickening shock. Even expecting it, as he had, it still seemed unreal. It still surprised him.

He needed to tell her it was him. To stop.

He needed at least to call out her name so she would stop without doing too much damage.

His mouth was still open.

He had no breath.

He couldn’t make himself say her name.

As she searched frantically for Richard, Nicci saw the two people battling. One was a brother. The other she didn’t recognize, yet there was something deeply unsettling about it all. Nicci felt a strange stirring. The feeling was oddly familiar, but in all the confusion of emotion, she just didn’t recognize it.

They were a good distance away.

The man in the cape lost his sword. It looked as if the brother had him. Nicci wanted to help—but how? She had to find Richard. Someone said they saw him go into the palace. She had to find him.

She ran toward the pair. The man pulled free another sword strapped over his shoulder. The strange feeling welled up in Nicci. Something was terribly wrong, but she didn’t know what.

And then she saw the brother make a mistake. Nicci halted.

With a cry of lethal fury, the man in the cape drove his sword through the brother.

When the force of the blow drove the brother back a step, a shaft of moonlight fell across his face under in the cowl of the hood.

And then the feeling slammed into her with full recognition.

Nicci’s eyes went wide. She screamed.

“Kahlan. Stop.”

Kahlan’s eyes twitched up in shock. She saw his face in the moonlight.

In that same instant, he heard Nicci scream.

Kahlan recoiled, her hand flying from the hilt of the Sword of Truth as if she had been struck by lightning.

She fell back with a horrified shriek.

Richard seized the blade of the sword, his sword, to keep the weight from twisting it in him. She had driven it through him almost up to the cross guard. Warm blood ran down the blade onto his fingers.

“Richard!” Kahlan cried. “Nooo! Nooo!”

Richard felt his knees hit the stone floor. He was surprised it didn’t hurt more to have a sword through him. It was the shock of it, mostly, that had scrambled his mind. It was hard to think. He struggled not to fall forward, fall on the blade and wrench it through his insides. The room seemed to be moving.

“Pull it out,” he whispered.

He wanted it out. As if that would help. He wanted the awful thing out.

He could feel the razor sharp edges all the way through him. He could feel it sticking out his back.

Kahlan, nearly hysterical, scrambled to do as he asked. Richard saw Cara limping up out of the darkness. She seized his shoulders as Kahlan drew out the blade in one swift, panicked yank, as if she hoped the action would somehow undo what she had done.

“What happened?” Cara cried. “What did you do?”

The world seemed to tip and whirl. Richard could feel the sickeningly wet warmth of his blood soaking down him. He could feel his weight against Cara. Kahlan hovered close.

“Richard! Oh, dear spirits, no. This can’t be happening. It can’t.”

Panicked tears streamed down her beautiful face. He couldn’t understand what she was doing here. Why was she in the Old World? What was she doing in the emperor’s palace?

He couldn’t help smiling at seeing her.

He wondered if she had seen his statue before he destroyed it.

He wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.

No, it was Kahlan’s only chance at freedom. His only chance to break Nicci’s spell.

Nicci was still running toward them.

“Help me, Nicci,” Richard called. It came out as little more than a whisper. “I need you to save me, Nicci. Please.”

Even if it was no more than a whisper, Nicci heard his plea.

Nicci had never run so fast. Terror had her in its fierce grip. Kahlan had stabbed her sword through him. It was a terrible mistake. It was all such a terrible mistake. Nicci had brought such pain to them both. It was her fault.

Even in her shock, Nicci knew with clarity what she must do.

She could heal him. Kahlan was there. Nicci couldn’t begin to imagine why, or how, but she was. With Kahlan there, Nicci could break the spell.

Once the spell was broken, Nicci could use her gift. She could heal Richard.

It was all right. She could save him. It would be all right. She could fix it. She could.

She could do something right and help—really help—for once. She could help them both.

An arm swept out of the darkness and hooked her by the neck, taking her from her feet. She cried out as she was yanked into the blackness. She could feel the bulge of hard muscles as she clawed at the arm. The man stank. She could feel his lice ticking against her face as they sprang at her.

Terror seized her. Such sudden and intense terror was an unfamiliar sensation, smothering her mind.

She dug her heels into the stone as he drew her back into the black labyrinth. She kicked furiously at him. She tried to draw her dacra from her sleeve, but he seized her arm and twisted it behind her back.

His forearm crushed against her exposed throat, choking off her air as he lifted her from her feet.

Nicci couldn’t breathe. He chortled with glee as he dragged her into the darker recesses of the rooms beneath Jagang’s palace.

Their eyes met just when she had been abruptly and violently snatched into the darkness. Richard saw in those eyes something important, saw that Nicci intended to help him. But she was gone.

Cara desperately clutched his shoulders as he lay back against her. He was cold. She was warm.

Kahlan fell back, writhing in the darkness. She clawed at her throat.

He could hear her choking.

“Mother Confessor! Mother Confessor! What’s wrong?”

Richard reached up and seized Cara behind her head. He pulled her face close.

“Someone has Nicci. They’re choking her. Cara—you have to go save Nicci, or Kahlan will die. And Nicci is the only one who can heal me. Go. Hurry.”

He felt Cara nodding before he released her head.

“I understand” was all she said as she gently, but swiftly, laid him back on the cold stone.

And then she was gone.

It was wet. He didn’t know if it was blood, or water. They were underground, in the nether reaches of the Retreat. Through open beams where the flooring above hadn’t been laid, moonlight flooded down to light Kahlan struggling not far away. He could see, then, as she fought an invisible foe, that it was water. That’s what it was. Not blood. Water. The palace was next to the river. It was wet in the little rooms and halls down in the bottom.

“Kahlan,” he murmured. She didn’t respond. “Hold on . . .”

Gripping his abdomen, holding the wound closed lest his insides burst out, he inched his way through the water, across the cold stone. The pain had finally and firmly arrived. He could feel the terrible damage inside. He tried to blink away the tears of hot agony. He had to hold on. Icy sweat drenched his face. Kahlan had to hold on.

His hand, covered in blood, reached out to her. His fingers found hers.

She hardly responded, but at least her fingers moved. He was thankful beyond words that her fingers moved.

It had been a good plan. He was sure it was. It would have worked, if only someone hadn’t snatched Nicci. Would have worked.

It seemed a stupid way to die, really. He thought it should be somehow more . . . grand.

Not in a dark, cold, wet palace underground.

He wished he could tell Kahlan that he loved her, and that she hadn’t killed him but that he had done it. It was his doing, not hers. He’d just used her in his plan. It would have worked.

“Kahlan,” he whispered, not knowing if in her stillness she could hear him any longer. “I love you. No one else. Just you. I’m glad we had our time together. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Richard opened his eyes and groaned in agony. He wanted it to end. It hurt too much. Now, he just wanted it to end. It hadn’t worked. He would have to pay the price. But he wanted the sickening, ripping, terrifying pain to end.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. He looked and saw Kahlan sprawled on the wet floor. She wasn’t moving.

A shadow fell across him.

“Well, well. Richard Cypher.” Neal chuckled. “Imagine that.” He chuckled again as he glanced at Kahlan. “Who’s the woman?”

Richard could sense the Sword of Truth, sense its magic. It wasn’t far from his fingers.

“Don’t know. She’s killed me. Must be one of yours.”

Richard’s fingers found the sword. They curled around the wire-wound hilt.

Neal stepped on the blade. “Can’t have any of that. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

A glow ignited around Neal’s fingers. He was conjuring magic. Lethal magic. Richard, in his barely conscious condition, despite his need, could not focus his mind, could not call forth his own ability to do anything to stop Neal. At least, the pain would end. At least, Kahlan wouldn’t think it was she who had killed him.

Richard heard a sudden, terrible, bone-snapping crack. Neal dropped heavily to his knees.

Richard, his hand already around the hilt, pulled the sword from underneath the man’s legs and in one mighty lunge, ran it through Neal’s heart.

Neal looked up in surprise, his eyes glassy. Richard saw then that the man was as good as dead before the blade had run him through. Neal’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the side as Richard yanked the sword free.

Standing behind Neal was the woman Richard had helped. She had bandaged her leg. In both hands, she held the marble hand of the woman Richard had carved. She had crushed Neal’s skull with her keepsake of the statue.