For the first time that night, she truly feared she wasn't going to make it. She was going to die, here, in the snow, in this mist shrouded valley. She would never see Richard again.
She felt an abrupt, icy pain in the bite on her neck. Darken Rahl's bite. She thought she heard quiet laughter in the air.
She slashed away at the men grabbing for her. Powerful fingers clutched her legs. The pain of those fingers urged her into frantic stabbing. Nick managed to spin, the men's feet flying outward, but they held on tight. She slashed and hacked the arms. More caught hold of her horses bit, taking control from her. A horse was valuable plunder, and they didn't want it killed, as long as they thought they were in control of the situation.
A big soldier grabbed the horn of her saddle, dragging himself up. "Don't kill her! It's the Mother Confessor! Don't kill her! She must be alive when she's beheaded!"
She slashed the side of his neck, A fountain of hot blood gushed across her thigh. Another yelled, "Don't kill her! Bring the bitch down!" A cheer went up from the reaching men.
She swung at the grasping hands. Fingers raked her legs. Eyes all around leered up at her. She slashed wildly as Nick stumbled sideways, trying to pull his head free, but the men held his bit tight.
A man leapt up from behind and snatched her by the hair. She let out a cry as he yanked her backwards off the saddle. Hands grappled her as she tumbled to the ground. Everyone went down in a pile under her. Big hands seized her by her legs, her waist, her ankles, and her breasts.
Fingers wrapped around the blade, trying to wrench it from her. She twisted the hilt, severing the fingers. She swung and stabbed ferociously. Bodies pressed her to the cold ground, pressed the wind from her lungs. She bit the fingers covering her mouth. A huge fist struck her across the jaw.
They finally seized her flailing arms.
There were too many.
Dear Richard, I love you.
45
Kahlan struggled to draw a breath, but with the weight of men on her, she couldn't. Tears stung her eyes. More men piled on. A beefy elbow in her middle pressed into her, feeling as if it would squash her in two. Drunken breath bathed her face.
Her vision dwindled to a small spot. Everything around the center was going black, and the center was shrinking. She swallowed a mouthful of blood. Her own.
She heard what sounded like the distant rumble of thunder. At first, she could only feel the vibration in her back against the ground, but then the sound swelled, growing louder, sharper. The screams of men reached her ears.
Some of the men over her looked up. Their weight lifted a bit, and she sucked air into her lungs. It was the sweetest breath she had ever drawn.
As the giant of a man atop her, the one who had struck her face, turned to the sound of thunder, turned his fierce eye from her, she saw that his other had a scar across it, and down his cheek. That empty eye was sewn shut. Somehow, her left hand squirmed free. She seized his throat.
She heard a metallic rattle. The thunder, she suddenly realized, was horses' hooves. Erupting out of the fog, Brin and Peter, atop Daisy and Pip, galloped at a full charge down the line of D'Harans, mowing them down with the chain. They raced toward her like a landslide felling trees. The men stared in frozen shock. Kahlan's fingers clutched around the one eyed man's throat.
And then she released her power.
The magic slammed into him.
Thunder without sound rattled all the chain mail.
The staggering jolt made the men flinch back. They all cried out with the pain of being so close as the magic was loosed. A ring of snow lifted, sweeping outward in a circle.
Nick was standing over her, and he jumped with the pain, too. His hind leg came down on a man's head right next to her ear. Bone crunched under the weight. Hot blood and gore splattered the side of her face.
The one eye of the man above her gaped at her. "Mistress!" he whispered. "Please command me."
"Protect me!" she screamed.
He sat up abruptly, his massive muscles bulging. He held the hair of a man in each fist. He tossed them back as if they were mere children.
Her sword arm was free. She swung at a man to the other side, the blade ruining his face. The one eyed man roared as he tossed men aside. The draft horses rushed onward at a full charge.
She was free of the hands. She leaped to her feet. The chain was almost upon them.
"Help me up on my horse!"
The one eyed man grabbed her ankle in his big fist and, with one arm, boosted her up into the saddle. Somehow she still had the sword in her hand. She leaned forward and swung it at the man holding the bit, holding his prize. The sword's tip sliced open the side of his face and half the length of his arm. He staggered back with a shriek. She snatched up the reins. The one eyed man bellowed as he lopped off heads and ripped open chests with his huge war axe.
"Go, Mistress! Escape! Orsk will protect you!"
"I'm going! Run, Orsk! Don't let them get you!"
The D'Harans abandoned her and her horse to turn to the new threats—Orsk and the chain. She thumped Nick's ribs with her heels, urging him into a gallop just as Brin and Peter caught up with her. She stuffed her bare feet into the stirrups as the three of them raced away.
She spotted the trail that hundreds of feet had left in the snow and followed it across the valley, into the mist, leaving the men of the army of the Order to collect their wits. It took them mere seconds. They charged after her. There were more than enough still alive. Thousands.
Peter unhooked the chain that must have broken hundreds of bones, and necks. The end of the chain bounced behind. Brin's bony fingers drew in the dragging slack and coiled it over the hame.
As she galloped into the night, she thought she could hear the sound of soft laughter fading behind. She shivered with the memory of the kiss Darken Rahl had left on her neck. She felt suddenly very naked again.
Though the mist was icy cold, feeling like sparkling flecks all over her, she was sweating. Blood ran from her swollen lip.
"I never thought I would see you two again," she yelled over the sound of hooves.
Brin and Peter, in their too-big coats, grinned in the darkness. "We told you we could do the job," Brin said.
She smiled for the first time that night. "You two are a marvel."
She just caught sight of the hindquarters of the other draft horses disappearing into the fog. She pointed. "There are your men. Good luck." With a wave, they turned away from her.
She galloped on alone, and a short distance later caught up with the men on foot. She first saw only one. He had a horrific gash on his leg and had fallen far behind. She knew she should leave him. She knew she should. The D'Harans were right behind.
As she rode up to him, he turned his head up as he struggled through the snow. He knew she had to leave him. Those were the orders. Her orders. Keep up, or be left behind. No exceptions.
As she rode by, she leaned over, extending her arm down. They clasped wrists and she yanked him up behind her.
"Hold on, soldier."
He held his arms out, trying to balance as the horse ran, afraid to touch her. "But... where?"
"Around my waist! Put your arms around my waist!"
He still heald his arms out as he bounced. "But..."
"Haven't you ever put your arms around a woman before!"
"Yes... but she had clothes on," he whined.
"Do it, or you'll fall off, and I'm not coming back for you."
Reluctantly, carefully, he put his arms around her waist, stiffly trying to keep them away from anything important, or unfamiliarly exotic. Kahlan gave the back of his hands a pat of reassurance. "When you brag about this, don't make it more than it is." He let out a small, worried groan that made her smile.
As they rode on, she could feel his warm blood running down the back of her leg, dripping from her toes in the stirrup. She could hear the shouts of the enemy chasing behind.
He was losing a lot of blood. In exhaustio
n, he laid his head against the back of her shoulder. If they didn't tie his wound closed, he would bleed to death in short order. She was naked, and had nothing to use as a bandage, even if they had the time to stop.
"Hold the wound closed with a hand," she said. "Clamp it closed as tight as you can. And hold fast to me with your other arm. I don't want you falling off."
He took one arm from her waist and held the gash closed as she rode right on the heels of the men at the end of the line. They were cold and fatigued. The men of the Order were not far behind. As she looked back, they came into sight. She was shocked by the numbers. They hooted and hollered.
"Run! Run or we will be caught!"
A wall of rock, with scraggly trees growing from cracks and clefts, loomed up before them. The men ran up the narrow pass as if their lives depended on it. And they did.
As they began the climb up the rift, she rang the flat of her sword three times on the rock, giving the signal.
A man ahead turned as he ran. "We're not there yet! It's too soon! We'll be caught along with the enemy!"
"Then you better run faster! If we wait too long, they will get through, too!"
She rapped the rock wall three more times, the ringing sound carrying into the dark, damp air. She hoped it would work; there, of course, had been no way to perform a test. The men ahead scrambled up the trail. Nick's hooves slipped in places on the snow covered rock.
At first, she could only feel it, a rumbling deep in her chest, too low to hear, but too powerful not to be felt. She looked up along the mist slicked rock that disappeared above into the dark and fog. She couldn't see it yet, but she could feel it.
She hoped the man was wrong, that it wouldn't be too soon. When she heard the battle cries of the men coming from behind, she knew they had no choice.
And then, she could hear it; a booming roar, as if the ground itself were moving. She could hear tree trunks snapping. The thundering growl reverberated off the surrounding mountain walls. The ground vibrated.
"Run! Can't you run any faster! Do you want to be buried alive? Run!"
She knew they were going as fast as they could, but they were on foot, and from atop her horse, it seemed painfully slow. Deadly slow.
Overhead, the rumbling roar grew louder as uncountable tons of snow crashed down toward them. She was thrilled that the men on top had been successful in starting an avalanche on command; but she was also terrified that she had given the command too soon.
A lump of wet snow slapped her face; another smacked her shoulder. Little clods rattled through the trees above them and bounced out over the edge. A cloud of fluffy snow misted her face. The roar was deafening.
A flow of thundering white sluiced over the ledge above. They drove through the forward flow, like running through a waterfall. Behind her, a tree trunk bounced on the trail, spinning out over the precipice. They just cleared the leading edge of the bulk of snow.
The men of the Imperial order behind were not so lucky. The plunging snow, charged with timber and boulders, cascaded down with ever gathering power. They were swept away in the tumbling, white death. The fury of sound muffled the screams of men it carried away, rolling them into the pounding slide, burying them alive.
Kahlan sagged with relief. They could not be followed, now. The pass was entombed.
The panting men slowed, but they couldn't slow too much, or they would freeze. Their pace kept them warm. Their feet, she knew, despite being wrapped in white cloth for a little protection, were not warm. They had given her their best effort. They had given the Midlands their best effort. Many had given their lives.
Kahlan was so exhausted from lack of sleep, as well as the fatigue of battle, along with the emotional drain of fright, and the effort required to use her power, that she could hardly stay upright. Soon, she told herself, she could rest. Soon.
She patted the hand on her stomach. "We made it, soldier. We're safe, now."
"Yes, Mother Confessor," He whispered groggily. "Mother Confessor, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I only killed seventeen. I'm sorry. I promised myself I'd get twenty. I only got seventeen," he mumbled.
"I know heros of battle, decorated men, who have not bested half that number in combat. You have made me proud. You have made the Midlands proud. Feel only pride, soldier."
He mumbled something she couldn't understand.
She patted his hand again. "You'll be to help soon. Hold on. You'll be fine."
He didn't answer. She looked behind, down the trail, and saw only white, and heard only silence. In the distant, dark mountains, a wolf yipped.
*****
A short time later, on a high plateau, they reached the camp. The men ahead in the line were already wrapped in blankets as they shivered around fires, warming their feet. Some were pulling on their clothes under the blankets. More men threw blankets around the men coming in ahead of her and tended the wounded. Some of the wounded were groaning in pain, feeling it for the first time, now that the heady furor of combat and escape had evaporated. She began to feel a throbbing in her lip.
In the flickering light of small fires, she could see Prindin and Tossidin, some distance away, running around searching the new arrivals. When they saw her on the horse, they both sighed with relief, giving her twin smiles.
Captain Ryan, dressed in a D'Haran uniform and with a bandage around his left hand, ran over. Other men took the reins, and yet others extended their hands to take the man behind her as she held him by an elbow, lowering the limp form down.
Prindin ran to meet her, her mantle in hand. He stood, holding the it open for her, waiting for her to dismount so he could put it around her shoulders. He grinned at her.
Without moving from the saddle, she slowly extended her hand. "I have had enough eyes on my flesh to last me the rest of my life. Throw it up here!"
Prindin shrugged self-consciously and tossed the mantle up to her. Tossidin swatted the back of his brother's head. Silence fell over the gathered men. They all looked away in embarrassment as she put the mantle around her shoulders and tied it.
She slid down, finding her legs barely up to the task of holding her. She used the sword still in her hand as a cane. She had to pause a moment until everything stopped spinning. She glanced to the man laying in the snow at her feet.
"Why isn't someone helping this man? Don't just stand there, help him!" No one moved. "I said help him!"
Captain Ryan stepped closer to her. He kept his eyes on the ground. "I'm sorry, Mother Confessor. He's dead."
Her hand tightened into a fist. "He's not dead! I was just talking to him!" No one moved. She beat her free fist against his chest. "He's not dead! He's not!"
Everyone looked away. No one said anything. She finally glanced at the men around the small fires, at all the hanging heads. Her hand fell to her side.
"He killed seventeen of them," she said to Captain Ryan. "He killed seventeen of them," she said louder, to the rest of them.
Captain Ryan nodded. "He did well. We are all proud of him."
She watched the faces as they all finally came up. "Forgive me. All of you, please forgive me. You have all done a good job." The fury had gone out of her. "You have all made me proud. You are heros, in my eyes, and in the eyes of the Midlands."
The men brightened a bit. Some went back to eating, while others started passing around tin bowls and spooning beans from pots on the fires. Some tore off chunks of flat camp bread to dunk in the beans.
"Where's Chandalen?" she asked as she pushed her feet into the boots Tossidin handed her.
"He went with the archers. I imagine that he's probably shooting arrows into D'Harans right now." Captain Ryan leaned toward her, as the brothers moved away, and lowered his voice. "I'm glad these three are on our side. You should have seen them taking out the sentries. Prindin, especially, is like death itself, with that troga of his. It was eerie, they way they were first here, and then over there, and you never even saw them move. I never
heard a thing. They just appeared with the sentries' uniforms."
"You should see them do that out in the open grassland, in broad daylight." Kahlan looked him up and down. She managed a small smile. "Quite handsome. You wear it well."
He pulled at his shoulder. "I don't know how they wear this heavy mail all the time." He fingered a slash in the leather. "But I was glad to have it on."
"How did everything go? How many men did you lose?"
"We got nearly everything we went after. In these uniforms, we didn't have to do much fighting. Hardly anyone noticed us, except the ones we killed. We only lost a few men." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Looks like you caught the worst of it. I took a rough count as you came it. We lost close to four hundred of the thousand swordsmen who went in."
She stared past him, at the men around the fires. "We came close to losing them all." She brought her attention back to the Captain. "But they did themselves proud. The drivers, too."
He cradled his bandaged hand. "From the ones I talked to, I don't think many took less than ten of the enemy, and many took a lot more. We took quite a chunk out of the Order's hide."
Kahlan swallowed. "They took quite a chunk out of ours."
"Did the men do like I told them?" he asked. "Did they keep any trouble away from you?"
"They kept the enemy so far from me I couldn't tell you what they looked like. I'm afraid I wasn't able to add much honor to your sword, though it was a comfort to have along. I pray you will at least be honored that I carried it in battle."
He frowned, leaning to the side, trying to get a better look at her face in the firelight. "Your lip looks cut." He glanced at her warhorse as the men were taking the tack off. "That horse is covered in blood. You're covered in blood, too, aren't you?" It was an accusation, not a question.
Kahlan stared off at a fire. "Some drunk threw something at me. It cut my lip. That wounded soldier I was bringing in bled to death on my horse, and on me." Her eyes drifted among the young faces around fires. "I wish I could have done half as well they. They were magnificent."
He gave a suspicious grunt. "I'm just relieved to see you."