The Third Kingdom

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 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.

CHAPTER

15

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.