Terry Goodkind - Soul of the Fire

Without stopping to think it over, Richard started running toward the sound. As he got closer, he realized he heard men grunting in effort, panting, exerting themselves.

Richard burst upon them, a gang of men, beating someone on the ground. He seized the hair of one and yanked him back. Under the man, he saw a bloody body.

They were beating the poor soul to death.

Richard recognized the man he had. It was one of the messengers. Rowley, he thought the man’s name was. He had a wild, savage look in his eyes.

Rowley, seeing that it was Richard, immediately went for his throat, crying. “Get him!”

Richard whipped his other arm around Rowley’s neck, seized his chin, bent him over, and yanked back, snapping his neck. Rowley went down in a limp heap.

Another man sprang forward. His onrushing momentum was his worst mistake. Richard rammed the heel of his hand square into the man’s face.

He was still falling across Rowley as Richard snatched the red hair of another, pulled him forward, and drove his knee up into the man’s jaw. His jaw broken, he staggered back.

The men were all up, now, and Richard realized he might soon be joining the body on the ground. His advantage was that they were already tired from their exertion. His disadvantage was that they greatly outnumbered him, and they were mad with blood lust.

Just as they were about to dive onto Richard, they saw something and scattered. Richard spun around and saw the Baka Tau Mana blade masters sweeping in out of the night, their swords whistling through the night air.

Richard realized they must have been shadowing him as he went for his walk to be alone. He hadn’t even known they were there. As they went after the mob, Richard knelt down beside the body in the trampled wheat.

Whoever it was, they were dead.

Richard stood with a sorrowful sigh. He stared down at the broken form that had once been a person, probably only a short time before. It looked like it must have been a terrible end.

If only he had been closer, sooner, he might have been able to stop it. Suddenly not having the stomach to look at the bloody body, or others nearby, Richard walked away.

He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when a thought brought him to a halt. He turned around and looked. He winced at the notion, but then thought: What if it had been someone he cared about? Wouldn’t he want somebody who was there to do whatever they could? He was the only one around to help, if he even could. He guessed it was worth a try—the person was already dead, there was nothing to lose.

He ran back and knelt beside the body. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman, except that there were pants, so he assumed it to be a man. He put a hand under the neck and wiped some of the mask of blood from the swollen, cut lips and then put his over them.

He remembered what Denna had done to him, when he was near death. He recalled Cara doing it to Du Chaillu.

He blew a breath of life into the lifeless corpse. He lifted his mouth and listened to the breath wheeze from the body. He blew another breath, and then another, and then another.

He knelt by the body for what seemed like ages but he knew could be only minutes, blowing in the breath of life, hoping against hope that the poor unfortunate soul would still be with them. He prayed to the good spirits for help.

He wanted so much for something good to come of his experience at the hands of Denna, the Mord-Sith. He knew Denna would want life to be her legacy. Cara had already brought Du Chaillu back, proving that Mord-Sith could do more than take life.

He again prayed fervently to the good spirits to help him, to keep this soul here with this person, rather than take it now.

With a gasp, life returned.

Someone was coming. Richard looked up and saw two of the blade masters trotting back. Richard didn’t need to ask if they were successful. That gang of young men would murder no more people in the night.

Someone else was coming, too. It was an older gentleman in dark clothes. He rushed up with frightened urgency.

The man was staggered by the sight. “Oh, dear Creator, not another one.”

“Another one?” Richard asked.

The man fell to his knees, seeming not to hear Richard. He took up a bloody hand, pressing it to his cheek.

“Thank the Creator,” he whispered. He looked up at Richard. “I have a carriage.” He pointed. “Just there, on the road. Help me, get this poor wretch to my carriage and we can take him to my home.”

“Where?” Richard asked.

“Fairfield,” the man said, watching the blade masters carefully, tenderly, lift the unconscious but breathing person.

“Well,” Richard said, wiping the blood from his mouth. “I guess it’s a lot closer than the camp with my soldiers.”

Richard thought he might have to help the man, but the man refused the offer of a helping arm.

“Are you Lord Rahl, then?”

Richard nodded. The man stopped then, pulling Richard’s hand up to shake it.

“Lord Rahl, I’m honored to meet you, though not under such circumstances. My name is Edwin Winthrop.”

Richard pumped the man’s hand. “Master Winthrop.”

“Edwin, please.” Edwin grasped Richard’s shoulders. “Lord Rahl, this is just terrible. My beloved wife, Claudine—”

Edwin fell into tears. Richard gently took hold of his arms to be sure the man wouldn’t collapse.

“My beloved wife Claudine was murdered in just this fashion. Beaten to death out on this road.”

“I’m so sorry,” Richard said, now understanding Edwin’s reaction.

“Let me help this poor wretch. No one was there to help my Claudine as you’ve helped this person. Please, Lord Rahl, let me help.”

“It’s Richard, Edwin. I would like nothing better than for you to help.”

Richard watched as Jiaan and his blade masters helped to carefully load the person into the carriage.

“I’d like three of you to go with Edwin. We can’t tell if whoever is responsible for this will try again.”

“There will be no one to report their failure,” Jiaan said.

“They will realize it sooner or later.” Richard turned to Edwin. “You must not tell anyone of this, or you will be in danger. They might come to finish the job.”

Edwin was nodding as he climbed into his carriage. “I have a healer, a lifelong friend I can trust.”

Richard and two of the blade masters walked the lonely road back to camp in silence. They had previously expressed their absolute faith that he would banish the chimes that had tried to kill their spirit woman. Richard didn’t have the heart to tell them he was no closer to doing so than he was back then.

When he got back, most of the camp was asleep. Richard wasn’t in the mood to talk with the officers or sentries. He was thinking about Joseph Ander and the chimes.

Kahlan wasn’t in their tent. She had probably gone to be with Du Chaillu. Du Chaillu had come to value Kahlan’s presence—the comfort of another woman. It was close to time for the baby to be born.

Richard took Joseph Ander’s journey book and a lamp and went to another tent used by officers for planning. He wanted to work on translating more of the journey book, but didn’t want to keep Kahlan from sleeping when she got back. Richard knew that if he worked in their tent, she would want to sit up with him. There was no need for that.

Richard was puzzling over an involved and confusing translation, trying to work through the maze of possible meanings, when Jiaan slipped into the tent. The soldiers would have asked permission to enter; the blade masters just assumed they had permission to go wherever they wanted. After the constant formality with the soldiers, Richard found it refreshing.