Terry Goodkind: Blood of the Fold

Richard sensed others behind him, back toward the palace. He spun just in time to see three more abruptly appear. They were racing to join the fight, with only Mistress Sanderholt in their way. She cried out at finding her escape route blocked by the advancing creatures. She turned and ran ahead of them. Richard could see that she was going to lose the race, and he was too far away to make it in time.

With a backhanded swing of his sword, Richard slashed open a scaled form that turned on him. “Gratch!” he cried out. “Gratch!”

Twisting the head off a mriswilh, Gratch looked up. Richard pointed with his sword.

“Gratch! Protect her!”

Gratch instantly grasped the nature of Mistress Sanderholt’s peril. Flinging aside the limp, headless carcass, he bounded into the air. Richard ducked. Swift strokes of the gar’s leathery wings lifted him over Richard’s head and up the steps.

Reaching down, Gratch snatched the woman up in his furry arms. Her feet jerked off the ground and over the sweeping knives of the mriswith. Spreading his wings wide, Gratch banked before the woman’s weight could cost him his momentum, swooped down beyond the mriswith, and then, with a powerful stroke, broke his descent to set Mistress Sanderholt on the ground. Without pause, he sprang back into the fray and, deftly avoiding the flashing knives, struck out with his claws and fangs.

Richard spun back to the three mriswith at the base of the steps. Losing himself to the sword’s rage, he became one with the magic and the spirits of those who had wielded the sword before him. Everything moved with the slow elegance of a dance—the dance with death. The three mriswith came at him, whirling with cold grace, an onslaught of flashing blades. Pivoting, they split rank, skimming up the steps to go around him. With detached efficiency, Richard caught the lone creature on the point of his blade.

To his surprise, the other two cried out, “No!”

Astonished, Richard froze. He hadn’t known that mriswith could speak. They paused on the steps, holding him in beady, snakelike gazes. They had almost made it past him on their way up the steps, toward Gratch. Intent on the gar, he surmised, they wanted most to get past him.

Richard bolted up the steps, blocking their way. Again they split ranks, one going to each side. Richard feinted at the one to his left, and then reeled to strike out at the other. His sword shattered the triple blades in one of its claws. Without pause, the mriswith spun, evading the killing thrust of Richard’s blade, but as the creature came around, closing the distance to deliver its own strike, he drew his sword back, slicing across its neck. With a howl, the mriswith toppled to the ground, writhing, spilling blood across the snow.

Before Richard could turn to the other, it crashed into him from behind. The two of them tumbled down the steps. His sword and one of the three-bladed knives clattered across the stone at the bottom, skittering out of reach, and disappeared under the snow.

They rolled over, each trying to gain the advantage. With its scaled arms constricting around his chest, the wiry beast tried to muscle Richard onto his stomach. He could feel fetid breath on the back of his neck. Though he couldn’t see his sword, he could feel its magic, and knew exactly where it lay. He tried to lunge for it, but the mriswith’s weight hobbled him. He tried to drag himself, but the snow-slicked stone denied him enough purchase. The sword remained out of reach.

Powered by his anger, Richard staggered to his feet. Still clutching him with both scaled arms, the mriswith slithered a leg around his. Richard crashed face-first to the ground, the weight of the mriswith on his back driving the wind from his lungs. The mriswith’s second knife hovered inches from his face.

Grunting with effort, Richard pushed himself up with one arm and with the other hand seized the wrist that held the knife. In one smooth, mighty movement, he heaved the mriswith back, ducked under the arm, and, as he came back up, wrenched it around one full turn. Bone popped. With his other hand, Richard brought his belt knife to the creature’s chest. The mriswith, cape and all, flushed to a sickening, weak greenish color.

“Who sent you!” When it didn’t answer, Richard twisted its arm, pinning it behind the beast’s back. “Who sent you!”

The mriswith sagged, “The dreamssss walker,” it hissed.

“Who’s the dream walker? Why are you here?”

Waves of waxy yellow suffused the mriswith. Its eyes widened as it struggled anew to escape. “Greeneyesss!”

A sudden blow slammed Richard back. A flash of dark fur snatched the mriswith. Claws yanked its head back. Fangs sank into its neck. A powerful jerk ripped the throat away. Startled, Richard gasped for air.

Before he could catch his breath, the gar, his green eyes wild, lunged at him. Richard threw his arms up as the huge beast smashed into him. The knife flew from his hand. The sheer size of the gar was smothering, his awesome strength overpowering. Richard might as well as have been trying to hold back a mountain that was falling on him. Dripping fangs drove for his face.

“Gratch!” He snatched fistfuls of fur. “Gratch! It’s me, Richard!” The snarling face drew back a bit. Vapor huffed out with each breath, reeking of the putrid stench of mriswith blood. The glowing green eyes blinked. Richard stroked the heaving chest. “It’s all right, Gratch. It’s over. Calm down.”

The iron-hard muscles of the arms that held him slackened. The snarl wrinkled into a grin. Tears welling in his eyes, Gratch crushed Richard to his chest.

“Grrratch luuug Raaaach aaarg.”

Patting the gar’s back, Richard struggled to get air into his lungs. “I love you too, Gratch.”

Gratch, the green gleam back in his eyes, held Richard out for a critical inspection, as if to assure himself that his friend was intact. He let out a purling gurgle that bespoke his relief, whether at finding Richard safe or at having stopped before tearing him apart, Richard wasn’t sure, but he did know that he, too, was relieved that it was over. His muscles, the fear, anger, and fury of the fight abruptly gone from them, throbbed with a dull ache.

Richard took a deep breath at the heady feeling of having survived the sudden attack, but he was unsettled by the mutability of Gratch’s usual gentle disposition into such deadly ferocity. He glanced around at the startling amount of foul-smelling gore spilled across the snow. Gratch hadn’t done it all. As he put down the last vestige of the magic’s anger, it struck him that perhaps Gratch saw him in a similar light. Just as Richard, Gratch had risen to the threat.

“Gratch, you knew they were here, didn’t you?”

Gratch nodded enthusiastically, adding a bit of a growl to make his point. It occurred to Richard that when he had last seen Gratch growling with such vehemence, outside the Hagen Woods, it must have been because he sensed the presence of the mriswith.

The Sisters of the Light had told him that occasionally the mriswith strayed from the Hagen Woods, and that no one, not Sisters of the Light—sorceresses—or even wizards, had been able to perceive their presence, or had ever survived an encounter with them. Richard had been able to sense them because he was the first in near to three thousand years to be born with both sides of the gift. So how did Gratch know they were there?

“Gratch, could you see them?” Gratch pointed to a few of the carcasses, as if to point them out for Richard. “No, I can see them now. I mean before, when I was talking to Mistress Sanderholt and you were growling. Could you see them then?” Gratch shook his head. “Could you hear them, or smell them?” Gratch frowned in thought, his ears twitching, and then shook his head again. “Then how did you know they were there, before we could see them?”