Terry Goodkind - The Omen Machine

As she went deeper into the structure, she shed the panic that had kept her going at maximum effort for so long. Now, as the panic faded, she could feel her strength ebbing as well.

She hadn’t eaten much, and she hadn’t slept much for days on end. Now, along with the fever, it was all catching up with her. She was having trouble walking, but she knew that she had to keep going. She wasn’t safe, yet, until she could get help.

It became an effort to keep her eyes open, to put one foot in front of the other. Her feet felt so heavy she could hardly lift them. Before long, it was all she could do to shuffle ahead.

Kahlan passed through rooms with hundreds of strips of cloth hanging from the ceiling, each holding an object of some sort, everything from coins to the remains of small animals. She was mystified by the purpose of the place and had to hold her breath against the stench as she hurried past.

Beyond, she went through a network of passageways and rooms, her way ahead lit by candles.

Kahlan paused. She thought she had heard a whisper calling to her.

“Mother Confessor . . .”

That time she was sure she’d heard it. She looked around the room and peered down the dark corridors to the side, but she didn’t see anyone.

When she heard it a third time, she was listening more carefully and was able to tell where it had come from. It seemed to have come from the wall to the side. Moving toward the sound she saw then that there was a small person inside the structure of the wall itself. He was naked.

Kahlan realized, then, that she recognized him. It was Henrik, the boy from down in the market.

“Mother Confessor . . .”

Her eyes wide, Kahlan stared at the boy. “Henrik, what are you doing in there?”

“They put me in here. Please, help me?”

Kahlan pulled her knife and started cutting away at the branches and vines all woven together over him, keeping him imprisoned. As she started pulling away the vines, thorns pricked her fingers. She drew back, putting the edge of a finger to her mouth, sucking at the painful puncture. She could see the trickles of blood where the thorns had pierced Henrik’s flesh as well.

Kahlan immediately went back to cutting away the webbing holding the boy in. Tears ran down his cheeks.

“Thank you, thank you,” he mumbled over and over as he wept. “I’m so sorry for what I did, Mother Confessor.”

“What did you do?” she asked to keep his mind off the pain of the thorns as she worked at cutting away branches and vines.

“I scratched you. I didn’t mean to, didn’t want to. I couldn’t stop myself. I—”

“It’s all right,” Kahlan said as she carefully cut away the last thorny branch holding him in. She leaned in, concentrating on finding a safe place to hold it and get it off him without doing any more damage. “It’s all right. Hush.” He had puncture wounds from the thorns all over his chest, arms, and legs, and while certainly painful, they didn’t look life-threatening.

“Run,” he said in a weak voice.

Kahlan frowned up at him. “Who did this to you? What’s going on?”

“Run,” he said again. “Get away before they get you, too.”

She lifted his arm, put it around her shoulders, and lifted him out. He winced as the thorns drew out of the skin of his back. Some were barbed and resisted. When she finally had him out, Kahlan set him down and grabbed a spare shirt from her backpack.

“You have to run,” he said as she draped the shirt around his shoulders.

“I can’t run,” Kahlan told him. “A pack of wild dogs chased me in here. If I run, they’ll get me.”

His jaw dropped. “The dogs chased you here?” When she nodded, he said, “Me too. But it’s worse here. You have to run. Get away.”

Before Kahlan could ask what was going on, Henrik turned and raced away back the way Kahlan had come in.

“Run!” he screamed as he ran.

Kahlan stood staring, watching him vanish back up the tunnels. She couldn’t run. The dogs were back that way. Besides, she had no more energy. She didn’t even know if she would be able to stand much longer.

Just then, a woman in a cowled cape reached out and put a hand under Kahlan’s arm. She hadn’t seen the woman come up from behind.

“This way,” the woman said in a low, thin, stretched tone.

“Who are you?” Kahlan asked. It was almost too much effort.

Another figure appeared on the other side and slipped a hand under Kahlan’s other arm. She was also wearing a cowled cape, like the first woman. Together, they took some of her weight as they started walking her back toward a darker room.

They both had an odd bluish, spiritlike glow about them. Kahlan had the passing thought that maybe she was dead, and she was being welcomed into the spirit world. That thought quickly faded. Strange as the place was, it was was no spirit world.

Kahlan wasn’t sure what was going on, but after Henrik’s frantic warning, she wanted to run, but she was at the end of her strength.

“We’ve been expecting you,” the stooped figure on the right said as her grip tightened on Kahlan’s arm.

The two glowing figures dragged Kahlan into a larger room crowded with bottles, jars, vessels, and small boxes of every kind. The jars of colored glass were stuck in the walls anywhere a place could be found. Yet others, as well as pottery jars and jugs, were crowded together all over the floor. Acrid smoke rose in wisps from a shallow bowl in the center of the room.

As Kahlan was hauled toward the center of the room, she pulled her gaze away from staring at the strange collection of containers and found herself face-to-face with a small woman just coming to her feet.

The woman wasn’t very big. In the dim light it was difficult to see much more than her boyish figure and shoulder-length hair.

And then the woman leaned in and gave Kahlan a broad grin with lips sewn nearly shut.

Kahlan stiffened at the evil in that grin and in her dark eyes.

The woman with the sewn-shut mouth made low, drawn-out, screeching, clicking sounds toward another one of the glowing figures that seemed to have appeared out of the walls. Yet more of them gathered close around. Including the two holding Kahlan up, there were six of them.

The cowled figure the woman had spoken to in the strange language bowed her head.

“I will leave at once, Mistress, and let him know that we have her, and that she will soon be among the walking dead.”

Kahlan ran the words through her mind again, not sure she had heard them right.

She will soon be among the walking dead.

With that, the figure vanished like smoke through the walls. As Kahlan watched her go, she saw for the first time other people back in the walls, woven in the way Henrik had been. Some were near the surface of the wall while others were so far back in she couldn’t see much of them. None had clothes. A number of them were clearly dead.

The small woman with the leather thongs sewing her mouth closed turned and tossed a handful of dusty material in the shallow bowl where small sticks were smoldering. Sparkling light spiraled up. Other figures, grotesque figures only partially visible, crowded into the room.

It felt like being among an assembly of ghosts, except they didn’t look like ghosts of people. They were gangly, human-like, skeletal creatures. Their long arms and legs had big, knobby joints. Their flesh, tight on their slender limbs, as if they had no muscle whatsoever, glistened with mottled, slimy rot. Their demonic heads bore only a passing resemblance to humans’. They growled at the sight of her, their thin lips drawing back to reveal large mouths crowded with pointed, needle-sharp teeth.