As it came close, it gathered into a thick, greenish-gray cloud. That increasing mass of murky smoke rose up, so heavy it obscured everything beyond it.
Richard took a mighty swing with the sword through the smoke. Wisps of it curled away when the blade passed through and disturbed the air, but there was nothing solid in it.
He heard the soft chuckling again. He gripped his sword tighter as he stepped back from the tall, hazy mass of smoke.
The smoke seemed caught up in a sudden wind, and with a swirl, as if something had passed close by, it spun as it faded away into the air.
When it was gone, there was Moravaska Michec standing before them.
He was a big, barrel-chested man past his middle years. His face was coarse, as if made up of chunky blocks of clay that had hardened together before being refined into proper features. His heavy brow nearly obscured dark eyes peering out from narrowed eyes. A dark, pockmarked complexion scarred his cheeks and bulbous nose.
He wore what had once been white robes, similar to the white robes Richard remembered Darken Rahl always wearing. But Michec’s white robes were stained with what looked like years of blood and gore, as if they had never been washed. Richard could understand why Nyda said that he was called the Butcher. It looked much like he was wearing a butcher’s apron.
Richard could easily understand the other reason, hanging all around the room, he was called Michec the Butcher.
There was a cloth stole, such as a priest would wear, around the back of his neck and draped down over the front of his shoulders. It was embroidered with layers of designs in golds and purples. Richard guessed that it had denoted his high rank back when Darken Rahl ruled. But like his robes, it was soiled with blood and dark stains.
The man’s full head of short hair was salt-and-pepper, and stuck up from his scalp in greasy spikes. The thick mass of his beard, confined for the most part to the rim of his broad jaw and chin, had been braided into dozens of long, fat strands hanging to mid-chest. They looked like nothing so much as snakes hanging from the rim of his face.
His fat fingers, ending with jagged, broken nails, were stained with messy black muck under the nails and in the crevices and wrinkles, obviously from many years of his sadistic fixations.
His sly smile conveyed abject cruelty.
“So tell me,” he said as he gestured all around. “Really, was this your plan? To simply walk in here and kill me? That was your plan? You think yourself that powerful? Powerful enough to rule, to protect those loyal to you?” He clucked his tongue with amusement. “My, my. Such arrogance.”
Richard didn’t answer. His mind was spinning with a thousand thoughts. For some reason, though, it felt like he couldn’t connect those fragments of thoughts, couldn’t make his mind work.
The man’s cunning smile widened. “You all are probably are wondering why your meager abilities aren’t working. Well, I must confess: I spelled this room. And you simply walked right in here, distracted by my collection of pretty people. So you see, like the Mord-Sith, you three aren’t as powerful as you imagine yourselves to be, because in here, even what powers you do have are blocked.” He lifted his heavy brow. “Just like all your pretty little Mord-Sith. Not even your bond protected them.”
Richard tried to summon the gift he knew was there, somewhere, deep inside, but it simply didn’t respond. By the look on Shale’s face, she was having the same problem.
Michec gestured to Vika. “She’s mine, you know. Darken Rahl himself assigned her to me for training. After that, she was given to me. I only loaned her to Hannis Arc. He was supposed to return her. When he died—because of you—she was obligated to come back to me. An inviolable duty she chose to ignore.” A dark look came over his features. “I am seeing to it that she fully regrets her disobedience.” He reached out and with the tip of his first finger pushed the Agiel a little deeper into the gaping belly wound.
Vika’s eyes rolling back in her head; her chin quivered as a shudder of agony went through her.
“I will similarly deal with her equally disloyal sister Mord-Sith.” He glanced toward the opening into the room where they were kneeling before looking back at Richard. He smiled with menace. “Once I deal with you and your lovely wife.”
He lifted a hand as he walked off a few paces, then turned back. “Once I do, I will be richly rewarded. You see, the Golden Goddess has become … annoyed, shall we say, by your stubborn resistance.” He stepped closer. “I assured her I could handle the situation. We came to … an arrangement.”
Richard was horrified to learn that Michec was working with the Goddess. Even though he was filled with rage, he couldn’t make his gift respond to that fury. Try as he might to call it forth, it felt like there was nothing there. Whatever kind of spell the witch man had used, besides blocking his gift, it also made Richard’s thinking foggy.
Michec swept a hand around in a grand fashion, as if proudly showing off his years of dedicated labor.
“As you can see, my work continues. It was interrupted by you, Richard Cypher, the pretend Lord Rahl. For that, you will suffer, I can assure you.
“But the goddess, you see”—he smiled with meaning at Richard as he pointed a finger toward Kahlan—“wants more than anything to hold the bloody remains of the two children growing in her belly. I assured her she will have her wish.”
Richard came unhinged.
With a cry of rage, he abandoned his attempt to use his gift and instead went for the man, sword-first.
24
It felt to Richard like they must have been walking for days. The Azrith Plain seemed endless. Richard’s mouth was so dry from thirst that he could hardly swallow anymore. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The air felt hot, but there was no sun. He judged that it must be sometime after twilight by the odd, purplish light laced with streaks of green. He was glad to finally be gone from the People’s Palace and on the way, but he was so thirsty he could hardly think of anything else.
“Is there any water left?” he asked Kahlan.
“No.”
He seemed to remember, then, that he had told her to have the last few swallows. But why didn’t they bring more?
For what seemed hours, they trudged on across the parched ground. Despite how long they walked, it never seemed to get any darker. The sky was black above them, with the color of a purple bruise farther down where it met the horizon.
“Why didn’t we bring horses?” he asked. “This would be easier if we had horses.”
“You said we didn’t need them,” Kahlan said in a flat tone from behind him somewhere.
Richard squinted, trying to remember why he didn’t think they should bring horses. That seemed strange. It was going to be a long journey. Horses would have made it easier, and they could have carried more water.
They had already been traveling for what seemed days and days. As they marched ever onward, the night seemed endless. The Azrith Plain, so barren and empty, seemed endless. He wished they had brought horses. And more water.
“Do you want to stop?” he asked.
Kahlan didn’t answer. She was probably so thirsty she didn’t want to talk. He felt too thirsty to bother asking again, so he slogged on.
It was hard to walk, because his legs hurt. His back hurt, too, but more than anything, his shoulders ached something fierce.
After endless walking, he at last began to see trees out ahead. He did his best to pick up his pace. He started to run for them, because trees meant water. Despite how hard he tried, his legs moved like they were mired in molasses.
When he finally reached the trees, he found a brook, as he had known he would. The water looked clean and cool. He fell to his knees and started scooping up water, drinking and drinking and drinking from his hands.