Wizard's First Rule (38 page)

The trail leveled out and widened, allowing them to walk side by side again. He was tired from the day’s hike, and it would be another night and day before they could rest. Crossing the Narrows in the dark and when they were exhausted sounded like a bad idea, but Adie had been insistent they not stop. He could not question a person who knew the pass as well as she. He knew that the story of the gripper would keep him wide awake.

Kahlan looked around at the woods, turned to check behind. She stopped suddenly, grabbing his arm. In the trail, not ten yards behind, stood a shadow.

Like the other, this one did not move. He could see through it, see the woods behind, as if it were made of smoke. Kahlan kept a firm grip on his arm as both of them walked ahead in a sideways fashion, watching the shadow thing. They rounded a turn in the trail and were away from it. They walked on faster.

“Kahlan, do you remember when you told me of the shadow people that Panis Rahl sent forth? Could those be shadow people?”

She gave him a worried look. “I don’t know. I have never seen one; they were in the last war, before I was born. But the stories were always told the same, that they floated along. I never heard anyone say they stood still like that.”

“Maybe it’s because of the bones. Maybe they know we’re here, but can’t find us, so they stay still to search.”

She wrapped her cloak tighter, obviously afraid of his idea, but didn’t say anything. In the gathering night they walked along, close to each other, sharing the same troubling thoughts. Another shadow stood at the side of the trail. Kahlan gripped his arm tight. They passed slowly, quietly, keeping their eyes on it. It didn’t move. Richard felt like panicking, but knew he couldn’t; they had to stay on the trail, had to use their heads. Maybe the shadows were trying to make them bolt, to run from the trail, and cross over accidentally into the underworld. They looked around, behind, as they went. When Kahlan was looking the other way, a branch brushed her face. She jumped against him with a start. She looked over and apologized. Richard gave her a reassuring smile.

Pine needles held droplets from the rains and mist, and when a light breeze swayed the branches, water from the trees above rained down. In the near darkness they had a hard time telling if there were shadow things around them or if it was just the dark shapes of tree trunks. Twice, they had no trouble telling; they were close to the trail and there was no doubt what they were. Still the shadows did not follow or move, but stood as if watching, even though they had no eyes.

“What are we going to do if they come for us?” Kahlan asked in a tense voice.

Her grip on his arm was becoming painful, so he pried her fingers off and put her hand in his. She gave his hand a squeeze. “Sorry,” she said with a self-conscious smile.

“If they come for us, the sword will stop them,” he answered confidently.

“What makes you so sure?”

“It stopped the things in the boundary.”

She seemed satisfied with the answer—he wished he were. The forest was dead quiet, except for a soft rasp he couldn’t quite figure out. There were none of the usual night sounds. Dark branches swayed near them with the breeze, making his heart race.

“Richard,” Kahlan said quietly, “don’t let them touch you. If they are shadow people, their touch is death. Even if they are not shadow people, we don’t know what would happen. We must not let them touch us.”

He gave her hand a squeeze of reassurance.

Richard resisted the temptation to pull the sword. There might be too many for the sword, if the sword’s magic even worked against shadows. If there was no other choice he would use the sword, but for now, his instincts told him not to.

The woods were getting darker. Tree trunks stood like black pillars in the murk. Richard felt as if there were eyes everywhere, watching. The trail was beginning to traverse a hillside, and he could see dark rocks rising up to their left. Runoff from the rains trickled through the rock. He could hear it bubbling and dripping and splashing. The ground dropped away on the right. The next time they looked back, there were three shadows, barely visible in the path behind. The two of them kept moving. Richard heard the soft scraping sound again, off in the woods to either side. It wasn’t a sound he was familiar with. He could feel, more than see, that there were shadow things on each side and behind them. A few were close enough to the trail that there was no doubt what they were. The only way that was clear was ahead.

“Richard,” Kahlan whispered, “do you think you should take out the night stone? I can hardly see the path.” She was gripping his hand tightly.

Richard hesitated. “I don’t want to until we absolutely need it. I’m afraid of what might happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, those shadows haven’t come for us yet. Maybe because they can’t see us, because of the bones.” He paused a moment. “But what if they can see the light from the night stone?”

Kahlan bit her bottom lip in worry. They strained to pick out the trail as it twisted to go around trees and boulders, over rocks and roots, cutting its way across the hillside. The soft scraping sound was nearer, all around. It sounded like… It sounded like claws on rock, he thought.

Two shadows stood ahead, close, the trail between them. Kahlan pressed tight against him and held her breath as they squeezed past. She buried her face against his shoulder when they were even with the shadow things. Richard put his arm around her, holding her tight. He knew how she felt. He was terrified, too. His heart pounded. It seemed they were going too far with each step, getting in too deep. He looked behind, but in the darkness there was not enough light to see if the shadows were standing on the trail.

Abruptly, an inky black shape loomed up before them. It was an enormous boulder, split down the middle.

The Narrows.

They pressed their backs up against the boulder, at the split. It was too dark to see the trail anymore, or if there were any shadow things close. They couldn’t follow the trail through the Narrows without the light of the night stone; it was far too dangerous. One wrong step in the Narrows and they were dead. In the stillness the scraping sound was closer, and all around them. Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out the leather pouch. He loosened the drawstring, dumped the night stone into his palm.

Warm light flared into the night, lighting the woods around, casting eerie shadows. He held the stone out, to see better.

Kahlan gasped.

In the warm yellowish illumination, they could see a wall of the shadow things, hundreds of them, not an inch between any two. They formed a half circle less than twenty feet away. On the ground were dozens and dozens of hump-shaped creatures, almost looking like rocks at first. But they weren’t rocks. Gray armor bands interlocked across their backs, jagged spikes poked out around the bottom edge.

Grippers.

That was what the sound was, their claws on the rocks. The grippers were moving with an odd, waddling gait, their humped bodies swaying from side to side as they struggled forward. Not fast, but steady. Some were only a few feet away.

For the first time, the shadows began to move, floating, drifting, tightening their ring.

Kahlan stood frozen, her back against the boulder, her eyes wide. Richard reached across the split, grabbed a fistful of her shirt and pulled her into the opening. The walls were wet and slick. The tightness of the space made him feel as if his heart were coming up in his throat. He didn’t like tight places. They backed through, turning occasionally to check their way. He held the night stone out, lighting the shadow things as they came. Grippers crawled into the split.

Richard could hear the sound of Kahlan’s rapid breathing echoing in the confining, dank space. They continued backing up, their shoulders sliding against the sides of the rock. Cold, slimy water soaked their shirts. In one spot they had to duck down and turn sideways because the crack narrowed, almost closing together, open just enough for them to pass down low. Forest debris fallen into the split lay in the dampness, decomposing. The place smelled of sickening rot. They continued moving sideways, and at last reached the other side. The shadows stopped when they reached the opening in the rock. The grippers didn’t.

Richard kicked one that got too close, sending it tumbling through the leaves and sticks on the floor of the split. Landing on its back, it clawed at the air, snapping and hissing, twisting and rocking, until it righted itself. When it did, the gripper rose up on its claw-tipped feet and let out a clicking growl before coming on once again.

Both turned quickly to follow the path. Richard held the night stone out to light the Narrows trail.

Kahlan drew a sharp breath.

The warm light illuminated the hillside where the Narrows path should have been. Spread out before them as far as they could see was a mass of rubble. Rocks,
tree limbs, splintered wood, and mud, all tumbled together. A slide had recently plunged down the hillside.

The Narrows trail had been swept away.

They took a step beyond the rock to have a better look.

Green light of the boundary came on, surprising them. They stepped back as one.

“Richard…”

Kahlan clutched his arm. The grippers were at their heels. The shadows floated in the split.

Torches set in ornate gold brackets lit the walls of the crypt with flickering light, reflected off the polished pink granite of the huge, vaulted room, lending their smell of pitch to the fragrance of roses in the dead, still air. White roses, replaced every morning without fail for the last three decades, filled each of the fifty-seven gold vases set in the wall beneath each of the fifty-seven torches that represented each year in the life of the deceased. The floor was white marble, so that any white rose petal that fell would not be a distraction before it could be whisked away. A large staff saw to it that no torch was allowed to go spent for longer than a few moments, and that rose petals were not allowed to rest long upon the floor. The staff was attentive and devoted to their tasks. Failure to be so resulted in an immediate beheading. Guards watched the tomb day and night to be sure the torches burned, the flowers were fresh, and no rose petal sat too long on the floor. And of course to carry out executions.

Staff positions were filled from the surrounding D’Haran countryside. Being a member of the crypt staff was an honor, by law. The honor brought with it the promise of a quick death if an execution was in order. A slow death in D’Hara was greatly feared, and common. New recruits, for fear they would speak ill of the dead king while in the crypt, had their tongues cut out.

The Master, on the evenings when he was at home in the People’s Palace, would visit the tomb. No staff or tomb guards were allowed to be present during these visits. The staff had spent a busy afternoon replacing the torches with freshly burning ones and tested each of the hundreds of white roses by gently shaking them to make sure none of the petals were loose, since any torch going out during the royal visit, or any rose petal falling to the floor, would result in an execution.

A short pillar in the center of the immense room supported the coffin itself, giving it the effect of floating in the air. The gold-enshrouded coffin glowed in the torchlight. Carved symbols covered its sides, and continued in a ring around the room, cut into the granite beneath the torches and gold vases: instructions in an ancient language from a father to a son on the process of going to the underworld, and returning. Instructions in an ancient language understood by only a handful other than the son; none but the son lived in D’Hara. All the others in D’Hara who understood had long ago been put to death. Someday, the rest would be.

The crypt staff and guards had been sent away. The Master was visiting his father’s tomb. Two of his personal guards stood watch over him, one to each side of the massive, elaborately carved and polished door. Their sleeveless leather-and-mail
uniforms helped display their bulky forms, the sharp contours of their heavy muscles, and the bands they wore around their arms just above their elbows, bands with raised projections sharpened to deadly edges, used in close combat to tear apart an adversary.

Darken Rahl ran his delicate fingers over the carved symbols on his father’s tomb. An immaculate white robe, its only decoration gold embroidery in a narrow band around the neck and down the front, covered his lean frame to within an inch of the floor. He wore no jewelry, other than a curved knife in a gold scabbard embossed with symbols warning the spirits to give way. The belt that held it was woven of gold wire. Fine, straight, blond hair hung almost to his shoulders. His eyes were a painfully handsome shade of blue. His features set off his eyes perfectly.

Many women had been taken to his bed. Because of his striking looks, and his power, some went eagerly. The others went despite his looks, but because of his power. Whether or not they were eager did not concern him. Were they unwise enough to be repulsed when they saw the scars, they entertained him in ways they could not have foreseen.