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Her concern for him, and her anxiety over the strangeness of the depthless sleep, let her slowly, methodically, claw her way back. Yet it seemed to take hours.
With a desperate gasp, she came awake. Her head swirled with a throbbing ache. Her whole body tingled with sharp little pricks of pain. She laboriously pushed herself up, to sit, staring about her dark shelter. The candle was burned almost all the way down. Quiet hummed in her ears.
She thought maybe she needed cold air to wake up. Her arms and legs felt thick and heavy as she crawled through the opening of the shelter. Outside, it was dusk. She looked up at the first stars winking through the trees. Her breath fogged before her face as she stood on wobbly legs.
Kahlan took a step, and promptly tripped over something, falling on her face in the snow. Her cheek still against the ground, she opened her eyes. Inches away, glassy eyes were staring at her. The side of a young man's face was laying against the snow, close to hers. It was his leg she had tripped over. It felt as if her bones wanted to leap out of her skin and run.
His throat was gaping open, his neck nearly sliced in two, letting his head bend back from his body at an impossible angle. She could see the opening of his severed windpipe. Clotted blood covered snow. A bloom of bile rose up into her throat. She swallowed, forcing it back down.
Slowly lifting her head, she saw the dark forms of other bodies. They were all Galean. Every sword still rested in its scabbard. They had died without the chance to fight back.
Kahlan's legs tensed, wanting to run, but she strained to be still. In the dull fog of the half-sleep she couldn't throw off, she struggled to think. Her mind seemed to be mired in a dream-like stupor, unable to concentrate. Someone had killed these men, and could still be around; she somehow had to force herself to think.
She touched her fingers to the dead soldier's hand. It was still warm. This must have just happened. Maybe that was what had wakened her.
She peered up, among the trees. Men moved in the shadows. They had seen her, and were moving into the clearing around her. They laughed and hooted as they came forward, and she saw who they were—close to a dozen D'Harans, and a couple of Keltans. Men of the Imperial Order. With a gasp, Kahlan sprang to her feet.
One man, the one closest, had a puffy, red wound down the left side of his face, from his temple to his jaw, where Nick's hoof had caught him. Ragged stitches held the black and red flesh closed. He gave a sneering smile with the good side of his mouth. It was General Riggs.
"Well, well, I have found you at last, Confessor."
Kahlan flinched with the rest of the men when a dark form screaming a battle cry crashed through the underbrush. As the men turned, Kahlan bolted the other way.
Before she turned, she had seen the fading light glint off a huge war axe. The crescent shaped blade struck down two men in one swing. It was Orsk. He must have been searching for her, too, so he could protect her. One touched by a Confessor never gave up.
Her legs felt thick, and tingled, as if she had slept on them, but she ran as hard as she could. Yelling and screaming erupted behind her. Steel rang against steel. Orsk roared as he tore into the men after her.
Spruce branches slapped her face as she staggered through the trees. Dead limbs and brush snagged her pants and shirt. Dizzy, she stumbled through the drifts. Snow splashed against her face as she crashed through drooping boughs. She couldn't make her legs run fast enough.
The man on her heels grunted as he dove for her. His arms snared her legs and she went down hard. She spit snow out as she kicked and struggled to get away. The man clawed his way up her legs, grabbing hold of her belt and throwing himself on top of her.
The red face with the angry wound down one side hovered right over hers. In triumph, he gave her a one sided grin. Back though the trees, she could hear the sounds of furious battle. She and Riggs were alone as she struggled to squirm away.
One fist grabbed her hair and held her head to the ground. His other fist punched her in the side, knocking the wind from her lungs. He hit her again. Nausea swept through her in a hot wave as she fought to get her breath.
"I've got you now, Confessor. You'll not get away again. You may as well resign yourself to it."
He was alone. What was he thinking? She slapped a hand to his chest. It seemed a puzzle to her that a lone man would think he could take a Confessor.
"You have no one, Riggs," she managed to say under the weight of him. "You have lost. You are mine."
"I don't think so." He gave her a sneer of a smile. "He said you can't use your power, now."
He lifted her head and thumped it against the ground. Her vision blurred. She tried to concentrate on what she needed to do. He lifted her heard again to bang it against the ground. Though she was bewildered by what he had said, she had to do it now, before he knocked her unconscious, before it was too late. Now, when time was hers.
In the silence of her mind, as he lifted her head, she let her Confessor's power sweep through her. She released her restraint.
There was thunder with no sound. The impact of power, of magic, made Riggs flinch. Tree branches all around shook with a jolt. Snow dropped down, splattering on his back and her face.
His eyes went wide, his jaw slack. "Mistress! Command me."
With the last of her strength, she managed to ask, "Who told you my power couldn't harm you!"
"Mistress, it was..."
The bloody point of an arrow exploded from the prominence on the fore of his throat. The broad, steel point stopped a scant inch from her chin. His eyes teared as his mouth moved and blood frothed, but no words came forth. As his breath rattled from his lungs, he began slumping onto her.
A fist gripped the shoulder of his uniform and pulled Riggs away. At first, she thought it would be Orsk, but it wasn't.
"Mother Confessor!" A worried Prindin peered down at her. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"
He hastily rolled the General off her and offered his hand to help her up as his eyes glided down the length of her laying on the snow. She stared up at him, but didn't take his hand. Using her power had left her exhausted and limp as never before.
His customary grin spread on his face as he shouldered his bow. "I can see you are not hurt. You look very fine."
"You didn't need to kill him. I had already used my power on him. He was mine. He was just about to tell me who it was that said I could not harm..."
Her whole body tingled with apprehension at the way his eyes took her in. His familiar grin ran a cold shiver up her arms and the back of her neck, making the fine hairs stand stiffly out.
Orsk crashed through the trees. "Mistress! Are you safe?"
She could hear others coming in the woods behind him. She heard Chandalen's voice. Prindin swiftly nocked an arrow. Orsk lifted his axe with one big fist.
"Prindin! No! Don't hurt him!" Prindin drew his bow. "Orsk! Run!"
The big man spun without question and darted back into the brush. An arrow followed him in. She heard the arrow strike something solid. She could hear Orsk stumble through the barren undergrowth, breaking branches and saplings. The snapping of twigs died out, and then she heard him hit the ground.
She tried to stand, but feebly fell back. It felt as if she had no bones, and her muscles were melting. Her strength was gone. The blackness was trying to suck her back in.
Prindin turned his grin back to her as he shouldered his bow once more.
Kahlan strained to bring forth the strength to speak. It came in a breathy whisper. "Prindin, why did you do that?"
He shrugged. "So we can be alone." His smile widened. "Before they chop off your head."
Prindin. Prindin had told Riggs her power wouldn't hurt him, so she would expend it on him, and would have nothing left. Her legs trembled with the effort of trying to lift herself. She fell back again as he watched.
A voice came through the trees. It was a breathless Chandalen, calling to her. In another direction, she heard Tossidin calling. She tried to scream
to them. Only a weak, hoarse complaint came from her throat. Darkness pressed into her.
Maybe she was still asleep, she thought. She could hardly speak, hardly move, just like a nightmare. She wished it was.
But she knew it was no dream.
Prindin turned to the insistent calls. Kahlan dug her heels into the snow and, with a mighty effort, managed to scoot herself back. Her hand fell on a stout maple limb lying on the ground.
Prindin rushed to her. She focused all her fear, her dread, her pain and horror at what was happening, into action. It took everything she had. Prindin reached for her.
Kahlan came up swinging the stout limb. Prindin ducked and snatched her would-be club, wrenching it from her grip. He spun her to him and curled his arm around her head, over her mouth, as she tried to warn Chandalen. Though he wasn't big, she knew Prindin to be incredibly strong, but in her present state, even a child could have had his way with her.
