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She held out her arm. The man crashed in toward her. She felt the coarse weave of his dark brown shirt as the flat of her hand met the center of his chest.
That heartbeat of time she had before he was atop her had not yet begun. Richard had not yet managed to take a single frantic step.
The weight of the bear of a man against her hand felt as if it were but a baby’s breath. To Kahlan, it seemed as if he were frozen in space before her.
Time was hers.
He was hers.
The rush of combat, the cries, the yells, the screams; the stink of sweat and blood; the flash of steel, the clash of bodies; the curses and growls; the fear, the terror, the heart-pounding dread…the rage…was no longer there for her. She was in a silent world all her own.
Even though she had been born with it and had always felt it there in the core of her being, the awesome power within, in many ways, seemed incomprehensible, inconceivable, unimaginable, remote. She knew it would seem that way until she let her restraint slip, and then she would once again be joined with a force of such breathtaking magnitude that it could only be fully comprehended as it was being experienced. Although she had unleashed it more times than she could remember, no matter how prepared she was the extraordinary violence of it always still astonished her.
She regarded the man before her with cold calculation, ready for that violence.
As he had charged in on her, time had belonged to this man.
Now time belonged to her.
She could feel the thread count of the fabric of his shirt, feel his woolly chest hairs beneath it.
The heart-pounding shock of the sudden attack, the violence of it, was gone now. Now there was only this man and her, forever linked by what was to happen. This man had consciously chosen his own fate when he chose to attack them. Her certainty of what was called for carried her beyond the need for the assessment of emotion, and she felt none—no joy, not even relief; no hate, not even aversion; no compassion, not even sorrow.
Kahlan shed those emotions to make way for the rush of power, to give it free run.
Now he had no chance.
He was hers.
The man’s face was contorted with the intoxicated, gloating glee of his certitude that he was the glorious victor who would have her, that he was now the one to decide what was to become of her life, that she was but his to plunder.
Kahlan unleashed her power.
By her deliberate intent, the subordinate state of her birthright instantly altered into overpowering force able to alter the very nature of consciousness.
In the man’s dark eyes had come the spark of suspicion that something which he could not comprehend had irrevocably begun. And then there came the lightning recognition that his life, as he had known it, was over. Everything he wanted, thought about, worked toward, hoped for, prayed for, possessed, loved, hated…was ended.
In her eyes he saw no mercy, and that, more than anything, brought him stark terror.
Thunder without sound jolted the air.
In that instant, the violence of it was as pristine, as beautiful, as exquisite, as it was horrific.
That heartbeat of time Kahlan had before he was on her had still not yet begun.
She could see in the man’s eyes that even thought itself was too late for him, now. Perception itself was being outpaced by the race of brutal magic tearing through his mind, destroying forever who this man had been.
The force of the concussion jolted the air.
The stars shuddered.
Sparks from the fire lashed along the ground as the shock spread outward in a ring, driving dust before its passing. Trees shook when hit by the blow, shedding needles and leaves as the raging wave swept past.
He was hers.
His full weight flying forward knocked Kahlan back a step as she twisted out of the way. The man flew past her and crashed to the ground, sprawling on his face.
Withou
t an instant of hesitation, he scrambled up onto his knees. His hands came up in prayerful supplication. Tears flooded his eyes. His mouth, which only an instant before was so warped with perverted expectation, now distorted with the agony of pure anguish.
“Please, Mistress,” he wailed, “command me!”
Kahlan regarded him, for the first time in his new life, with an emotion: contempt.
Chapter 15
Only the sound of Betty’s soft, frightened bleating drifted out over the otherwise silent campsite. Bodies lay sprawled haphazardly across the ground. The attack appeared to be over. Richard, sword in hand, rushed through the carnage to get to Kahlan. Jennsen stood near the edge of the fire’s light, while Cara checked the bodies for any sign of life.
Kahlan left the man she had just touched with her power kneeling in the dirt, stalking past him toward Jennsen. Richard met her halfway there, his free arm sweeping around her with relief.
“Are you all right?”
Kahlan nodded, quickly appraising their camp, on the lookout for any more attackers, but saw only the men who were dead.
“What about you?” she asked.
Richard didn’t seem to hear her question. His arm slipped from her waist. “Dear spirits,” he said, as he rushed to one of the bodies lying on its side.
It was Sabar.
Jennsen stood not far away, trembling with terror, her knife held up defensively in a fist, her eyes wide. Kahlan gathered Jennsen in her arms, whispering assurance that it was over, that it was ended, that she was all right.
Jennsen clutched at Kahlan. “Sabar—he was—protecting me—”
“I know, I know,” Kahlan comforted.
She could see that there was no urgency in Richard’s movements as he laid Sabar on his back. The young man’s arm flopped lifelessly to the side. Kahlan’s heart sank.
Tom ran into camp, gasping for air. He was streaked with blood and sweat. Jennsen wailed and flew into his arms. He embraced her protectively, holding her head to his shoulder as he tried to regain his breath.
