Blood of the Fold Read Online Free PDF

palpable sense of danger coalesced into points of threat.
    “ Mistress Sanderholt,” he said as his gaze skipped from one long shadow to another, “why don’t you go inside. I’ll come in and talk to you after—”
    His words caught in his throat as he saw a brief movement down among the white columns—a shimmer to the air, like the heat rippling the air above a fire. He stared, trying to decide if he had really seen it, or just imagined it. He frantically tried to think of what it could be, if indeed he had seen something. It could have been a wisp of snow carried on a brief gust of wind. He didn’t see anything as he squinted in concentration. It was probably nothing more than the snow in the wind, he tried to assure himself.
    Abruptly, the manifest realization welled up within him, like cold black water surging up through a rift in river ice—Richard remembered when it was he had heard Gratch growl like that. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood out like icy needles in his flesh. His hand found the wire-wound hilt of his sword.
    “ Go,” he whispered urgently to Mistress Sanderholt. “Now.”
    Without hesitation, she dashed up the steps and made for the distant kitchen entrance behind him as the ring of steel announced the arrival of the Sword of Truth in the crisp dawn air.
    How was it possible for them to be here? It wasn’t possible, yet he was sure of it; he could feel them.
    “ Dance with me Death. I am ready,” Richard murmured, already in a trance of wrath from the magic coursing into him from the Sword of Truth. The words were not his, but came from the sword’s magic, from the spirits of those who had used the weapon before him. With the words came an instinctive understanding of their meaning: it was a morning prayer, meant to say that you could die this day, so you should strive to do your best while you still lived.
    From the echo of other voices within came the realization that the same words also meant something altogether different: they were a battle cry.
    With a roar, Gratch shot into the air, his wings lifting him after only one bounding stride. Snow swirled, curling into the air under him, stirred up by the powerful strokes of his wings that also billowed open Richard’s mriswith cape.
    Even before he could see them materialize out of the winter air, Richard could sense their presence. He could see them in his mind even though he couldn’t yet see them with his eyes.
    Howling in fury, Gratch descended in a streak toward the the base of the steps. Near the columns, just as the gar reached them, they began to become visible—scales and claws and capes, white against the white snow. White as pure as a child’s prayer.
    Mriswith.

CHAPTER 3

    The mriswith reacted to the threat, materializing as they flung themselves at the gar. The sword’s magic, its rage, inundated Richard with its full fury as he saw his friend being attacked. He bounded down the steps, toward the erupting battle.
    Howls assailed his ears as Gratch tore into the mriswith. In the heat of combat they were now visible. Against the white of stone and snow, they were difficult to distinguish clearly, but Richard could see them well enough; there were close to ten as near as he could tell in all the confusion. Under their capes, they wore simple hides as white as the rest of them. Richard had seen them black before, but he knew the mriswith could appear to be the color of their surroundings. Taut, smooth skin covered their heads down to their necks, where it began welting up into tight, interlocking scales. Lipless mouths spread to reveal small, needle-sharp teeth. In the fists of their webbed claws, they gripped the cross-members of three-bladed knives. Beady eyes, intense with loathing, fixed on the raging gar.
    With fluid speed, they swept around the dark form in their midst, their white capes billowing behind as they skimmed across the snow, some tumbling under the attack, or spinning out of reach, just escaping