Disclaimer: I don't own Legend of the Seeker or anything associated with the show or the books.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

Nicci's shield, the sphere of interlocking, nearly colourless, writhing tendrils of magical energy, burst apart beneath the cloudless blue sky. For a single heartbeat, airy fragments of the ethereal cocoon lingered, like scraps of cloth floating limply on a soft breeze, before they too, winked out of existence.

The golden fire blazing within the Sorceress' eyes darkened steadily, growing dimmer and dimmer still, until it was entirely diminished. Time seemed to slow as Nicci's vacant eyes rolled into the back of her head and with a rasping sigh of pure exhaustion, The Prelate of the Old World collapsed slackly upon the thick quagmire of blood and viscera soaking the sands of the Azrith Plain.

Cara had time enough only to take a single, shallow, bracing breath before the first of her D'Haran soldiers wildly flung himself at her like a starving jackal.

Fleet-footed, The Mistress of the D'Haran Empire swiftly side-stepped the hulking, blonde-haired man, driving her bent elbow hard into his exposed lower back. The force of the crippling blow to his kidneys stripped him of his balance. He stumbled a ways to her flank and slipped on the all-encompassing lake of blood, flecked with corpses and discarded weapons, falling to the ground. With a feral growl, he rolled, rising up to his armoured knees. In her acute peripheral vision, she calmly observed more soldiers rushing toward her, weapons raised and ready, deadly purpose clear in their mad blue eyes. The prone soldier she had knocked to the ground crawled toward her on his knees, a knife in hand. The soldiers charging at her rapidly closed the distance. In the sea of chaotic battle, though her heart thundered in her chest, her mind was serene as she came to the dispiriting realisation that she would be the one to defy her own command to Rikka, Hally and Nicci.

Incapacitating her soldiers to the extent that they could no longer heft a blade against her required considerably more time and effort than that needed to fell her attackers. Her rational mind, far removed from her fervent desire to save the lives of as many of her people as possible, acknowledged this fact. She could have fought ten or fifteen men and emerged the victor, her enemies defeated with injuries no more substantial than broken bones and controlled wounds if need be, but in such circumstances, there would have been an unmistakable end to combat in sight. With the magical protection of Nicci's shield stripped away, she, and her Mord'Sith, faced an untold number of assailants. Any and all of the tens of thousands of D'Haran men-at-arms was a potential threat to her life, and the lives of the women at her side. She had to conserve her strength if she was to avoid becoming overwhelmed by the tremendous and worsening odds she, and her Sisters of the Agiel, were now confronted by in their mission to destroy the Anchor of The Keeper's Death Magic and release her Army from the iron grip of madness.

In the sweltering heat of the Azrith Plains, a drop of sweat beaded at her temple. Languidly, the droplet of perspiration trailed down her gloriously resplendent face, over the small, faded scar piercing the shapely slash of her blonde eyebrow, the only physical reminder she bore from her encounter with The Keeper's Agent, Nathair, whom He had sent into The Land Of The Living to destroy her world all those long years ago. The pearl of sweat wended it's way down the aristocratic sharpness of her high cheekbones and her sun-kissed cheek like a perfect tear drop, before catching on the stubborn line of her oval-shaped jaw where it tarried a moment and finally fell to the ground beneath her boots.

Rage ignited in her blood like a terrible torrent of dragon fire. A consuming, burning fury aimed at the Enemy she could not lay her hands on for He was sheltered from her righteous vengeance in The Underworld.

Unsheathing her master crafted sword as she whirled, a hurricane of action, she roared her primal frustration as she swung her sword at the kneeling soldier, just as he began to jab the knife in his gloved hand at her sternum. Her sword slashed through muscle, through tendons and through bone. Blood erupted from the grisly stump of the man's broad neck, splashing across her black leather shirt as his severed head thumped to the sand, joined quickly by his decapitated muscular body.

Everywhere outside The People's Palace, men who had been gravely wounded screamed in pain, their armoured bodies littering the ground. Those still standing were continually slipping and sliding in the irregular pools of gore gathered on the dry-cracked surface of the Plains. Woeful howls and the shouts of soldiers assured of their next kill rang loudly in the shells of her ears, she resolutely turned to face down the D'Haran men-at-arms, her family crest proudly incised on their dark red breast-plates, racing toward her. She cut them down in concise order. Methodical in her movements. Those that came at her would die. She was committed. Soldiers wielding axes took off the arms of their opponents, splitting skulls and cleaving open torsos. When they swung their axes at her, she ducked aside and side-stepped out of reach, then thrust her sword-point speedily and cleanly through vulnerable throats of those men without their grotesquely terrifying helmets, and stabbing helmeted men beneath their shoulders, where their finely crafted armour was weakest, when they raised their axes to her, fatally plunging her blade deep into their chests.

Her Mord'Sith, stoic-faced, having witnessed and heeded her wordless command to change tactics from incapacitation to kill, were beautiful in their savage efficiency. Rikka and Hally both became an economy of fluid motion. Soldiers pounced upon the tall blonde women from all directions in a wild flurry, putting all their weight being their lunges. Moving with cool grace, the mated pair of Mord'Sith effortlessly avoided incoming attacks, before swiftly moving to meet each man and ruthlessly dispatching them with staggering ferocity.

As a hulking soldier attempted to run her through with a short sword, Rikka athletically twisted and kicked up her foot, the toe of her boot smashing upward into the man's thick wrist. He dropped the blade. Rikka drove the point of her Agiel hard into the soldier's neck. As if he had been struck by lightning, he instantly crumpled to the ground, clutching at his throat, crying out in a choking, gurgling blubber. Blood frothed at his mouth as he violently writhed on the sands, trying desperately to breathe as his stunned airway collapsed. Rikka had already moved to engage another soldier as the first went still, his expression one of terror as his dead eyes stared, unseeing, up at the blue, cloudless sky overhead.

Without turning to face the soldier rushing at her from behind, Hally threw out her arm and elbowed him squarely in the face. Bone cracked as his head snapped back, casting a long stream of blood outward. Rounding on him, Hally sank her long, slender gloved fingers into the soldier's hair and wrenched his head further backward. The Mord'Sith shoved her Agiel into his blue eye and blood immediately spurted out around the impaled red leather-bound rod, smoke quickly began to rise up from the gruesome mess of his face, the agony of what Hally was doing to him so great that he could not even scream. Emotionless, Hally twisted her Agiel, then withdrew the blood soaked rod from the gory, empty eye socket. Releasing her hold on the man, he fell in a heap on the ground at the Mord'Sith's feet, dead.

Stalwart aquamarine eyes trained on the next wave of soldiers racing madly to combat her, Cara raised her authoritative voice, calling across to Rikka and Hally. The heat radiating upward from the desert Plains and beaming downward from the noonday sun, combined with the exertion of battle had turned her honey-smooth drawl to a smoky huskiness, "Protect Nicci!".

Shouting that single, short command across to Rikka and Hally, The Lady Rahl and her loyal Mord'Sith rapidly and gracefully formed a defensive triangle around The Prelate's fallen form.

Firmly standing her ground at the head of their protective triad, Cara's sword flashed and men died. Setting her stance as a soldier rushed at her, quick as a viper striking, she guided the lethally sharp edge of her sword in a flawless arc, slicing his throat wide open, then drove the wrought pommel of her sword into the head of a man on the back swing. She used only enough force as was necessary for her grim task. It was up to Tam the Nightwisp to revive the unconscious Sorceress, secure at her feet between herself and her Mord'Sith, she could do nought but defeat wave after wave of soldiers advancing toward her, until Nicci recovered and was able to re-erect her magical shield. Then she and her companions could at last, rally and cover the remaining distance between themselves and The Anchor. She only hoped they would reach The Anchor in time, for if it returned to its frantic dash across the breadth of the Plains, she knew they would never catch it. This was their best chance to free her Army from The Keeper's malevolent clutches. Their only chance to save The Land Of The Living.

She did not make ample movements away from Nicci's sprawled, helpless body, instead, she waited for the soldiers to come to her. Utilising their magically fuelled momentum against them, she put her blood-drenched sword wherever the blade needed to be, so that when the soldiers arrived, the men ran themselves through. This method proved most effective against the younger D'Haran soldiers, their youthful eyes dancing with a mad desire to send another soul to The Keeper, like an untried and untrained horse. The older, more experienced soldiers, though they fought with a complete disregard for their own lives, occasionally drew her into a duel of viciously parrying blades, the harsh impact of clashing swords sent painful pulses up her lightly muscled arm. She was strong, her lithe warrior's body imbued with pure, sensual femininity, however the soldiers were stronger still, preventing her from overpowering them with brute force. Fluidly, one of her talented hands flew from the gold and onyx hilt of her sword to the leather-bound hilt of Dahlia's Agiel sheathed at her long, toned thigh. Freeing her mate's archaic weapon from it's holding, the thin rod began to shriek and whine joyfully at the prospect of unleashing it's frighteningly devastating power upon a victim. She fought ambidextrously with both sword and Agiel, blocking blows with her sword while striking thick forearms and catching barrelled chests with Dahlia's Agiel.

Amour clattered and clanged as the fight raged on. Red leather and blackened steel mail whirled and dove about between thickening sheets of rising dust.

The Lady Rahl back-handed a soldier, slight and gangly with youthfulness, hard, across his bared, beardless face, sending him careening away from her and leaving him at her mercy. She brandished her sword meaningfully and stabbed the point of the blade four inches into the sand at her feet, freeing up one of her elegant, golden palms. With a snarl, she pushed her dark leather-encased knee up against the armour protecting his spine, and with a quick, remorseless yank, snapped his neck over her knee. Tossing the body aside, she danced back to her sword, buried upright in the silvery Plains at her side. As her graceful fingers glided around the hilt of the blade, a soldier swung his arm. She saw the blade, a knife with a jagged edge. Ripping her sword free from the blood moistened earth, she stepped back, escaping the knife. As the soldier advanced, she rammed her boot into his breast-bone, the soldier flew backward, stumbling and falling to the ground with a grunt. Winded, he remained sprawled out on the Azrith Plains. She quickly blinked to ward off the copious dust particles swarming at her red-rimmed eyes. A second soldier lurched forth and impaled the first man through his belly, before training his unfocused gaze upon her.

A well-aimed side-kick broke his nose, howling with rabid fury and pain, he sprang at her, blood dripping down his face. Steel flashed in the glaring sunlight as she dodged to the flank, sweeping a long leg out beneath the soldier, taking his armoured feet out from under him. She impaled the tip of Dahlia's Agiel in his sternum and immediately twisted the leather rod. The Agiel's terrifying magic arced wickedly through the soldier's muscular body, sending his limbs into a tremendous convulsion even as the light fled from his eyes.

A small knot of D'Haran soldiers burst upon her. Cara slammed Dahlia's Agiel into the knee of the foremost man, the Agiel's powerful magic scythed through bone with a shriek of glee and splintered the leg bones above and below the joint, those tiny fragments exploded, dissevering muscles and flesh, utterly destroying the long limb. The soldier dropped, screaming in agony while the man behind him, toppled over his fallen form with a curse. Angling her lithe upper body under a blade swinging at her head, she punctured through the gut of a second soldier. Before a third could attack her, she slashed his throat.

"The Wisp is moving!" Rikka bit out betwixt, perfect gritted teeth as she forcefully struck a soldier across the face with her Agiel. He fell to the ground, clutching his cheek and wailing obstreperously as if a fire was eating away his flesh.

At the head of their defensive triad, Nicci's vulnerable form cradled at the centre, Cara lacked a vantage point from which she could witness Tam the Nightwisp emerging from beneath the collar of Nicci's black silk robes, shifting into action to revive the unconscious Sorceress. Relief washed over her at the news, even so, like a wave of the coolest, clearest rain submerging her in it's refreshing embrace after the longest, harshest, cruellest drought.

The heat of the gruelling day and it's bloody toils had dried her throat to such a point, she nearly choked on her words, "At last."

Her husky drawl ended in a grunt of effort as she blocked an axe, its' curved head sliding down her sword to become tangled with her blade's ornate cross guard, dangerously close to her slender fingers. The soldier gripped his axe in both hands, bearing his entire weight down on the shaft, down on her where their weapons crossed. She grimaced slowly, her arm and shoulder aching with the effort of maintaining the sudden deadlock. Her muscles flexed and became rigid beneath her dark leather shirt. With her free hand, she snaked Dahlia's Agiel up, under his left arm, driving the crimson leather rod directly into his heart. He stiffened and his mouth split into a pained howl, a breath afore he dropped to the sands, dead.

She stood tall over the corpse, taking brief note of a new wave of her bewitched D'Harans rushing toward her like a pack of wolves intent on feeding upon her lifeblood and sending her soul to that dastardly entity who was the cause of this chaos. The blood of her people, those honourable and loyal D'Harans whom she charged with safeguarding the borders of her Empire and enforcing her will and high justice across the breadth of her lands, visibly drenched The Lady Rahl's fine dark-leather clothing and stained the long, thick braid of her golden hair and elysian face. Both livid and aggrieved, Cara's aquamarine eyes shone potently.

She was more than ready to be done with this grim business.

xxxxXxxxx

Dead silence was broken by the harried, clipped sound of a pair of boots and the slapping of bare feet against polished, gleaming white marble.

Danika hardly kept pace with her mate, as Shayla veritably and determinedly dragged her by the hand down a servant's windowless passage, away from Sophia's royal apartments. Still gripped in that hazy fog, somewhere between sleep and waking, the Confessor was utterly bewildered by this abrupt and to her, entirely obscure, turn of events that saw her following her Mord'Sith lover down a desolate and narrow hallway inside The People's Palace, garbed only in her flowing white, nightgown.

The smooth, birdsong quality of her voice was raspy from rest, "Shay?. Wh-What?...Where?.. What is going on?!" She demanded of the platinum blonde, the hoarseness fading from her melodic tone as she began to grapple with the recent memory of Shayla roughly rousing her and the Princess both from sleep and brusquely ushering them from Sophia's chambers, absent Regin. She remembered too, Sophia's stubborn refusal to leave her living quarters without her own mate and the quiet resoluteness inside Shayla's vibrant green eyes, the ferocious lion's growl that had rumbled in the back of Shayla's throat as the Mord'Sith swiftly punched the Heir Apparent to the D'Haran Empire, her charge, high in the temple with enough raw strength to render Sophia unconscious on the spot.

Shayla, one red leather bound arm snaked around the back of Sophia's knees, keeping the High Princess of D'Hara's motionless body slung securely over a strong shoulder as she lead the way down the passage, spared her a forbidding yet stoic glance in response, and though the Mord'Sith was the living image of Mistress Denna in stature and appearance save for the eyes, Danika had never seen her lover resemble her formidable sire quite so much as she did in that moment. Shayla wore the mask of a Mord'Sith, cold and frighteningly unreadable even to her Confessor's eyes. The sight made her heart stutter inside her chest and a chill run down her spine. Her love almost seemed a stranger to her in that moment, and in that moment she understood why it was that people, high and low, always made an incredible effort to show absolute deference and offered nothing save complete compliance to The Sisters of the Agiel.

"Keep moving, Danika." Shayla's voice was as icy as a blustering Winter wind.

Danika winced and grunted a little as her lover yanked on her arm hard, pulling her into running faster and faster still. Her long, brunette mane flew out behind her head as she struggled to keep up with the taller woman. Driven, Shayla's long legs ate up the distance with ease, even while carrying the full weight of the unconscious Princess on her back.

Danika shook her head a little as she ran behind her lover, confounded as to what had provoked this behaviour from her mate. Shayla had never looked at her so, so indifferently. It wounded her deeply.

As Shayla lead them around a corner, into a public corridor, panelled ornately and carpeted in scarlet and gold. She called on her rational mind, her Confessor's mind and rapidly concluded that something horrible must have occurred in the Royal apartments while she and Sophia slept. An attempt to assassinate the Princess perhaps, or even herself, though she often overlooked the fact, having been born and raised in D'Hara where the House of Rahl was pre-eminent to an almost fanatical extent, her mother, Mother Confessor Kahlan Amnell herself presided over the Ruling Council of the Midlands as the one true, supreme authority. In faith, and she ensured she was always current with political goings-on in the three territories and The Old World, she did not know of any dissatisfied factions either in the Empire or the Midlands whom would sanction such a radical act.

The smooth crimson satin carpet brushed against the soles of her bare feet as she blindly followed in her mate's wake. Danika studied Shayla's back, swathed in formfitting blood red leather with gilded archaic markings incised into the heavy neck-guard and corset, and Sophia's willowy body, garbed much like her own in a Rahl red nightdress, limply dangling down from the Mord'Sith's shoulder. The ends of the Princess's long and thick, braided blonde hair grazed the backs of Shayla's muscular calves as they fled from whatever threat that surely lurked behind. Light from the noonday sun flickered over the Mord'Sith, the Princess and the Confessor from a bank of thick, paned windows stained with a distinct crimson 'R'. Danika chanced a fugitive glance over her slender shoulder, wondering if mayhap, the faceless, nameless threat that had forced them from Sophia's apartments was perhaps in pursuit. But the hall behind her was absolutely quiet and devoid of ambassadors in their white robes, the imposing men of the Dragon Corps and petitioners. The ornate corridor was still and peaceful. Belying the great scourge that had given her lover, a devout Mord'Sith, cause to raise a hand to The Lady Rahl's eldest daughter, an unforgivable crime answerable with only one penalty, capital punishment.

It struck her then, the strangeness of a desolate corridor within The People's Palace. For the Capital of the D'Haran Empire was the largest, most exquisite structure in the known World, home to House of Rahl and, at the gracious invitation of The Lady Rahl, the D'Haran nobility, filled with countless hundreds of servants and soldiers. Though it was first and foremost a Palace, serving as the Seat of Power for the House of Rahl for three thousand years, an entire, thriving and densely populated City existed within the lower levels and inside the rocky plateau The People's Palace crowned atop, it was the biggest trading hub throughout the Old and New Worlds. This wide and oak panelled corridor that Shalya had led them down was open to the public, and at any one time, night or day, the unrestricted halls of The People's Palace were occupied by no less than several dozens of people.

Her heart pounded inside her chest, it's rhythmic cadence resounded inside her ears, "Where is everyone?" Danika whispered, beginning to breathe heavily. Something was very, very wrong in The Lady Rahl's domain.

If Shayla heard her softly uttered question, it was not apparent, the Mord'Sith didn't halt, like a majestic eagle in free-fall. Shalya was fluid in her motion, sleek and agile. In her musing, Danika must had slowed somewhat, for her pale-haired mate yanked roughly on her arm, spurring her into swifter action.

Danika's brow lowered into a determined glower, her narrowed light blue eyes trained on her lover's warm, gloved palm tightly encircling her slim right wrist. Seizing Shayla's own leather-bound wrist in her left hand, she locked her leg muscles, taking a breath, she pulled on her lover's arm using all her strength. Her shoulders jarred painfully as she physically compelled Shayla to come to a reluctant pause in her dash along the corridor.

The Mord'Sith, with the Princess's entire bodyweight slung over her shoulder like a sack of grain, half rounded on her with lean muscles tensed and corded strenuously. Vivid green eyes, glinting like cold gemstones, her full pale lips set in a stern line.

"What is going on Shayla?" Danika repeated in a Confessor's tone, firm and brokering no argument. Shayla looked back at her with hard, unfaltering green eyes. She maintained her hold on the Mord'Sith's lean wrist, but she softened her harsh hold and stepped closer to the warmth of her lover's body.

"Where is Regin?. Why are we running?" She cast the bite out of her tone, knowing better than to challenge a Mord'Sith. She had only wanted to capture Shayla's full attention, and now than she held it, she allowed herself to plea. She wanted to know what had unsettled her fearsome, dauntless Mord'Sith.

Shayla's gaze briefly flicked over Danika's shoulder, analytically studying the corridor behind them, like a lioness tracking her prey, before those green eyes returned to her face. Danika, one wrist still gripped in her lover's hand, covered the back of Shayla's gloved palm with her own.

"We too, would like to know." An emotionless voice called out, carrying with it, just a ghostly hint of familiarity.

Danika nearly leapt out of her skin, her hand instinctively went to her long, lightly muscled thigh in search of one of her daggers. She closed her eyes and cursed when the tips of her fingers found nought but gossamer cotton. She wore only her gossamer, white cotton nightdress. She carried no weapons. Shayla released her wrist as the Mord'Sith wheeled around in the direction the voice had originated from, hand flying to the hilt of her sheathed Agiel. Confessor and Mord'Sith relaxed only marginally when Berdine, a head and shoulders taller than them both, rounded a corner in the hall in her red leather and not a single strand of her wrist thick braid of ash brown hair out of place. In step with Berdine, Raina, much shorter than her mate, was wearing red leather pants and a black sleeveless shirt over the small swell of her pregnant belly. The dark-haired Mord'Sith cast her incisive dark eyes over them, taking in the unconscious form of Sophia, dangling over Shayla's shoulder. The light from a window passed over Berdine and Raina as the older women stalked toward them, catching on Raina's silky braid of black hair, the light turned the dark length blue-black like a raven's wing. Both of the elite Mord'Sith were expressionless as they came to a halt, standing side-by-side, facing the younger women. Berdine's summer blue eyes followed the line of Raina's attention.

When Berdine spoke, it was with the steely, commanding tone of a Mord'Sith, "You had better have a good explanation for that, Sister Shayla."

Danika felt a chill pierce the very marrow of her bones. There was no mistaking to whom they were speaking, not Berdine, the playful woman they cared for dearly as a beloved Aunt and mentor, but Mistress Berdine, the high ranking Mord'Sith.

"Speak." Raina spoke in a silken hiss.

Danika had never witnessed Berdine and Raina unmask the sinister countenance of a Mord'Sith, she realised now, that too, is what Shayla had done, since before her lover had even awoken her in the Royal Chambers of the Princess.

The pale-haired Mord'Sith regarded the elder Mord'Sith coolly, and relented, turning her green eyes to the Confessor beside her.

Danika's eyes shined with intimate warmth as Shayla gaze softened for a moment, giving her a glimpse of the woman she loved veiled beneath the mask of Mord'Sith.

Berdine arched the slash of a brow expectantly.

Shayla's jaw clenched. The young Mord'Sith seemed to be struggling to locate the words she was searching for. Shayla shook her head slowly.

The pale-haired Mord'Sith spoke through gritted, pearl-white teeth, "The Princess's chamber was infiltrated by some...Apparition. I thought, at first, that he was a man." Shayla shook her head as if in disbelief. "He was unescorted, right outside the Royal apartments. Regin and I did what our mandate demanded. But when we struck, our Agiels went through him. He had no physical manifestation. He looked dead." Shayla stated emphatically.

Stricken at the though of some evil wraith plaguing the halls of The People's Palace, Danika covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Berdine and Raina displayed no outward reaction to Shayla's tale. A look passed between the elite Mord'Sith but Danika could not read Berdine or Raina, she could not tell what they were thinking.

Shayla hoisted Sophia's unconscious form up higher on her shoulder, adjusting the position of the Princess's body slightly.

"I woke Dani and the Princess. I got them out the chambers through the servant's door. Regin stayed behind to keep that thing-"

"Spirit." Berdine determined clinically, her Summer blue eyes still tracing the lines of Raina's beautiful face. Raina drank in the sight of her taller, radiant mate. Danika could almost visibly detect the thoughts wordlessly exchanged between the mated pair.

"Regin was to keep the Spirit, contained in the apartments while I got the Princess and my mate to the safety of Lady Rahl's bedchamber. But..." Shayla heaved a sigh and dropped her gaze to the carpeted floor for a moment, ashamed. Danika pressed close to her mate, placing a comforting hand to the Mord'Sith's strong upper arm conveying without words that she understood, her lover had not done what she had lightly. Shayla flashed her a small appreciative smile. When the pale-haired Mord'Sith looked up to hold the stare of Berdine and Raina, it was without apology.

"The Princess would not leave without Regin. She would not be reasoned with and an unknown threat was imminent. I knocked her unconscious to keep her safe." Shayla insisted.

A miserable baying, howl suddenly burst down the hall, echoing, bouncing off of the marble walls. A blood-curdling, monstrous wail that made the hairs on the back of Danika's neck stand on end.

TBC . . .