As another man, cursing under his breath at the delay, reached out to grab him, Richard swung the looped section of chain from behind his back as hard as he could. It caught the man square in the side of his face. He spun away, crying out from the unexpected shock of pain.
As a third man charged in, Richard dropped back onto his shoulders. With all his strength he kicked up into the center of the man’s gut, using the man’s falling weight against him. The blow rammed the man back at the same time as it drove the wind from his lungs.
The first man was already on his feet again. The man who had taken the chain across his face was still writhing on the ground. The other, holding an arm across his middle, rolled to his feet, catching his breath, eager for revenge. The fourth and fifth men came in from opposite sides.
Two of the downed men were up, eager to rejoin the fight. Now four strong, the men charged in all at once. There were too many hands grabbing for the chain all at once for Richard to keep them from getting ahold of it. As he tried to whip it out of their reach, one of the men lunged and managed to capture the heavy links in both hands.
Richard swung his leg around, knocking one of the remaining men’s feet out from under him. He landed heavily on a shoulder. The other two seized the chain and then grunted with mighty effort as they yanked it back. The slack in the chain snapped taut. The sudden jerk felt like it might rip Richard’s head off as it flung him sprawling on his face. The choking pain in his throat was so severe that for a second he thought the iron collar might have crushed his windpipe.
While Richard was momentarily stunned, fighting the rising sense of panic, one of the men kicked him in the ribs. The blow felt like it might have broken a rib. Richard tried to spin away but they again yanked the chain back from the other direction, twisting the iron collar around his neck and flipping him over backward. The iron burned as it bit into his flesh.
The guards in the distance remained where they were, watching. They would not be eager to get involved. After all, these were men from the emperor’s team.
As it snapped taut, Richard seized the chain as he got to his knees, holding tight, trying to keep the men from using the chain and collar to break his neck. Three of the men gave a mighty pull. They managed to yank Richard off balance and over onto his back.
A boot came down toward his face. Richard turned his head aside just in time. Dust and dirt flew. Fists and boots came crashing in from all directions.
Holding the chain with one hand, Richard used his other to knock one man back. He blocked the punch from another and elbowed a third in the thigh, momentarily dropping the man to a knee. Still, as fast as he could block or escape their blows, yet more rained in. With the men holding tension on the chain he couldn’t maneuver and he dared not let go of the chain altogether.
Richard pulled himself into a defensive crouch, protecting his midsection, making himself as small a target as he could, getting as much of a lead in the chain as he could. One of the men cocked an arm and threw a punch. Richard let go of the chain and used his left forearm to deflect the blow. At the same time he sprang up inside the man’s defenses and rammed an elbow up into the attacker’s jaw with bone-cracking force. The man staggered back.
Now that he had a little more slack in the chain, Richard ducked under a punch and kicked sideways into the man’s knee. The blow did enough damage to draw a cry of pain and cause the man to start to hobble back to get out of danger, but Richard immediately used the opportunity to kick the side of the man’s other knee, folding his legs under. As he came crashing down, Richard brought his knee up into the man’s face.
As another punch flew in, Richard dodged to the left and grabbed the man’s wrist. With an iron grip on the wrist, he slammed the heel of his left hand into the back of the man’s elbow. The joint popped. The man screamed as he pulled his dislocated arm away.
Another punch flew in. Richard deflected it across, past his face, then, as the man quickly punched with the other fist, Richard deflected the arm in the opposite direction, over the attacker’s other arm. With the man’s arms crossed and tension on the elbow preventing any escape, Richard used the leverage on the crooked arm to flip the big man over.
Even with the success he was having, it was difficult to fight the men off, because the chain around his neck prevented him from moving effectively. He knew, though, that, despite the difficulty, he had no choice but to think of what he could do, not what he couldn’t do.
It was also difficult for Richard to fight the men because he dared not use the kinds of blows he would have liked to do. If he killed any of the emperor’s players it would, in all likelihood, be an excuse for Jagang to charge Richard with murder and have him put to death. Jagang hardly needed an excuse to execute a man, but Richard’s team was becoming well known and if Richard was executed the soldiers in the camp would suspect that it was because Jagang knew his team couldn’t beat Richard’s team. Richard doubted that Jagang cared a great deal about what anyone said, but the excuse of murder would certainly give him justification.
If Commander Karg’s point man was dead, Jagang wouldn’t have to worry about losing Nicci to him. Jagang’s team was formidable, and stood a good chance of winning, but without Richard as point man there was no doubt that the emperor’s team would be victorious.
At the same time, Jagang might not need to bother having Richard executed. His men seemed intent on accomplishing the task themselves. They wouldn’t be punished if they killed Richard in a fight. Who with any authority would ever even know, except Commander Karg, and Richard didn’t think that even Karg would dare to make an issue of a captive man dying in a fight. Men in the camp died in fights all the time. Such fights were common enough and, as far as Richard knew, only rarely punished. This would just be passed off as an argument gone bad.
Worse, though, if Richard was killed then Kahlan would have no chance. She would be forever lost to the Chainfire spell, a living phantom of her former self.
That thought alone made Richard fight with a fury, even if he had to be careful to strike with the intent of stopping rather than killing. Pulling blows wasn’t at all easy to do in the heat of a fight for his own life and Richard was taking nearly as much punishment as he was dealing out.
When one of the men again threw a punch, Richard seized the man’s arm. Grunting with the effort, he ducked under the extended arm, twisting it around, and flipped the man to the ground.
As Richard himself was knocked to the ground, he scooped up a length of chain and spun, whipping it across the face of one of the men. The sound of steel against flesh and bone was sickening. Another man kicked Richard hard enough to drive the wind from his lungs.
The blows Richard was taking were wearing him down. Even though the fight had only started moments before it seemed like hours. The furious effort to defend himself was exhausting him.
Just as another man lunged at him, the man was suddenly jerked back.
Johnrock had thrown a loop of his own chain around the man’s neck. As the man clawed at the chain, struggling to breathe, Johnrock pulled him back away from Richard. In a fury of fists, feet, and flailing chain, Johnrock helped Richard drive the men back.
Someone else, yelling angry threats, appeared in the darkness, running in through the ring of guards. Richard was so busy fighting off the men, trying to deflect a flurry of fists, he couldn’t tell who it was.
All of a sudden the new man seized one of the attackers by the hair and threw him back. In the light from nearby torches Richard saw the tattoos of scales. Commander Karg yelled that the five men were cowards and threatened to have them beheaded. He kicked at them as he ordered them to get out of his team’s quarters.
All five scrambled to their feet and abruptly vanished back into the night. It was suddenly over. Richard lay in the dirt, not even trying to get up.
Commander Karg angrily pointed a finger at the guards. “If you men let anyone else get through, I’ll have you all skinned alive! Do you understand?”
The guards back by the ring of wagons, looking sheepish and worried, all answered that they understood. They swore that no one else would get through.
As he lay panting in pain, trying to catch his breath, Richard hardly heard the commander’s yelling. The fight had been brief, but the blows the powerful men from Jagang’s team had landed had done damage.
Johnrock knelt down, easing Richard over onto his back. “Ruben, are you all right?”
Richard carefully moved his arms, lifted his knees, and gingerly rolled his foot, testing his throbbing ankle, taking appraisal of his limbs, checking to see if they all worked, checking to see if he could move everything. He hurt all over. He was pretty sure that he wasn’t crippled, but he didn’t try to get up just yet. He didn’t think that right then he could have.
“I think so,” he said.
“What was that all about?” Johnrock demanded of Snake-face.
Commander Karg shrugged. “Ja’La dh Jin.”
Johnrock paused in surprise at the answer. “Ja’La dh Jin?”
“It’s the Game of Life. What do you expect?”
By his deepening frown, Johnrock apparently didn’t understand. Richard did.
The Game of Life was about more than just what happened on the field. It included everything that surrounded the game—what came before and what came after. It was strategy and intimidation beforehand, the play itself out on the field, and what resulted from the outcome of that game. Because of the rewards after the game, what took place before became part of the game itself. Ja’La dh Jin wasn’t just the game on the field, it encompassed everything.
Life was about survival. If you lived, if you died, all depended on what you did in life. Survival was what mattered. That made everything all a part of the game, just as everything in life mattered. A woman camp follower stabbing a player on an opposing team so that her team would win, painting the men with red paint, or cracking the skull of the point man on the other team in the middle of the night was all part of the game of life.
If you were to live, then you had to fight to live. It was as simple as that. That was the Game of Life. Life and death were the reality that counted, not how someone followed a prescribed set of rules. If you died because you failed to protect yourself, you couldn’t cry foul after you were dead. You had to fight for your own life, fight to win, no matter the circumstances.
Commander Karg stood. “Get some rest—both of you. Tomorrow decides if you live or if you die.”
The man headed for the ring of guards, yelling at them as he went.
“Thanks, Johnrock,” Richard said after the commander had gone. “You showed up just in time.”
“I told you that I’d watch out for you.”
“You did good, Johnrock.”
Johnrock grinned. “You just do good tomorrow. Eh, Ruben?”
Richard nodded as he gulped air. “I promise.”
Chapter 31
Verna glanced up when the Mord-Sith marched up to the other side of the small desk and came to a halt.
“What is it, Cara?”
“Any word in the journey book?”
Verna sighed heavily as she set down the watch reports she had been studying. They indicated that there was increasing activity surrounding the Ja’La matches down in the Order’s encampment. Verna remembered what seemed like a lifetime ago, back at the Palace of the Prophets, when Warren had first told her all about Ja’La Day, about how Emperor Jagang was bringing Ja’La dh Jin to all of the Old World. Like so many things, Warren had studied Ja’La dh Jin and knew a great deal about it.
She supposed that she wasn’t so much reading the reports as she was reminiscing about Warren. How she missed him. How she missed so many people who had been lost in this war.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Verna said. “I left a message in the journey book in case Ann should happen to take a look in hers, but she hasn’t answered, yet.”
Cara tapped an insistent finger on the desktop. “It’s obvious that something has happened to Nicci and Ann.”
“I don’t disagree.” Verna spread her hands. “But we can’t do anything about it if we don’t even know what happened to them. What are we to do? Where are we to look? We’ve searched the palace but the place is so vast that there is no telling how many places we might have overlooked.”
Cara’s expression was part anger, part worry, and part impatience. With this on top of Richard being nowhere to be found, Verna understood all too well how the woman felt.
“Have your Sisters found anything at all unusual?”
Verna shook her head. “The other Mord-Sith?”
“Nothing,” Cara said under her breath as she went back to pacing. She mulled over the situation for a moment, then turned back to Verna. “I still think that whatever happened had to have happened the night they went down to the tomb.”
“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, Cara, but we’re not even sure that they ever made it down to the tombs. What if they changed their mind for some reason and went somewhere else first? What if someone brought a message or something to Ann, and they rushed off somewhere else? What if something happened before they even went down to the tomb?
“I don’t think so,” Cara said as she folded her arms and paced. “I still think something down there is wrong. Something down in the tombs just feels wrong.”
Verna didn’t question what could be “wrong.” She had already done that to no avail. Cara didn’t know what was wrong. She simply had a vague feeling that something was not right down in the tombs.
“Your feeling doesn’t give us much to go on. Maybe if it was something a little more specific.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried to think of what could be the cause of it?”
Verna watched Cara slowly pace. “Well, if you don’t know what’s giving you this feeling about the place, maybe there is someone else who would know why you think something is wrong down there.”
“That sounds like Lord Rahl. He always says to think of the solution, not the problem.” Cara sighed. “But no one ever goes down—” She spun around and snapped her fingers. “That’s it!”
Verna frowned suspiciously. “What’s it?”
“Someone who knows the place.”
“Who?”
Cara put both hands on the desk and leaned in with a cunning grin. “The crypt staff. Darken Rahl had people who took care of the tombs—took care of his father’s tomb, anyway.”
“What’s this about the tombs?” Berdine asked as she strolled into the room.
Nyda, a tall, blond, blue-eyed Mord-Sith, was with her. Verna saw Adie bringing up the rear.
“It just occurred to me that the crypt staff would know about the tombs,” Cara said.
Berdine nodded. “You’re probably right. Some of the writing down in the tombs is in High D’Haran, so Darken Rahl sometimes took me with him down there to help him with things he was having difficulty translating.
“Darken Rahl was quite picky about how his father’s tomb was cared for. He had people put to death for failing to properly care for the place. His father’s tomb, anyway.”
“It’s just stone vaults.” Verna was incredulous. “There’s nothing down there—no furniture, drapes, or carpeting. What is there to be picky about?”
Berdine rested a hip against the desk as she folded her arms and leaned in as if she was full of gossip.
“Well, for one thing he insisted that fresh white roses always fill the vases. They had to be pure white. He also demanded that the torches always be kept burning. The crypt staff was not suppose to allow a rose petal to remain on the floor, or a torch that went out to go cold without being replaced with a fresh, burning one.
“If Darken Rahl was visiting his father’s crypt and he saw a rose petal on the floor, or if one of the torches burned out, he would get furious. People on the crypt staff were beheaded for such infractions, so, as you can imagine, they were quite attentive to their duties down there. They would be familiar
with the place.”
“Then we need to go have a talk with the crypt staff,” Verna said.
“You can try,” Berdine said, “but I don’t think they will have much to say.”
Verna stood. “Why not?”
“Darken Rahl feared that they might speak ill of his dead father while down in the crypt”—Berdine made a snipping motion with two fingers—“so he had their tongues cut out.”
“Dear Creator,” Verna muttered as she touched her fingers to her forehead. “That man was a monster.”
“Darken Rahl is long dead,” Cara said, “but the crypt staff must still be around. They would know the place better than anyone.” She started for the door. “Let’s go see what we can find out.”
“I think you’re right,” Verna said as she made her way around the desk. “If we’re able to get any information out of them it will at least settle the matter. If there really is anything wrong down there we need to know about it. If not, then we need to put our efforts elsewhere.”
Adie caught Verna’s arm. “I only came to tell you that I be leaving.”
Verna blinked in surprise. “Leaving? Why?”
“It has been troubling me that there be no one at the Wizard’s Keep. What if Richard goes there seeking our help? He will need to know what be happening. He will need to know that the Keep be shut down. He will need to know what Nicci has done by putting the boxes in play in his name. He will need to know about Ann and Nicci vanishing. He may even need gifted help. There should be someone there if he shows up at the Keep.”
Verna gestured off to the west before staring into Adie’s completely white eyes. “But the Keep is closed up. Where would you stay?”
Adie’s broad smile pushed aside a network of fine wrinkles. “Aydindril be deserted. The Confessors’ Palace be empty. I will hardly want for a roof. Besides, I be at home in the woods, not in this”—she waggled a finger at her surroundings—“this place. It weakens my gift the same as any other gifted person but a Rahl. I have difficulty using my gift here so that I might see. It be uncomfortable for me here. I would rather do something than sit here, useless in the darkness this place imposes.”
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