Blood of the Fold (Sword of Truth 3)

“If you want to argue, then do it with your sword. If not, be off!”

The near to two hundred horsemen watched the two D’Harans, showing no emotion, especially not fear. There were, after all, only two D’Harans—not an arduous challenge, despite the men’s size. At least a fool might think so. Richard had seen D’Haran troops everywhere in the city. It was possible that at the first sign of trouble, they could show up in short order.

The horseman didn’t seem too concerned about other D’Harans, though. “There be only two of you, brother. Not good odds.”

The one at Richard’s left glanced casually down the line of horsemen, turned his head, and spat. “You’re right, dandy. Egan, here, will stand aside to make the odds more even while I deal with you and your fancy men. But be sure of yourself, ‘brother,’ ‘cause if your foot touches the ground, by my word, you die first.”

Eyes of ice, still and cold, appraised the two a moment, and then the man in the polished armor and crimson cape, grumbling a curse in a foreign tongue, let his weight drop back down in his saddle. “We have important matters that demand our attention. This one be a waste of our time. He be yours.”

With a wave of his arm, the column of horsemen charged up the street, narrowly missing trampling Richard and his two captors. Richard tried, but the two holding him were too strong, and he couldn’t get his hand to his sword as they carried him off. He scanned the rooftops, but saw nothing.

All the people around averted their eyes, wanting nothing to do with the trouble at hand. As the two huge D’Harans dragged Richard from the center of the street, people scattered out of the way as if they had eyes in the back of their heads. Over the noise of the city, his muffled, angry cries were lost. Try as he might, he couldn’t get a hand near a weapon. His boots skimmed across the snow, his feet working in vain for purchase.

Richard struggled, but before he had time to try to think what do next, they pulled him into a narrow, dark passageway between an inn and another shuttered building.

Deep in the passageway, in the murky shadows, four dark, cloaked figures waited.

8

Gently, the two huge D’Harans set Richard down. As his feet found the ground, his hand found the hilt of his sword. The two men spread their feet in a relaxed manner and clasped their hands behind their backs. From the shadowed end of the passageway the four cloaked figures started toward him.

Deciding escape was preferable to a fight, Richard didn’t draw his sword, but instead dove to the side. He rolled through the snow and sprang to his feet. His back smacked up against the cold brick wall. Panting, he flung his mriswith cape around himself. In a heartbeat the cape changed color to match the wall, and he vanished.

It would be an easy matter to slip away while hidden by the cape. Better to escape than to fight. As soon as he caught his breath.

The four marched forward, their dark capes billowing open as they came into the light. Dark brown leather the same color as the D’Harans’ uniforms covered their shapely forms from ground to neck. A yellow star between the cusps of a crescent emblazoned the leather outfits at each woman’s stomach.

The recognition of that yellow star and crescent was like a flash of lightning in Richard’s mind. Too many times to count, his face, wet with his own blood, had laid against that emblem. Out of reflex he froze, drawing neither sword, nor breath. For a panic filled instant he saw only the symbol he knew all too well.

Mord-Sith.

The woman in the lead pushed back her hood, letting her long blond hair, plaited in a single thick braid, fall free. Her blue eyes searched the wall where he stood.

“Lord Rahl? Lord Rahl, where…”

Richard blinked. “Cara?”

Just as he slackened his concentration, allowing his cape to return to black, and her eyes found him, the sky fell in.

With a roar, a flap of wings, and a flash of fangs, Gratch plummeted to the ground. The two men had swords to hand almost instantly, but they were not as fast as the Mord-Sith. Before the men’s blades had cleared their scabbards, the women had their Agiel in their fists. Though an Agiel appeared to be nothing more than a thin, red leather rod, Richard knew them to be weapons of awesome power. Richard had been “trained” with an Agiel.

Richard heaved himself at the gar, knocking him to the far wall before the two men and four women could reach him. Gratch slung him aside in his desire to get at the threat.

“Stop! All of you, stop!” The six people and one gar froze at the sound of his shriek. Richard didn’t know who would win the fight, but he didn’t want to find out. He snatched the instant he had before they might decide to move again and sprang in front of Gratch. With his back to the gar, he held his hands out to each side. “Gratch is my friend. He only wants to protect me. Stay where you are, and he won’t hurt you.”

Gratch’s furry arm circled around Richard’s middle and drew him back against the taut, pink skin of his chest and stomach. The passageway resounded with a growl that, while affectionate, at the same time carried a rumble of threat for the others.

“Lord Rahl,” Cara said in a smooth voice as the two men sheathed their swords, “we are here to protect you, too.”

Richard eased the arm away. “It’s all right, Gratch. I know them. You did good, just like I asked, but it’s all right, now. Just calm down.”

Gratch let out a purling rumble that echoed off the walls rising up like a narrow, dark canyon. Richard knew it as a sound of satisfaction. He had told Gratch to follow him, either high in the air, or flying from rooftop to rooftop, but to stay out of sight unless there was trouble. Gratch had indeed done a good job; Richard hadn’t seen a sign of him until he dropped down on them.

“Cara, what are you doing here?”

Cara reverently touched his arm, seeming surprised at finding it solid. She jabbed a finger at his shoulder, and then broke into a grin.

“Not even Darken Rahl himself could become invisible. He could command beasts, but he could not become invisible.”

“I don’t command Gratch; he’s my friend. And I don’t exactly become… Cara, what are you doing here?”

She looked perplexed at the question. “Protecting you.”

Richard pointed at the two men. “And them? They said they were going to kill me.”

The two men stood rooted like twin oaks. “Lord Rahl,” one said, “we would die before we let harm touch you.”

“We had almost caught up with you when you walked into those fancy horsemen,” Cara said. “I told Egan and Ulic to get you out of there without any fighting, or you could be hurt. If those men thought we were trying to rescue you, they might have tried to kill you. We didn’t want to take a chance with your life.”

Richard glanced to the two, great, blond-headed men. The dark leather straps, plates, and belts of their uniforms were molded to fit like a second skin over the prominent contours of their muscles. Incised in the leather at the center of their chests was an ornate letter R, and beneath that, two crossed swords. One of them, Richard wasn’t sure if it was Egan or Ulic, echoed the truth of what Cara had said. Since Cara and the other Mord-Sith had helped him in D’Hara two weeks before, making it possible for him to defeat Darken Rahl, he was inclined to believe her.

Richard hadn’t anticipated their choice when he had declared the Mord-Sith free from the shackles of their discipline; having their freedom, they chose to be his guardians, and were fiercely protective of him. There didn’t seem to be anything he could do to change their minds.

One of the other women spoke Cara’s name in caution and nodded toward the opening into the street. People slowed as they passed, peering in, looking them over. A glare from the two men as they turned put speed into the onlookers’ steps, and turned their eyes away.

Cara grasped Richard’s arm above the elbow. “It isn’t safe here—yet. Come with us, Lord Rahl.”

Not waiting for his answer, or cooperation, she pulled him into the shadows at the back of the passageway. Richard

gestured silently to reassure Gratch. Lifting the bottom of a loose shutter, Cara stuffed him ahead of her through the opening. The window they entered was the only one in a room appointed with a dusty table holding three candles, several benches, and one chair. To the side sat a pile of their gear.

Gratch managed to fold his wings and squeeze through, too. He stood close to Richard, quietly watching the others. They, in turn, having been told that he was Richard’s friend, didn’t seem concerned at having a hulking gar eyeing them from a few feet away.

“Cara, what are you doing here?”

She frowned as if he were thick. “I told you, we came to protect you.” A mischievous smile crooked the corners of her mouth. “Seems we arrived just in time. Master Rahl must devote himself to being the magic against magic, a task you are more suited to, and let us be the steel against steel.” She held her hand out to the other three women. “We didn’t have time for introductions at the palace. These are my sisters of the Agiel: Hally, Berdine, and Raina.”

In the flickering candlelight, Richard studied the three faces. He had been in a terrible rush at the time and recalled only Cara; she was the one who had spoken for them, and he had held a knife to her throat until she convinced him she was telling the truth. Like Cara, Hally was blond, blue-eyed, and tall. Berdine and Raina were a bit shorter, blue-eyed Berdine with a loose braid of wavy brown hair, and Raina with dark hair, and eyes that seemed to be examining his soul for every nuance of strength, weakness, and character—an idiosyncratic, piercing scrutiny unique to Mord-Sith. Somehow, Raina’s dark eyes made the penetrating judgment seem more incisive.

Richard didn’t shy from their gazes. “You were among those who saw me safely through the palace?” They nodded. “Then you have my eternal gratitude. What of the others?”