Naked Empire (Sword of Truth 8)

There was also the possibility that the bond had inadvertently revealed Richard’s whereabouts and an army was out looking for him. If the man was a soldier, there could shortly be many more, like ants, swarming down out of the hills.

Richard climbed the back side of a short rocky prominence and lay on his stomach, watching over the top. As the man got closer, Richard could see that he looked young, under thirty years, a bit scrawny, and was dressed nothing at all like a soldier. By the way he stumbled, he was not used to the terrain, or maybe just not used to traveling. It was tiring walking over ground of loose, sharp, broken rock, especially if it was on a slope, since it never provided any solid place for a steady stride.

The man stopped, stretching his neck to peer at the wagon. Panting from the effort of making it down the slope, he combed his fine blond hair back repeatedly with his fingers, then bent at the waist and rested a hand on a knee while he caught his breath.

When the man straightened and started out once more, crunching through the gravel at the bottom of the wash, Richard slid back down the rock. He used the intervening lay of the land and patches of scraggly pine to screen himself from sight. He paused from time to time, as he moved closer, to listen for the heavy footsteps and labored breathing, checking his dead-reckoning estimation of where the man would be.

From behind a freestanding wall of rock a good sixty feet tall, Richard carefully peered out for a look. He had managed to close most of the distance without the man being aware of his presence. Richard moved silently from tree to rock to the back side of slopes, until he was out ahead of the man and in his line of travel.

Still as stone behind a twisted reddish spire of rock jutting from the broken ground, Richard listened to the crunch of footfalls approaching, listened to the man gulping for breath as he climbed over fingers of rock that lay in his way.

When the man was not six feet away, Richard stepped out right in front of him.

The man gasped, clutching his light travel coat beneath his chin as he cringed back a step.

Richard regarded the man without outward emotion, but inside the sword’s power churned with the menace of rage restrained. For an instant, Richard felt the power falter. The magic of the sword keyed off its master’s perception of danger, so such hesitation could be because the smaller man didn’t appear to be an immediate threat.

The man’s clothes, brown trousers, flaxen shirt, and a light, frayed fustian coat, had seen better days. He looked to have had a rough time of his journey—but then, Richard, too, had put on unassuming clothes in order not to raise suspicion. The man’s backpack looked to hold precious little. Two waterskins, their straps crisscrossed across his chest, bunching the light coat, were flat and empty. He carried no weapons that Richard saw, not even a knife.

The man waited expectantly, as if he feared to be the first to speak.

“You appear to be headed for my friends,” Richard said, tipping his head toward the thin golden plume of dust hanging like a beacon in the sunlight above the darkening plain, giving the man a chance to explain himself.

The man, wide-eyed, shoulders hunched, raked back his hair several times. Richard stood before him like a stone pillar, blocking his way. The man’s blue eyes turned to each side, apparently checking to see if he had an escape route should he decide to bolt.

“I mean you no harm,” Richard said. “I just want to know what you’re up to.”

“Up to?”

“Why you’re headed for the wagon.”

The man glanced toward the wagon, not visible beyond the craggy folds of rock, then down at Richard’s sword, and finally up into his eyes.

“I’m…looking for help,” he finally said.

“Help?”

The man nodded. “Yes. I’m searching for the one whose craft is fighting.”

Richard cocked his head. “You’re looking for a soldier of some kind?”

He swallowed at the frown on Richard’s face. “Yes, that’s right.”

Richard shrugged. “The Imperial Order has lots of soldiers. I’m sure that if you keep looking you will come across some.”

The man shook his head. “No. I seek the man from far away—from far to the north. The man who came to bring freedom to many of the oppressed people of the Old World. The man who gives us all hope that the Imperial Order—may the Creator forgive their misguided ways—will be cast out of our lives so that we can be at peace once again.”

“Sorry,” Richard said, “I don’t know anyone like that.”

The man didn’t look disappointed by Richard’s words. He looked more like he simply didn’t believe them. His fine features were pleasant-looking, even though he appeared unconvinced.

“Do you think you could”—the man hesitantly lifted an arm out, pointing—“at least…let me have a drink?”

Richard relaxed a bit. “Sure.”

He pulled the strap off his shoulder and tossed his waterskin to the man. He caught it as if it were precious glass he feared to drop. He pried at the stopper, finally getting it free, and started gulping the water.

He stopped abruptly, lowering the waterskin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start drinking all your water right down.”

“It’s all right.” Richard gestured for him to drink up. “I have more back at the wagon. You look to need it.”

As Richard hooked a thumb behind his wide leather belt, the man bowed his head in thanks before tipping the waterskin up for a long drink.

“Where did you hear about this man who fights for freedom?” Richard asked.

The man brought the waterskin down again, his eyes never leaving Richard as he paused to catch his breath. “From many a tongue. The freedom he has spread down here in the Old World has brought hope to us all.”

Richard smiled inwardly at how the bright hope of freedom burned even in a dark place like the heart of the Old World. There were people everywhere who hungered for the same things in life, for a chance to live their life free and by their own labor to better themselves.

Overhead a black-tipped race, wings spread wide, popped into sight as it glided across the open swath of sky above the rise of rock to each side. Richard didn’t have his bow, but the race stayed out of range, anyway.

The man shrank at seeing the race the way a rabbit would shrink when it saw a hawk.

“Sorry I can’t help you,” Richard said when the race had disappeared. He checked behind, in the direction of the wagon, out beyond the nearby hill. “I’m traveling with my wife and family, looking for work, for a place to mind our own business.”

Richard’s business was the revolution, if he was to have a chance for his plan to work, and there were a number of people waiting on him in that regard. He had more urgent problems, first, though.

“But, Lord Rahl, my people need—”

Richard spun back around. “Why would you call me that?”

“I’m, I’m sorry.” The man swallowed. “I didn’t mean to anger you.”

“What makes you think I’m this Lord Rahl?”

The man painted his hand up and down in front of Richard as he sputtered, trying to find words. “You, you, you just…are. I can’t imagine…what else you want me to say. I’m sorry if I have offended you by being so forward, Lord Rahl.”

Cara stalked out from behind a rocky spire. “What have we here?”

The man gasped in surprise at seeing her as he flinched back yet another step, clutching the waterskin to his chest as if it were a shield of steel.

Tom, his silver knife to hand, stepped up out of a gully behind the man, blocking the way should the man decide to run back the way he’d come.

The man turned in a circle to see Tom towering behind. As he finally came back around and saw Kahlan standing beside Richard, he let out another gasp. They all were wearing dusty traveling clothes, but somehow Richard didn’t suppose that at that moment they looked at all like simple travelers in search of work.

“Please,” the man said, “I don’t mean a

ny harm.”

“Take it easy,” Richard said as he stole a sidelong glance at Cara—his words meant not only for the man but the Mord-Sith as well. “Are you alone?” Richard asked him.

“Yes, Lord Rahl. I’m on a mission for my people, just as I told you. You are of course to be forgiven your aggressive nature—I would expect nothing less. I want you to know I hold no feelings of resentment toward you.”

“Why does he think you’re the Lord Rahl?” Cara said to Richard in a tone that sounded more accusation than question.

“I’ve heard the descriptions,” the man put in. Still clutching the waterskin to his chest, he pointed with the other hand. “And that sword. I’ve heard about Lord Rahl’s sword.” His gaze moved cautiously to Kahlan. “And the Mother Confessor, of course,” he added, dipping his head.

“Of course,” Richard sighed.

He’d expected that he would have to hide the sword around strangers, but now he knew just how important that was going to be whenever they went into any populated areas. The sword would be relatively easy to hide. Not so with Kahlan. He thought that maybe they could cover her in rags and say she was a leper.

The man leaned cautiously out, arm extended, and handed Richard his waterskin. “Thank you, Lord Rahl.”