Confessor (Sword of Truth 11)

If he failed he would have all eternity to

sleep.

“Today we have our chance for glory,” Johnrock said.

Richard, holding Johnrock’s chin, turned the man’s head to the side a little so that he could see better in the failing light. He didn’t say anything. He leaned to the side and dunked his finger in the bucket of red paint and then added a symbol for watchfulness above the one for power that was already there. He wished he knew a symbol for common sense so he could paint it all over Johnrock’s skull.

“Don’t you think, Ruben?” Johnrock pressed. “Today we have our chance for glory?”

The rest of the men all listened quietly for what Richard might say.

“You know better, Johnrock. Get those thoughts out of your head.”

Richard paused in his work and swept the finger, coated in fresh red paint, around at all the eyes watching him.

“All of you know better, or at least you should. Forget thoughts of glory. Those men on the emperor’s team aren’t thinking of glory right now—they’re thinking of killing you. Do you understand that? They want to kill you.

“This is a day we have to fight to stay alive. That’s the glory I want: life. That’s the glory I want for all of you. I want you to live.”

Johnrock’s face twisted in disbelief. “But Ruben, after those men tried to bash in your head last night you must want to settle the score.”

The men all knew about the attack. Johnrock had told them all about it—told them how their point man had fought off five of the big men all by himself. Richard hadn’t disputed the account, but he wasn’t letting on as to how much he hurt. He wanted them worrying about their own necks, not wondering if he could hold up his end.

“Yes, I want to win,” Richard said, “but not for glory, or to settle a score. I’m a captive. I was brought here to play. If we win I live—simple as that. That’s all that really matters: living. Ja’La players—both captives and soldiers—die in games all the time; in that sense we are equals. The only true glory in winning in these games is the part about living.”

Some of the other captive men nodded their understanding.

“Aren’t you just a little worried about defeating the emperor’s team?” Bruce, his left wing man, asked. “Beating the emperor’s team might not be the right thing to do. After all, they represent the power of the Imperial Order, and the emperor. Beating them might be seen as prideful and arrogant, even sacrilegious.”

All eyes turned to Richard.

Richard met the man’s gaze. “I thought that under the Order’s teachings everyone was equal.”

Bruce stared back a moment. A smile finally spread across his face. “You have a point, Ruben. They are just men, like us. I guess we ought to win, then.”

“I guess so,” Richard said.

At that, just as Richard had taught them, the men, as one, let out a collective bellow of agreement, a brief, deep roar of team spirit. It was a small thing, but it served to bond the men, to make them feel that, while they were all very different individuals, they all had a common goal.

“Now,” Richard went on, “we haven’t seen the emperor’s team play, so we don’t know their tactics, but they’ve watched us play. As far as I’ve been able to tell, teams don’t usually change the way they play, so they will be expecting us to do the same things they’ve seen us do in the past. That’s going to be one of our advantages.

“Remember the new plays we devised for each signal. Don’t fall back to the old plays for a signal or it will cross us up. Those new tactics are our best chance to keep them off balance. Concentrate on doing your part in each of those moves. That’s what will get us points.

“Remember, too, that these men, besides wanting to win, are going to be trying to hurt us. The teams we’ve been playing knew that what they gave they got back double. These men are different. They know that if they lose they will be put to death, just like the emperor’s last team was when they lost. They have no incentive to play clean. They have every incentive to try to tear our heads off.

“There is no doubt in my mind that they’re going to try to take out our players, so be ready for it.”

“You’re the one they’re going to be trying to take down,” Bruce pointed out. “You’re the point man. You’re the one they need to stop. They even tried to eliminate you last night before you could reach the Ja’La field.”

“That’s all true, but as point man I at least have you and Johnrock protecting me. Most of you men have no protection but your wits and your skill. I think they’re just as likely to go after one of you, first, so don’t let your guard down for a second. Keep an eye on each other and intervene if need be.”

In the distance Richard could hear the rhythmic chanting of countless soldiers eager for the match to start. It sounded like the entire camp was chanting. Richard suspected that every man not forced to work on the ramp, while if not all able to actually see the match, would probably at least be waiting for word to relay back to them.

More men than usual were going to be able to see this game because the emperor had directed the work gangs, who needed material for the ramp anyway, to scoop dirt from a large area to create a bowl in the Azrith Plain. The new Ja’La field, with its vast, gently sloped sides, would enable far more men than ever before to be able to watch Ja’La games.

Richard had thought that their game with the emperor’s team would have been held that afternoon, that it would have already taken place, but the day had worn on as other teams played in games leading up to the match for the championship. The games, after all, were show for the soldiers. The new Ja’La field was the emperor’s statement—right below the People’s Palace—that the Order was here to stay and now owned the place.

Richard glanced up at the iron gray overcast. The last feathery violets of the sunset had vanished. It was going to be a dark night.

Richard hadn’t counted on it being this late when the game started, but night suited him just fine. In fact, it was the one unexpected bit of good fortune in the face of the monumental obstacles that lay before him. He was used to the dark. As a woods guide he often walked the trails of his woods with only the moon and stars to light his way. Sometimes it was just stars. Richard was comfortable in darkness.

There was more to seeing than just using one’s eyes.

While in some ways those times in the woods seemed like only days ago, in other ways it also seemed like forever ago, almost like another life. He was a long way from his Hartland woods. A long way from the peace and security he had known.

A long way from having the woman he loved back in his arms.

As Richard was finishing with Johnrock’s paint, he spotted Commander Karg making his way through the ring of guards. After their complicity in the treachery of the night before, the men involved stayed well clear of the scowling officer. There were a few new faces among the guards, no doubt more trusted overseers. Commander Karg was leading an escort of troops, men dedicated to watching over the captive players to make sure that they played Ja’La and nothing more.

Mostly, though, the soldiers were there to watch over Richard. They were his special guards.

Last in line to be freed from his bonds, Richard was finally able to rub his sore neck after Commander Karg finally unlocked his iron collar. Without the heavy chain weighing him down, Richard felt light, almost as if he might float up into the air. It gave him a feeling of being weightless and inhumanly fast. He embraced the sensation, making it part of him.

The chanting of the soldiers in the distance had a primeval feel to it. It was beyond eerie. It gave Richard goose bumps.

The spectators were expecting blood.

This night, they were going to get their wish.

As he followed Commander Karg, leading his team toward the Ja’La field, Richard put the growing noise out of his mind. He found a quiet center of focus.

As they moved through passages in the encampment lined with throngs of soldiers, hands all around reached out, wanting to touch the members of the team as they passed.

Some of the men on Richard’s team smiled, waved, and touched the extended hands of the soldiers. Johnrock, being the biggest man and easy to spot, was the center of much of the attention. He grinned, waved, shook hands, and soaked it all in as he marched along. It seemed to Richard that what Johnrock had always wanted more than anything else was the adoration of the crowd. He loved pleasing them.

Words of both encouragement and hatred cascaded in from all sides. Richard turned his eyes ahead, ignoring the soldiers and shouting as he passed.

“Are you nervous, Ruben?” Commander Karg asked over his shoulder.

“Yes.”

Karg gave him a patronizing smile. “That will go away when it starts.”

“I know,” Richard said as he glared out from under his brow.

The vast depression of the Ja’La field was a cauldron of noise, the spectators a froth of faces over a churning sea of black.

The crowd out beyond the dense ring of flickering torches at the edge of the field chanted—not words, but a guttural grunt meant to express not only encouragement for the players but for the spectacle itself. In time with the chanting the throng stamped a foot. The deep, primordial noise could be not only heard, but felt in the ground beneath Richard’s feet, almost like rolling thunder. The effect was deafening and, in a way, intoxicating.

It was a primal call to violence.

Richard was already lost to those feelings. He let the raw, savage sounds feed those passions he had already unleashed within himself. As he made his way through the seething masses of men, he was in his own private world, lost to inner drives.

Commander Karg brought the team to a halt at one end of the field just before the torches. Richard saw archers, with arrows nocked, stationed all around the field. Near midfield, to his right, he spotted the area reserved for the emperor.

Jagang wasn’t there.

Richard’s insides tightened with a knot of panic. He had thought that, surely, Jagang would be at this game, that Kahlan would be near.

But the roped-off section was vacant.