Assassin's Rise (10 page)

“Take them to their new
quarters,” he said with a smirk.

*

At spear point, the
prisoners shuffled through the fort. Roland peered through his dark
hair, keeping his shoulders slumped to seem meek, trying to
memorise the layout of the fort. Directly through the entrance was
a large, open room, staircases at the sides leading to the upper
levels. The fort seemed eerily quiet – as if devoid of human
presence. Very few guards patrolled the fort and it struck Roland
as odd.

They walked through
winding hallways, burning torches flickering against the walls,
shadows dancing alongside the shuffling prisoners. The fort seemed
far larger from the outside; it felt cramped on the inside. Roland
had time to wonder why the fort was build in the first place,
before a small iron gate blocked his way.

Two guards flanked the
gate, spears in hand and swords hanging from their belts. Each
guard grabbed a wooden lever on either side of the gate and started
rotating the levers with wide, sweeping motions. Chains rattled and
the gate lifted with a screech.

Spear points prodded
the prisoners from behind and they stepped through the gate. The
gate immediately fell down behind them with a clang, and Roland
noted that there were no levers on this side of the gate.

“Hands out,” said a
guard and removed the wooden shackles from the prisoners’
hands.

Roland rubbed his
wrists, eyeing the small room they found themselves in. The grey
stone walls ended abruptly against the mountain side, vertical rock
walls stretching up and past the ceiling. A tunnel (broad enough to
accommodate two men walking abreast) disappeared into the mountain,
the end out of sight.

Roland now understood
why there were so few guards. To escape you had to go through the
gate, and it could only be opened from the other side. You would be
stuck in this room with no way out, awaiting Lord Alsoner’s
mercy.

The guard who had
removed their shackles took a torch from the wall and stepped
inside the tunnel. He grinned at the prisoners, revealing blackened
teeth and said, “Welcome to The Tomb,” chuckling as he disappeared
inside the mountain, not waiting to see if they followed. They had
no other choice.

*

Roland’s pickaxe bit
into the soft earth in front of him. He pulled back and a clump of
dirt fell at his feet. A chain ran from his left leg to Jeklor’s
right who stood next to him, swinging his pickaxe without
enthusiasm. Clangs of metal striking stone drifted up and down the
hive of tunnels crisscrossing the inside of the mountain as the
prisoners worked. How long they have been inside the mountain,
Roland had no idea. It was difficult to judge time without the open
sky; it could be two months – it could be four.

He had wanted to
explore the tunnels many times before, but an opportunity had not
yet presented itself. Like he and Jeklor, all prisoners were
chained together in pairs, and it was impossible to walk through
the mine without the sound of the rattling chain giving you
away.

Prisoners worked in
small groups of two, mining for silver, chipping the precious metal
from the hard, black reefs found inside the mountain using iron
tools. The guards were few, but they were hard and cruel men,
watching over the prisoners with whip and club, eager to urge them
to greater speeds.

Roland and Jeklor
worked by themselves, digging a new tunnel seeking more of the
black reefs that carried the silver metal. Roland thought them
lucky so far – they had not struck rock yet and the work was less
strenuous than what their fellow prisoners were doing.

Behind them wooden
poles were propped against the sides of the tunnel, supporting
broad wooden boards to prevent the roof from falling in. Wax
candles on top of iron-brackets provided just enough light to
distinguish between persons.

Roland dropped his
pickaxe and picked up a wooden shovel, scooping the growing mound
of loose dirt in front of him into a wooden cart behind him. The
cart was of a strange shape, and the first he had seen of its sort.
It came to Roland’s chest in height, was about the same length as
he was, and was again twice as broad as he was. It had a heavy
frame of oak, (or maybe ironwood – Roland was not sure) and wooden
planks were hammered onto the frame. On either end of the cart was
an iron ring, a thick rope tied to an iron hook hooked through one
of the rings. The rope ran from the cart back down the tunnel and
into the centre of the mine, which was a large natural cavern, the
size of an amphitheatre.

Once Roland had filled
the cart with dirt, he lifted the rope and tugged it a few times.
Moments later the rope grew taut and the cart was pulled back down
the tunnel, the rope-fibres creaking in protest against the
weight.

“Have you not thought
of anything yet?” asked Jeklor desperately, making sure he kept his
voice down: sound had the tendency to travel right across the mine.
He kept swinging his pickaxe as he spoke, the dull thuds of iron
gouging earth rhythmically pounding down the tunnel – they had soon
learned that the guards were eager to use whip and club when the
sounds of labour grew quiet.

Roland dropped the
shovel and picked up his pickaxe. He buried its head inside the
earth and said, “I’ve been wondering where they take the dirt
to?”

Jeklor paused in
mid-swing, looking at Roland. “What do you mean?”

“The ore mined, plus
our dirt gets pulled back to the centre of the mine. Where does it
go from there?”

The sound of wheels
crunching on dirt and pebble drifted up to them, and Jeklor resumed
his work as two prisoners pushed an empty cart back up the tunnel.
“To the fort – where else?” he whispered, looking back over his
shoulder at the approaching cart.

Roland shook his head
and whispered back, “But not through the tunnel we came in through.
The room and gate are far too small to use for moving ore back and
forth.”

The approaching cart
stopped, the two prisoners who had pushed it turning around and
shuffling back down the tunnel.

“Wait!” whispered
Jeklor urgently at them. They halted and looked back. Both were
skeletal thin and had hollowed cheeks framed with long matted hair,
tangled beards hanging on their chests. One of them was very tall
and he stood hunched, a defeated look on his face. Dirt was
ingrained into their faces, their dull eyes peering from blackened
skin.

“Where did our filled
cart go?” asked Roland.

“The mules took it,”
said the shorter one, his voice barely above a whisper.

They quickly shuffled
off, hurrying to get back to the cavern before the guards could
call them. Roland saw several angry, red scars leaking puss on
their backs, their shirts in tatters from whip slicing through
cloth and peeling back skin. He bit down his anger and resumed
swinging his pickaxe.

“Mules ... they must
use them to pull the carts outside!” said Jeklor, his eyes glinting
excitedly.

“Yes. There must be
another way in and out from the mine,” said Roland, the corners of
his mouth lifting in a small smile. He ran his tongue along his
teeth and spat, clearing his mouth from dirt crunching as he
spoke.

“But that means we have
a chance!” said Jeklor and rubbed his eyes. Many times over, he had
wished that he were still in the small cell in Darma. He always did
this; leapt before looking.

Before Roland could
reply, a gong sounded, the dull chimes of padded wood striking
bronze drifting up the tunnel. Three times the gong was struck.

Roland and Jeklor
dropped their tools and shuffled back down the tunnel, the chain
between their legs dragging and clanking over the floor. No guard
watched over them and they took their time walking. The noise they
made digging the tunnel was enough to satisfy the guards. The
guards only paid attention to those working on the silver veins,
making sure that the prisoners worked at breakneck speed, and not
dare take any of the precious metal for themselves.

Roland gave a thin
smile as they neared the centre of the mine. He finally had
something to work with.

W
hen the gong sounded three times,
it was the signal for the end of the day and the prisoners rushed
to assemble in the centre of the mine. All the tunnels birthed from
this natural cavern, which also housed the prisoners while they
slept and ate. From each tunnel, a thick rope led into the cavern,
wrapped around short wooden posts. The posts were smooth, and
gleamed in the torch light from the years of rope friction. Large,
upright wheels mounted on small platforms stood behind the
posts.

Roland and Jeklor were
among the first to arrive in the cavern, the chain shackling their
legs together announcing their arrival as it dragged between them,
rattling.

Roland quickly glanced
around, trying to find the tunnel that the mules went down, but the
cavern was massive and held little light; there were few torches.
He could see no apparent signs of where the mules were kept, and he
did not want to investigate with the guards standing around: he
felt that success lay in remaining inconspicuous.

On one side of the
cavern was a deep basin, filled with fresh underground water, and
the other side had small cells dug into the granite wall where the
prisoners were locked up during the night (or what Roland assumed
to be the night). In the centre of the cavern stood a wooden
platform that housed a large, bronze gong, which the guards used to
pass along signals. So far, Roland only knew two signals: striking
the gong four times signalled the start of the day, and three times
signalled the end.

He and Jeklor aimed
straight for the water basin, looking to rinse their mouths and
soothe their dry throats. The guards let them be. They were still
young and strong, and it would not do to weaken Lord Alsoner’s
property. Silver production came first.

Roland splashed the
cool water on his face and dipped his head so his mouth reached the
surface. He took deep draughts, the water sweet and refreshing.

“Which tunnel do you
think is used to transfer the carts?” said Jeklor softly, glancing
over his shoulder.

“Don’t stare,” warned
Roland. “We’ll ask the prisoners who work in the cavern later.”

“Hurry up you
bag-of-puss!” They heard a guard’s voice booming. Roland tried to
close his ears against the pitiful cries of a man as the guard
helped him along with his whip. The older prisoners received no
mercy from the guards. There would always be freshly convicted,
able-bodied men who could replace them.

Roughly fifty prisoners
had assembled in front of the wooden platform and Roland and Jeklor
hurried over to join them. They all looked up eagerly at the three
guards who stood on the platform, bulging cotton-bags slung over
their shoulders.

“Eat!” shouted the
guards and threw the bags between the prisoners. There was a roar
as the prisoners dived for the bags, the strongest getting to the
food first. Roland hated himself as he punched and kicked, but this
was a matter of survival – he could not afford to grow weak from
hunger. The guards stood around laughing, placing bets on which
prisoners were likely to go without food for the day.

A particularly old
prisoner was chained to a young one. He tried keeping up with the
young one, but he was more of a hindrance; the chain was no more
than three foot long. The young prisoner shouted his frustration
and turned on the old man, clubbing him in the face and kicking him
...

The guards cheered him
on.

Roland carried a long
jagged scar on his left cheek from his encounter with Sirol
Vanderman, but it was the thin, white scar above his left eye which
turned a pulsing red as he grew angry, watching as the old prisoner
tried to cover his face, the guards laughing at him.

“Done!” shouted Jeklor
and they quickly shuffled off, putting distance between themselves
and the mass of heaving and hungry bodies. They sat down and Jeklor
handed Roland a small, round bread. He had managed to grab three.
They devoured a loaf each, and as Jeklor started breaking the third
bread, Roland put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Look there,” he
said.

Jeklor eyed the
remaining bread hungrily, but then looked up to where Roland was
pointing. Several of the older prisoners who were lucky enough to
be chained together had retreated from the fight for food, and sat
observing the heaving mass of bodies from a distance.

“Probably praying there
will be some left after they finish,” said Jeklor, clutching the
remaining loaf to his chest. “This is the lowest point of my
life.”

Roland privately
agreed, but said nothing. Watching as the guards cheered the
prisoners on only served to fuel the anger in his heart. There was
no justice in any of this. No man deserved to be treated like a
beast, and that was what they were turning into: animals. And how
many of the so called prisoners were innocent, paying for a crime
to protect noble blood?

His dark eyes bored
into the laughing guards. He wanted to run up to them, cutting and
stabbing, cheering at each death as they did. Roland looked at his
hands, ashamed at his thoughts. Was he not a Healer, one who was
supposed to treasure life? Giving his utmost to save and protect
life?

“No,” he said softly
and forced his feelings down. What had happened to Carla –
witnessing how those of higher station abused their power – there
was no need for him to feel guilt over his thoughts. He would
become the protector of common blood. In killing, he would be
saving countless lives – more than he ever could with herbs.

“What do you want to do
with the remaining loaf?” asked Jeklor, cutting through his
thoughts.