Assassin's Rise (13 page)

“And you, my good man,”
said Jeklor, and chuckled. “Escaping The Tomb by flying-from-chasm
has never crossed my mind, you know?”

“Let’s move to dryer
ground,” said Roland and stood up, holding his hand out to help
Jeklor to his feet.

Before them, the ravine
opened up into dense woods and they aimed for the edge of the
trees. Where the chain bounding them was merely uncomfortable in
the mines, here it was a nightmare. It snagged on shrubs, bushes
and rocks, forcing them to walk in single file. They sat against a
tree trunk, facing toward the wooden platform high on the ravine
edge. The sun had already set, and the last bit of light was
dwindling quickly – it would be dark soon.

Although they had
successfully escaped, they were still tense. Not until the mine was
far behind their backs would they relax, but they still owed a debt
and they waited in rigid-silence.

“What’s taking them so
long?” said Jeklor, concern in his voice.

“They’ll be here soon,”
said Roland forcefully, ignoring the counter arguments welling up
in is mind – there was a multitude of things that could have gone
wrong.

The last bit of light
waned, and the woods came alive with the sounds of nightlife:
crickets sung their song and a fox called to its mate; the sudden
whoosh of spreading wings as an owl took flight was a testament to
life and freedom. After the months in the dark spend with echoes of
metal striking rock and whip peeling flesh, this was the most
beautiful music Roland had ever heard in his life. His eyes turned
moist and he could hear Jeklor biting back a sob next to him.

It did not matter,
there was nothing to be ashamed of – they were free.

*

A large splash in the
river had them jumping to their feet, and Roland and Jeklor rushed
toward the water, the rattling chain between them drowning out the
nightlife sounds.

“Andros! Dragon!”
called Roland, squinting his eyes. After the months in the mine he
could see surprisingly well in the dark. There was no answer, but a
spluttering told him that they were still alive. Roland could make
out a shape in the water, and saw that it was Dragon, floating on
his back, Andros pressed to his chest.

“Come,” said Roland and
ran into the river, Jeklor at his side. They waded for a few steps
before the ground disappeared, and the heavy chain pulled them
downward. Arms flailing they edged toward Dragon, and Roland and
Jeklor grabbed a shoulder each. Andros was lying limp across
Dragon, the side of his face covered in blood.

“Kick, Dragon,” shouted
Roland, he and Jeklor swimming for all they were worth. Dragon
kicked out with his free leg, his eyes wide and fearful.

They reached the edge,
and the two men pulled Dragon (still on his back), from the water.
Roland dropped to his knees and prodded around the gash in the side
of Andros’s head. He must have struck it falling from the cart. He
was still breathing though, his thin chest barely rising with each
breath.

Roland had never missed
his leather, herbal pouch as much as he did at that point in time.
The wound was bleeding profusely, but head wounds always did.
Roland did not think the skull cracked, or the blood would be
spurting and very light of texture and colour, mixed with the clear
fluids held in the head. Dragon clutched Andros tightly to his
chest, unearthly moans coming from his wide-opened mouth.

“Stop with the noise,
ye great buffoon,” croaked Andros and opened his eyes. “Help me to
my feet will you.”

Dragon choked back a
moan and his lips pulled back, revealing surprisingly small teeth.
He stood up, Andros still clutched to his chest, and he threw his
head back at the heavens, his large frame heaving as he silently
celebrated, his cheeks wet.

He lowered Andros,
steadying him as he stood on unsure feet. His hands reached out,
lightly patting Andros’s skeletal face.

“Enough already!” said
Andros, not unkindly, and pressed his hand to his head.

Roland tore his shirt
off and dipped it into the water, wringing it – it was as clean as
he would ever get it. He rolled the shirt up and wrapped in around
Andros’s head.

“It will have to do
’til daylight,” he said apologetically.

Andros grabbed Roland
by the shoulders, his thin arms shaking. “You’ve done more than I
could ever repay already,” his said, his voice trembling. He
clenched his eyes shut, but tears still trickled from
underneath.

Roland patted him
clumsily and turned to Jeklor. “We better go and hide in the woods
– we’re not safe yet,” he said.

F
or the last nine days, Roland,
Jeklor, Andros and Dragon had followed the river south, keeping
hidden in the woods. Their progress was slow being shackled
together and they were weak from little food.

Roland had wanted to
search for herbs, but it was just not practical (the chains
restricted them to moving at the edge of the woods – further in it
was much too overgrown) and he had to make do with plants growing
close by the riverbank, which he used to treat Andros’s wound. At
least mushrooms grew in abundance, and they survived on a diet of
mushrooms and wild onions, and sometimes roots and berries that
Roland reckoned would not kill them outright. They had no flint
though, so each meal was eaten raw, and at nighttimes, they huddled
close together to share body heat.

Their destination was
Drifters’ Hell, which they had no idea of how far it was, but they
had all agreed that it was most likely found at the river at some
point, since Jeklor had heard that it had access to the ocean.
Roland was eager to get there, Jeklor not so much, while Dragon
merely nodded and smiled at anyone and everything, and Andros kept
his tongue but turned a deadly shade of pale. Both Jeklor and
Andros had conflicting stories to tell about Drifters’ Hell, but in
all fairness, Andros had spend the last ten years (or so he
reckoned), inside a mountain. While Jeklor reckoned their chances
of survival were slim, Andros felt that they might as well drown
themselves in the river and save time.

Roland had told Andros
that he and Dragon did not need to feel obligated to go to
Drifters’ Hell, but Dragon would have none of it (pointing at the
three men, himself, and then clapping his hands), and even Andros
maintained that he owed Roland a debt, and that since he had met
Roland his luck had changed for the better (although he had
muttered by the sixth day that luck was a fickle beast ...).

By day fourteen, their
stomachs were sour from a diet of wild plants and they had to make
frequent stops at nearby bushes – an unpleasant affair being
chained together – and they walked with pained expressions. If not
for Roland’s resolution bordering on the obsessive to reach
Drifters’ Hell (he was frequently muttering: “... getting closer
... the time is near ...”) and the fact that his dark moods
inspired the party to greater speeds, they might have grown too
weak and would never have made it.

Nevertheless, by day
nineteen, they finally saw smoke curling upwards in the distance
...

*

As the party walked
further on, the river broadened, the water covering a wide area of
land. Wooden platforms resting on thick stilts stood in the water,
the platforms connected by long walkways and supported by trees.
Round wooden huts with reed-thatched roofs stood close together on
the platforms, many of them similar in size and design, although
Roland noted a few wider platforms devoted entirely to extra large
huts with benches and tables strewn about them – he assumed that
those were places of trade, since many rough looking men sat
nursing bucket-sized mugs, served by even fiercer looking women.
Huts had also been constructed next to the river on dry land, and
those had similar walkways that connected them to the dwellings on
the water. Enormous Bald Cypress-, Weeping Willow- and Pumpkin Ash
trees surrounded the village, many of which grew in the water and
between the huts, resulting in the river-village being covered by
an evergreen canopy, and the humidity was rather high. Drifters’
Hell was not (as Jeklor had heard) built over a swamp, but there
was a definite damp feel to it.

Dragon looked very
excited as they walked across the water, and he waved at the
villagers enthusiastically – no one waved back, though.

“They look rather
unfriendly,” whispered Jeklor to Roland as they neared one of the
wider platforms.

“More friendly than the
guards in the mine, though,” said Roland.

All eyes were fixed on
the tattered four men as they walked through the village, their
chains clonking on the wooden walkways, but none of the villagers
called a greeting.

“Don’t reckon we’re
much welcome,” muttered Andros.

Roland stopped in the
centre of a wide platform that was devoted to benches, tables, and
a large hut. Roland saw that the hut was actually a tavern, but the
inside was empty – all the patrons were seated outside. Most of
them were drinking what Roland thought was ale, and others ate what
looked like fish stew. The smell of the food made his mouth water,
but there were more pressing matters to attend to first.

A serving woman paused
in her work, but did not invite them to take a seat. It was clear
they had not a bent copper coin among them. He, Jeklor, Andros and
Dragon were a sorry sight: their clothes were so tattered it barely
covered their bodies, and where skin showed, so did bones. Their
hair was long and matted, their faces hollowed.

Roland, however, stood
tall, staring down at the seated men, his dark eyes skipping from
face to face, as if he was searching for a particular person.
Jeklor stood slightly behind him, shifting his feet, his eyes
lowered. So were Andros’s eyes, but Dragon stood with his arms
folded, his thin chest puffed out, mimicking Roland’s gaze. The
villagers remained silent, although a few shifted
uncomfortably.

Then Roland broke the
silence. “I am looking for the strongest man in this settlement,”
he said.

Whatever the villagers
had expected, that was not it. There was a moment of shocked
silence, and then they threw their heads back and howled with
laughter, banging mugs on the tables.

“An’ what will you do
once you find him? Have a bout?”

“I will pay him two
thousand gold pieces to train me for a year,” said Roland.

Again, there was a
shocked silence. None of the men had ever owned, nor even seen, so
much gold – and neither had Roland for that matter. They looked at
him suspiciously, trying to figure out if this was a joke of some
kind. His appearance did not exactly lend him any credibility.

Roland smirked at them.
“I’ve heard that Drifters’ Hell was home to the most vicious and
dangerous men in Calvana. I had though that one of you might have
talents that I can use – but it seems the tales were inflated.”

Roland turned his back
on them, facing Jeklor, Andros and Dragon.

“Two thousand gold
pieces – are you mad!” whispered Jeklor. “They will tear us limb
from limb if they find out you’re lying.

“I don’t have it yet,
but I will,” Roland said calmly.

Jeklor opened and
closed his mouth a few times, but his voice kept failing him. This
was madness, but he knew no words that could fittingly inform
Roland of what a fool he was.

“Hold it!” someone
called from behind Roland.

Roland smiled and
patted Jeklor on the shoulder. “Best be ready for anything,” he
said as he turned back toward the crowd.

“Ready for what!” cried
Jeklor, trying to keep his voice down. He looked over at Andros for
help, but Andros stood rigid as a statue, his eyes very wide.

“You said two thousand
gold pieces,” said a man, coming to stand before Roland. He was
tall and skinny, but appeared like a well trained gladiator
compared to Roland’s wasted body. His face was thin, and hair even
dirtier than Roland’s framed his face.

“I did,” said Roland,
and looked the man up and down. He wasn’t impressed by what he
saw.

“For training you for a
year –“

“That’s right.”

“Training in what?” the
man asked, his small eyes resting on the chain shackled to Roland’s
leg.

“In death,” said
Roland. “But I said the strongest man – you are not it.”

The men seated at the
tables had followed the conversation closely, and they burst out
laughing. “Saw straight through you, Darsken, he did!” they snorted
with laughter.

Darsken’s face turned
beet-red, and he pulled a dagger, resting the point on Roland’s
chest. “Think you’re funny, dung breath. How ’bout I cut you’re
heart out – will you make jokes then ... eh?”

Roland’s eyes narrowed,
but not at the dagger at his chest. A bandy-legged man had appeared
next to Darsken, a long, slightly curved scabbard with sword inside
hooked through a black sash wrapped around his waist. He wore a
strange kind of long-sleeved shirt that he seemed to have folded
around him, rather than pulling it on over his head, and his
trousers were wide, flaring around his legs. Everything he wore was
black, apart from his sandals, which were light brown and seemed to
have been woven from straw. He was completely bald, and a long thin
braided beard hung from his chin, the hair snow white. His eyes
were strangely almond shaped and almost as dark as Roland’s.
Darsken had not noticed the silent arrival.

“Not so funny now, eh?”
sneered Darsken, and pressed the tip of the dagger into Roland’s
skin so a trickle of blood ran down his chest.

Roland completely
ignored him, instead watching the bandy-legged man. The man
returned Roland’s stare, his face impassive, but Roland had the
feeling of being measured. Then the man’s hand moved to the hilt of
his curved sword, lightly touching it. If Roland had not watched
it, he would have missed it. Roland blinked – for but a moment, the
scabbard had emptied and sword and hand had disappeared, and then
...