Assassin's Rise (18 page)

Roland now understood
what Li Ho had meant. Facing the group of men, survival was
immaterial. He had made the choice to come down here. They had
attacked his friend, and the price would be heavy, whether he lived
or died. Tomorrow does not matter.

Roland took a step
forward and said, “Where are Darse and Rael?” He spoke softly, but
his voice cut straight through their laughter. A moment of panic
had men falling backwards, others jumping to their feet, their
faces shocked as they saw the black cloaked man materializing in
their midst. Eyes flicked over Roland’s shoulder to Jeklor, and
then they relaxed, realising there was only two men. Their blades
glinted in the fire light.

“Where are Darse and
Rael?” repeated Roland. His voice held no anger, and no fear ... it
was completely emotionless, like a man speaking from the grave, and
Agron’s men grew wary.

“I’m Rael –“

“And I’m Darse, init
Rael?”

“Sure is Darse,” said
Rael, and he and Darse stepped forward, smirks on their faces. “The
funny man is here. Don’t look too funny now ... should’ve paid
pritecson coin!”

The wariness broke, and
the group of men roared with laughter.

Control emotion. Do
not let anger cloud judgement – do not let pity dull skill. Must be
hard, must deal death, must take control.

“Who pissed on the
wares?” said Roland.

“Did you like it?” said
Rael, and his words were barely cold before Roland’s cloak parted
slightly, and there was a sharp twang ... the sound like a piece of
metal under strain springing forward. A bolt suddenly grew from
Rael’s crotch, and he fell to his knees, eyes bulging. A dark stain
spread rapidly on his trousers as blood seeped through his breeches
and thick blood droplets dripped between his cradling fingers. It
happened so quickly that the men behind Rael did not notice. Darse
stared down at kneeling Rael, nonplussed.

Jeklor groaned in
effort next to Roland as he pulled his sword back double-handed
over his head, his cracked ribs protesting. “Not-so-funny-now,” he
gasped and flung the sword forward with all his might. It flipped
through the air and struck Rael in the chest, the blade ramming
clear through him, exciting his back. Rael’s mouth opened wide in
surprise, his bloody fingers leaving his crotch and touching the
sword, almost caressing it. As Rael toppled backwards, Jeklor
stumbled and fell to his knees, his face grey with pain.

“NO!” screamed Darse
and tore the sword from Rael’s limp body, his lips pulled back in a
snarl. He held the sword high and charged, spittle flying from his
mouth.

When enemy have sword,
step in close. Advantage of long blade gone when no room to swing
... sword become useless, but zhutou not have problem. Zhutou
become very dangerous.

Roland stepped forward,
close enough to smell Darse’s sour breath. He rammed his left
shoulder underneath Darse’s raised arm, preventing him from
swinging the sword downwards. Darse’s eyes widened in surprise as
he struggled to bring the sword down, and as he strained, Roland’s
right hand appeared from underneath his cloak in a silver flash,
thrusting upwards.

A shudder ran through
Darse

As Roland pulled the
zhutou clear, Darse’s mouth fell open, a silver glint flickering
between his teeth. Roland flicked his right hand backwards and
blood slipped from the round, tapered shaft, the zhutou once more
gleaming and unblemished. Roland stepped back, moving in front of
Jeklor to hide him, and hand and zhutou disappeared underneath his
cloak once more. He stood relaxed, his black cloak billowing
slightly as a cool breeze brought shivers to the camp.

Darse started shaking
violently all over. A dark hole had appeared underneath his chin,
and blood dripped from his mouth, nose and eyes, along the path the
zhutou had burrowed. He fell backwards, his left heel gouging the
earth as it twitched.

Agron’s men stood in
stunned silence. Two of them had died, and the dark-cloaked man had
barely moved ... nor did he shout, or curse, or screamed a
challenge. That was the most disconcerting thing of all – he barely
seemed alive. They held their weapons forgotten, and none thought
to attack; they were spellbound inside Roland’s cold, impassive
aura.

“Who are you?” cried
one of the men.

Never lose control. Do
not give chance for enemy to think. Keep enemy frozen in fear. If
start asking questions, make quiet.

Roland’s cloak swept to
the side and the wooden wing of his crossbow snapped forward. A
bolt materialised from the questioning man’s head and he crumbled
to the ground, his eyes dull and unblinking. Roland had ten bolts
left, and seventeen targets. He calmly reloaded his crossbow,
slipping fresh bolts into the track and channel. Hand and crossbow
disappeared back under the cloak. From death to reload had taken
but a few short moments.

No one dared to move;
silence was total.

“Bring me Agron,” said
Roland, his dark eyes hidden in the gloom.

“Why do you –” The
crossbow sang and the man was flung from his feet.

“Bring me Agron,”
repeated Roland, his voice sounding bored, slipping a fresh bolt
into place.

Nine bolts, sixteen
men.

One of the men lifted
his hands above his head and slowly backed away until he reached
the stone house, where he spun on his heel and sprinted inside.
Roland kept his eyes on the men before him, but watched the
retreating man from the corner of his eye.

A roar of anger came
from the house and Agron stepped outside. He was bare-chested and
hairless, the width of his shoulders hiding the door from view. He
carried a sword longer than he was tall, the blade as wide as
Roland’s thigh. Without any apparent effort he lifted the sword
above his head one handed, and he bellowed at his men, “He is only
one man! Why are you hesitating? KILL HIM!”

One of his men took an
experimental step forward and the metal wing sang, a bolt punching
into the man’s throat. He gargled, his hands clawing at the bolt,
and then he fell sideways, knocking the huddled group off
balance.

There might only be one
enemy, but none of them were prepared to throw away their lives.
They stood frozen, some in awkward positions after they had
stumbled from the falling man. It seemed safer that way.

Agron’s face turned
purple, his bald plate glinting with sweat in the fire light. “Face
me!” he yelled. “A coward hiding behind a crossbow you are! FACE ME
IN SINGLE COMBAT LIKE A MAN!”

Much men speak of
honour and courage, but only when loosing. They will challenge, and
you will feel tempted ... but very dangerous feeling. They stab you
in back with smile, and you die stupid death. Never believe howl of
loser. Never accept challenge.

“No,” said Roland, and
the crossbow spoke. The bolt snapped Agron’s head back, and the
massive sword slipped from his hand. He took a jittering step
forward ... and one more ... and then he pitched to the ground face
first, the impact driving the bolt through the back of his
skull.

His men roared in
anger. “COWARD!” they shouted.

Roland reloaded the
crossbow and aimed it at them. “This is not a game,” he said
quietly, but his words carried to every man. “Life is a web of
actions and consequences. Because of your actions, death has come
to your camp.”

Two men charged and
Roland pulled the trigger, shifted the crossbow slightly and then
pushed the wooden nub with his thumb – both men hit the ground near
simultaneously. Roland dropped the crossbow and flung his cloak
wide open, the heavy cloth settling behind his shoulders. Left and
right hand pulled throwing knifes from the leather band across his
chest, and silver steel filled the air as his hands blurred up and
down, one after the other. And then, a bowstring clapped, and an
arrow soared from the woods, crunching into the side of a man’s
skull. Bushes rustled and an unearthly howl pierced the night.
Dragon burst from the woods and charged, his axe held high and
pulled back over his shoulder. His wide-open mouth unleashed a
continuous howl while arrows passed him by on either side as Andros
stepped from the woods behind him, shooting arrow after arrow.

Even Roland was frozen
in place as Dragon charged, his big feet slamming into the earth
with every step. As Dragon reached the closest victim, he swung,
and the butterfly-blades sang through the air. The blade entered
the man’s neck and exited underneath the armpit, cutting through
bone, muscle and sinew. Blood fountained and covered Dragon’s face
and chest as a piece of the man fell to the ground.

Dragon hunched over,
jutted his chin out, and grinned gormlessly at Agron’s remaining
men, blood streaming down his face.

That was the final
straw.

Terrified screams
filled the air and men fled into the night, flinging weapons from
them as if the metal had suddenly turned red-hot. There were
muffled yells as they tripped over their feet in the dark, eager to
get away, the sound growing thinner as they crossed the valley at
great speed. Dragon threw his head back and a wolfish howl echoed
down the valley – a reminder for the fleeing men to never
return.

“You’re scaring me,
Dragon,” said Jeklor, and pushed himself upright, clutching his
ribs.

Dragon heehawed and
dropped the axe. He lifted his shirt and wiped his face clean, once
more turning into the Dragon they knew.

From the corner of
Roland’s eye, he saw a shadow moving. In one fluent motion, Roland
dropped to one knee, picked the crossbow up and swung around, his
right hand slipping a fresh bolt along the track. The shadow dashed
through the grass in irregular patterns and entered the woods,
darting from tree to tree.

“Not as composed as you
like to appear, Master Li Ho,” said Roland quietly and lowered the
crossbow, an amused look on his face.

R
oland gripped Andros’s hand and
said, “Thank you for everything.”

“No, Roland. Thank
you,” growled Andros, his voice thick.

Roland held his hand
out to Dragon, but the large man lifted Roland in a bear hug.
Roland patted him on the back, and when Dragon finally released
him, the side of Roland’s face was soaked, Dragon’s eyes puffed and
red.

“Master Li Ho,” said
Roland and bowed low. “You have taught me more than I can ever
repay. The gold will never convey the true value, but I will have
it ready for you within a year’s time.”

Li Ho snorted in
indignation. “I am Master. Not want pay from stupid student.”

Andros’s eyes grew wide
and Jeklor gave a dry snigger; not wanting the gold confirmed what
he had been secretly thinking – the old man had finally lost his
mind.

Roland lifted his head
and placed his hand on Li Ho’s arm. “Then you must accept the gold
as a gift from a good friend.”

In what Li Ho
considered was appropriate for the seriousness of the situation, he
considered for a long time in silence before he gravely said, “I
accept.”

“Ready, Jeklor?” said
Roland.

Jeklor lifted an
enormous bundle of Dragon’s new wares onto his back and said, “I’ll
be back in half a year or so. Take care of Dragon, Andros – and
don’t you go killing them, Li Ho. Dragon is essential to Dragon
East Apparel’s future.”

Dragon heehawed as Li
Ho gripped his sword tightly, a muscle twitching in his face, and
with that, Roland and Jeklor stepped from the cabin.

*

The last of the winter
snow crunched under Roland and Jeklor’s feet as they headed for
Drifters’ Hell. Twenty-two months have passed since Roland had
woken up in prison and he marvelled at how quickly his life had
changed and at how many things had happened. Through all the
hardships and cruelty, he had been blessed with good fortune. The
companionship he had with Jeklor, Andros, Dragon and Li Ho, was not
something he would have ever experienced had he stayed in his
village. Friendships made during easy times, had not the same bond
as when you suffered together. For a moment, Roland wished that he
could introduce his companions to Carla. She would have liked them,
but she had never been given a choice – she never even had a
chance. Roland almost choked in the bitterness welling up in him,
and he once again saw Sirol Vanderman’s handsome face in his mind,
teeth glinting and eyes mocking. His hand curled around the zhutou,
his knuckles turning white before he let go.

If Rage kept the
promise he had made to Roland, promising that Roland could count on
the Swallow whenever he needed, the time should be close for the
Swallow to reach Drifters’ Hell – and close to the oath Roland had
made.

In the letter he had
written to Rage all those many moons ago, he had told Rage
everything that had happened with Carla and himself, and had called
upon Rage’s promise, asking him to sail to Drifters’ Hell in two
years time from the day he received the letter. Time had been a
very important factor, and it had taken longer to escape from The
Tomb than Roland had initially thought it would. He had wanted to
be trained for a year and a half, but time had run out, and he had
reduced the training to one year. But, as Li Ho had said:
Can
only teach basic of killing. One year – year and half ... no
difference. Once basic down, must continue on own. Gain experience
by self – find own style.

Roland smiled as he
heard Li Ho’s abrupt voice in his mind; he was going to miss the
bandy-legged man’s short bursts of wisdom.

They had taken the coin
back from Agron’s men and more, and he and Jeklor looked to lodge
in the village, awaiting the Swallow. The only problem now was the
river leading up to Drifters’ Hell. Roland had gone to inspect it
months before. From the village it was little more than a day’s
walk to the ocean; Roland reckoned it would take half the time by
boat. The river was broad and calm, but Roland did not know enough
about the Swallow to know if the water was deep enough for the
ships keel. He expected that the Swallow would anchor in the mouth
of the river, and send a rowing boat further up –