Assassin's Rise (19 page)

“Never seen that hut
before ...” said Jeklor, cutting through Roland’s reverie.

It looked like an old
tree stump, the roof made of grass and leaves. There were no
windows, and the door was an old blanket. The snow around the hut
showed no footprints, as if neither animal nor human wanted to get
close to it. Roland had walked the woods many times before, but had
never noticed the strange hut.

He and Jeklor moved
closer, both with puzzled looks on their faces.

“Reckon anyone lives
here?” said Jeklor, his voice barely above a whisper for some
reason.

Before Roland could
answer, the blanket was pulled to the side and a wrinkled face
stared at them. The eyes seemed unnaturally large, tufts of hair
growing between the countless seams of the skin. It hobbled into
the light, and Roland saw that it was a very old woman, a
moth-eaten shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She stood hunched
over as she peered at them, her eyes sparkling with intelligence
... or was it something else, wondered Roland.

“G- good day, lady,”
said Jeklor, stammering a bit. “Sorry to have disturbed you. My
companion and I will be on our way.”

“Wait!” she croaked.
“Will you not visit a lonely old woman like myself? Come inside,
and I will read your fortune – not you,” she snapped as Jeklor
moved.

Roland shrugged at
Jeklor who carried a scowl on his face and he followed the old
woman inside.

There was only one
room, and Roland had the feeling of standing inside a hollowed
tree. He could see no evidence of life inside; there was no bed –
not even a pile of blankets – no food, not a fire ... yet it was
stifling hot inside. There was only a table in the middle of the
hut, which looked as if it had grown from the earth, and two round
stools. The smell inside was damp, like moss and rotten leaves, and
Roland thought he caught a whiff of something very unpleasant
hidden underneath, but he could not put his finger on it, although
it stirred an old memory. The woman was exceptionally short, and
Roland realised that she wasn’t hunching over at all. Her back was
curved, so much so that her spine pushed alarmingly against her
black dress. Her face looked shrunken with age; her features near
undistinguishable underneath the loose skin, but her big eyes
looked youthful and spirited.

“I can’t stay for long,
lady” said Roland.

“Humour me for a
while,” she said and sat down on a stool. “Take off your cloak and
take a seat ... you must be very hot.”

Roland realised that he
was sweating, and he untied his black cloak, swinging it from his
shoulders. He saw a hook on the wall and hung his cloak there.

The old woman’s eyes
slid over Roland’s weapons approvingly, her lips curling back ever
so slightly. “Oh my, how promising,” she crooned and beckoned
Roland to take a seat.

“Give me your hand,”
she said as Roland sat down, and ran a nail along his palm. Her
nails were quite long and yellowish. They were strangely tapered
towards the ends, and curled slightly downwards ... Roland had to
restrain himself from yanking his hand away – her nails reminded
him of talons.

“What a find ... what a
find!” she whispered, her voice rasping like dry leaves rubbing
together. From her dress, she took a pitch-black coin and placed it
in Roland’s hand. She pushed his fingers over the coin, closing his
hand.

“I think I should leave
now,” said Roland, his skin crawling from her touch.

A sudden urge to sink
the zhutou into her frail chest welled up in him. Why did I think
that, Roland wondered, shocked by his bloodlust.

“Not yet, almost there”
she purred, and then she opened Roland’s hand.

Where the coin was
wholly black before, halve the coin had now turned the purest
white. She clapped her hands happily. “My, my. But you are a
walking contradiction, Roland Belanu.”

Roland frowned at the
use of his name – he could not remember divulging it. “Why is it a
contradiction?”

“Do you not see ... If
I were to give the coin to the fool waiting outside, it would turn
dull grey, or maybe light brown –”

“Jeklor is not a fool,”
said Roland, turning angry. He was glad for the anger – it pushed
away his uneasiness.

“Yes, yes,” she said
offhandedly, “that would be the white speaking.” She took the coin
from Roland’s hand and the white halve immediately darkened, until
it was once more pitch-black. She cackled at the change in
colour.

“One of you is
compassionate and caring and would go to any lengths to help and
protect his fellow man ... but the other .... Oh, the other is a
fearsome beast who will go to any lengths to achieve his goals. A
river of blood will not satisfy his thirst – and he will never
stop.” She smiled and Roland turned his head. Her teeth were short,
yellow stumps, black and green stains between it.

“Not pretty am I ...
but then I wear my heart on my sleeve!” She cackled madly and
Roland jumped upright.

“Before you go, I have
a gift for you, Roland Belanu,” She placed a tiny silver vial on
the table, her eyes sparkling. “It will help in your revenge.”

“I don’t use poisons,”
said Roland, turning pale. He did not know how she knew all this,
and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“Again with the white
... but no, it’s not poison. A little prick on the skin, a drop of
this and your victim will freeze in place; unable to move, unable
to scream, but very able to experience pain ... yet, he will not
die from the Potion alone.”

Roland wanted to back
away – but the tiny vial intrigued him, capturing his fascination.
“Who are you?” he asked, licking his dry lips, his eyes fixed on
the vial.

“Oh, you can call me
The Lady in the Woods ... but in time, you will affectionately
recall me as The Hag in the Hut.” She cackled wildly, her voice
grating in Roland’s ears. He tore his gaze from the vial, grabbed
his cloak and stumbled from the hut.

“Let’s go,” he told
Jeklor, swinging the cloak around his shoulders and setting off at
a brisk pace, his eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking.

“What did she want?”
said Jeklor, hurrying to keep up with Roland.

“Nothing. She’s gone
mad from living in seclusion – she said nothing.”

Jeklor glanced at
Roland but held his tongue.

After a while, Roland
slowed down and looked back over his shoulder, but the hut was out
off sight. He suppressed a shudder, letting out a slow breath. “The
smell!” he suddenly shouted, halting sharply. “It was the smell of
a canker!”

“Canker?” said Jeklor,
nonplussed.

“It’s an illness that
eats the body and there’s no cure. The stink of it is unbearable
during the final days ...” Roland shook his head. Did she have
canker? He did not think so. She was far too ... excited, he
thought for lack of a better word. He resumed walking and heard a
strange clinking noise, as if something hard was tapping against
metal. Roland pulled his cloak open, and there, next to the zhutou,
a tiny silver vial peered out from underneath his sash.

“H
eave, ho,” called the crew and
the anchor splashed into the water, a trail of bubbles breaking the
surface as it sunk to the bottom.

“Anchor away,
Captain!”

“Lower the boat!”
bellowed Rage.

“Lower the boat!”
chorused the crew and swung a portion of the bulwark open. They
heaved a six-man rowing boat over the side, the thick ropes tied to
the breast hook and stern post of the boat running through their
hands. Once the boat reached water, they lowered a rope ladder
after it, and then tied the ropes to the rail, securing the
rowboat.

“Boat secured,
Captain!”

The Swallow bobbed
lazily in the calm water, the rowboat gently knocking against her
side. A cool breeze blew over the prow, and white riffles danced on
the water. The square sail was taken in and she lay anchored – now,
Rage just had to wait.

He had lost count of
how many times he had read Roland’s letter. First in disbelief,
then in anger, then in sorrow, and finally he had to accept the
truth. That little girl who had first come to his ship, no taller
than his knee was high, demanding that he should allow her to take
the wheel, her mane of red hair like the setting sun, was forever
gone. Her father had been devastated by the news, and it was
equally devastating for Rage to watch as his old friend succumbed
to heavy drinking. The last time he had seen his friend, he had
chased Rage from his home in a drunken stupor, blaming him for
taking his daughter to Darma. That was, of course, not Rage’s
fault, but sorrow and drink made fools of all men.

“We are ready to
depart, Captain,” said Jase, his face strained.

Rage thought that Jase
had been a little in love with Carla, and her death had come as a
heavy blow. Rage had read Roland’s letter to Jase, the only man he
had shared it with, and strangely enough, Jase had immediately
believed and accepted every word Roland had written.

“You realise this may
be a fool’s errand,” said Rage. “The chances of him waiting at
Drifters’ Hell are slim. And even if he did manage to escape, you
should not count on him being the same man as you remember.”

“How so, Captain?”

“He wrote that he was
send to The Tomb. Spending time there drives men mad with despair,
kept underground for so long ...”

Jase flexed his arm and
said, “The man who fixed me is not so weak. We talked much during
the trip to Darma, and I know I’m not very bright, but he is the
type of man who will never give up.”

“You’re bright enough,
Jase. Who are you taking with?”

“I’ll take Brins.”

“He’s a good man.
You’ve permission to stay in Drifters’ Hell for two weeks. If
Roland has not turned up by then, we’ll come back in six
months.”

“Captain,” said Jase
and about turned. He called Brins and they walked to the rope
ladder. Before Jase climbed down, he turned his head and said,
“Captain, I believe he will be there – an’ I believe Carla’s death
will be avenged.”

“I hope you’re right,
lad,” said Rage softly as he watched the little boat disappearing
up the river.

*

Tendrils of steam rose
from the river, and Jase shivered. Ice on the riverbank was melting
in the spring sun, but the air still had a sharp bite to it. The
wooden oar was smooth in his hands as he and Brins cleaved the
water, each stroke pulling the little boat ahead. Jase knew they
would warm up soon from the exertion, and did not bother wrapping
his blanket around him.

“How long before we
reach the village?” asked Jase. Brins had been to Drifters’ Hell
before, and Jase had brought him along for just that reason. Brins
was a dour, hawk-nosed man, and not very good company, but an
outstanding sailor.

“Five, six hours,”
grunted Brins, as if every word uttered was robbing him of precious
air.

They rowed in silence,
the steam parting before the boat. Up ahead a doe stood at the
rivers edge, its front legs comically splayed with its head lowered
as it drank from the river. Its big eyes followed the boat as it
came closer, and then it turned and ran, back legs kicking in
indignation, gracefully entering the woods. Jase followed the doe
as it disappeared, thinking of Carla as she had walked the Swallows
deck, her feet as sure as a seasoned sailor’s.

Roland never wrote the
name of the one who had murdered Carla. He had only said that it
was a noble, and that he knew who it was. Jase thought he
understood why. During the trip so many moons ago, he had found
Roland and Carla alone on the deck many times with heads together,
Carla laughing at things Roland told her. Carla had never laughed
like that when he was with her, and he had felt a twinge of
jealousy at those times, but because he liked Roland, he had
ignored the feeling. The kill was Roland’s, but if he failed, then
Jase would make sure it was done.

“How long now?” asked
Jase, unable to help himself.

“Two hours closer,
First Mate.”

Jase felt his ears
turning red and cursed himself for his impatience. He promised
himself not to say anything else; he was still living down how he
had allowed the Swallow’s wheel to slip from his hands, and he did
not need ‘anxious-sailor’ added to his repute.

*

The boat made its way
around a bend, and Jase gaped at the strangeness that was Drifters’
Hell. The boat glided into and underneath the village, and Jase
looked up at the platforms raised into the air passing by overhead,
a childlike fascination on his face. In what looked like the centre
of the village, a long walkway led down to the water ending in a
wooden deck with several short poles at its side. Small boats were
tied to the poles, bobbing on the smooth ripples made by their
arrival.

“We’ll moor here,” said
Brins, indicating the wooded deck.

Jase looked up the
walkway and saw two men walking towards the deck. One was tall and
wiry with very long legs, an enormous bundle of some sort lifted on
his shoulders. He had fair hair that hung past his ears, his fringe
almost covering his eyes. His face looked good-natured and used to
smiling.

But it was the one
walking next to him that grabbed Jase’s attention. He was as tall
as the good-natured looking one, but that was where the
similarities ended. His hair was long and dark, hanging past his
shoulders and covering most of his face. What showed of his face
looked hard and cold, and even from the distance, Jase could feel
his measured and calculating gaze burning on him. A dark cloak was
wrapped around him, covering him from neck to feet, and Jase had to
drop his eyes to the man’s feet to make sure that he was walking
and not gliding. The way he walked was disconcerting – like a large
animal slinking after its prey. Jase gripped the hilt of the knife
resting in the small of his back, a prickle of unease running down
his spine. He had heard tales of the hard men gathered in Drifters’
Hell, but he had laughed it off. The Swallow had had dealings with
dangerous men before, and twice now, Jase had fought pirates, but
this man was different. Jase’s blood usually boiled upon meeting
strong men, wanting to challenge them for dominance, but now he had
the distinct feeling of being a rabbit, and the long knife in his
hand might as well be a stick. Brins sat very quietly across from
Jase, the oar gripped tightly in his hands.