Assassin's Rise (2 page)

It was a good day.

From behind the trunk
of a beech tree a slender girl appeared. Her small feet lightly
stepped over the thick roots and she tilted her head so her
corn-coloured hair covered the side of her face. Roland felt his
mouth going dry, despite the promise of food waiting in the
village. She wore a light blue dress and a broad leather belt was
wrapped around her waist, accentuating her hips and legs. For
reasons Roland did not understood, his eyes kept dropping to the
belt.

“I thought you would
return this way,” she said.

“Layla,” Roland said
and grinned broadly, flashing white teeth. “Did you wait for
me?”

“No ... I overheard you
had spent the night in the mountains, and I just happened to walk
this way.” She looked toward the peak of the mountain with great
intensity. “Would you have liked it if – if I waited?”

“Maybe.”

She beamed and Roland
fingered the cotton sack hanging by his thigh, trying to avoid
staring at her. “Did you find new herbs?” she finally asked and he
relaxed. Here was something that he at least understood.

“Yes. This season is
great for finding foxglove, honeysuckle and unicorn root. Foxglove
can be deadly, but is good when used in small doses when you have a
weak heart. Honeysuckle is used when you have open wounds and stops
it from going bad ...” He tried to stop speaking, but it felt as
though his tongue had a mind of its own. “And unicorn root is used
–”

“It’s a beautiful
name,” said Layla.

“Unicorn root?”

“Yes. It sounds so
different.”

Roland thought about
the hard, white spikes resting in the cotton bag. Unicorn root was
not a root, but a starburst of sharp, white thorns. He thought it
better not to tell Layla.

“You know so much. The
other boys all boast of being warriors and hunters, but they don’t
know anything. I’m sure that one day you will be a great man,” said
Layla and dropped her eyes.

Roland shifted his
feet. He had always thought being a mighty warrior and defeating
your foes was an admirable goal. Did she think of him as some
weakling? “You should not look down on warriors,” he said.

“Not at all! I saw you
fighting Deriok last summer ... You are very strong.”

Roland had almost
forgotten the incident. He and Deriok had argued whether a bull’s
head was stronger than a man’s was. Deriok believed that he could
train his head to be the harder one, so Roland had head-butted
Deriok to prove his point. It was not a fight at all. Still, he did
not miss her praise and stood a little taller.

“Will I see you at the
feast tonight?” said Layla.

“Yes. I’ll be there,”
said Roland, thinking it was a given. Everyone from the village
would be at the feast tonight.

“I have to go and help
my mother,” said Layla and ran back to the village.

Roland watched as she
disappeared between the trees.

It was a good day.

*

The nine boys coming of
age stood before the podium, the villagers spread out around them.
Handrad, the village Elder, together with the town masters, faces
flushed from early afternoon ale, looked down on the eager boys as
they awaited their names being called.

As was custom, coming
of age meant that each boy would be allocated a master to train
under. There was Tobias the Huntmaster, Velros the Baker, Alman the
Blacksmith, Gerall the Carpenter and Talman the Trader. The masters
had chosen their disciples long before though, since boys have a
tendency to show interest in specific crafts as they grew older,
and the masters always kept an eye out for those ones looking to do
tasks for them. The ones not showing interest would join the
outlaying cattle and corn lands as farmhands.

The eligible boys,
however, did not know the results beforehand, and it was always a
nerve-racking experience, although there had never been a time when
a boy was not chosen for a specific craft. Solstice was the perfect
night for celebrating the official joining and the crowd was ready
to cheer each boy as he was accepted.

Roland was surprised
not to see Pelron on the podium. He had expected that the
Apothecary would call for him. He wondered if he did something to
displease Pelron, and if so, he hoped to be called by the
Huntmaster. Then he chided himself. He was a man now, and should
deal with things as they came up without getting flustered.

Deriok nudged him in
the side. “I’m sure to be called by Alman. He already showed me how
to work bronze and allowed me to forge a dagger.”

Roland smiled
weakly.

Elder Handrad cleared
his throat and lifted his hands. “First of, happy solstice and a
fertile season to come. It makes me happy to see so many strapping
young lads stand before me, and from tonight on, they will be boys
no more. Before me stand young men, eager to forge their own
legacies. Before me stand the men who will protect the village from
the times to come!”

“Hear hear,” called the
villagers and cheered. “Careful they don’t legacy you out of your
job!” someone shouted.

“These greenhorns are a
hundred years too early,” said Handrad to good-natured laughter.
“Before the feast begins, let the masters call out their
’prentices!”

The masters stepped
forward on the podium and called out names while the nine boys
sweated under the scrutiny of the crowd. Roland watched with envy
as Deriok was called to stand alongside Alman the Blacksmith, and
then the worst happened: he was the last one left. He could feel
his ears burning and he anxiously searched the crowd for signs of
Pelron. Then Handrad stepped forward once more and cleared his
throat, taking a scroll from the fold of his shirt. He shook it
open and scanned the strange symbols with watery eyes. Luckily,
Pelron had already told him the contents.

“I have a special
announcement to make,” he said and took a deep breath. “I here have
a letter from akimia Amlor inviting our own Roland Belanu to study
with them on the road to become a Healer.”

“That’s Academia Amlor,
Elder Handrad,” called Pelron under a roar of laughter.

Roland accepted the
letter with shaking hands and elder Handrad gripped him by the
shoulder. “Proud of you, lad,” he said. Roland nodded in a daze.
His head was a whirlpool of confusion. He found Perlron at the edge
of the crowd standing with his mother. She hugged him. “I wish your
father could see this,” she said, her voice breaking. Apothecary
Pelron led Roland away from the celebrating villagers.

“I don’t understand,”
said Roland.

“You have been with me
since you were twelve years old, Roland. In these past four years,
you have learned what took me ten. A friend of mine is a Healer and
has some influence at Academia Amlor. I told him about you, asking
that you be given a chance.”

“I thought I would keep
studying with you and one day be an Apothecary myself,” said
Roland.

“You still can, Roland.
But you have the opportunity to become a Healer, something that I
could not.”

“But the academia is
for nobles. How will I pay for it?”

“Times are changing. As
a commoner you will take an entrance exam, and if you are accepted
the academia pays a stipend to students.” Pelron clapped him on the
shoulder. “From today on you’re a man, so I won’t tell you what to
do, but think carefully over what is best.”

Roland watched as the
reed thin apothecary disappeared back into the crowd, heading for
the food tables. He watched the familiar faces of the villagers.
Deriok was standing by Alman, cheering as the blacksmith lifted a
barrel of ale above his head. The onlookers applauded and Roland
could see the admiration for his master on Deriok’s face. Was this
something he would never have? Protecting the village? Forging a
legacy?

“Here you are,” said
Layla. She smelled sweet and had flowers in her hair. “So I was
right ...”

Roland looked at her
dumbfounded.

“You will become a
great man,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I’ll wait for you.”

Roland smiled at her
words. “Yes. I’ll be back.”

It was a promise he
would never keep.

L
ightning flashed with blinding
intensity, leaving behind jagged purple scars in the heavens. As
darkness crept back, thunder boomed, the force of the sound driving
sailors to their knees as the Swallow climbed yet another
swell.

Roland gripped the
supporting rope with one hand, trying to steady himself. It was a
three-week journey to Darma, and four days after setting sail, the
storm had struck. It had been raging for days now, and everyone was
bone weary.

He clutched his leather
satchel in his free hand. He only had a little bit of Wormwood
left, barely enough for one person. As the weather had worsened, he
had gone around the ship handing out the silver leaves to help with
sickness. The leaves were supposed to be boiled and strained, but
there was no chance of preparing it in such a way while the Swallow
rode crest after crest. People were chewing it more as a comfort;
the effectiveness was minimal.

There were six
passengers including Roland. Since the storm had struck, they were
kept in the ship’s hold for safety. A person falling overboard
during the storm would be left behind, as it would be impossible to
find the unlucky soul in the raging swells.

Roland listened as a
man dry heaved. Roland hooked the leather satchel onto his belt,
let go of the rope and stumbled to a barrel filled with fresh water
tied against the hold’s bulkhead. He filled a cup with water and
made his way back to the sick man managing to spill only halve the
contents.

“Drink,” he said and
held the cup to the man’s lips. The man’s face was ash grey, his
lips cracked.

“All of you should
drink water and eat some bread,” Roland said raising his voice.

“Too sick,” a man
replied who had given up on supporting himself and was lying down,
rolling from side to side as the ship swayed.

“Being sick is better
then being dead. All of you are dehydrated, and eating dry bread
will help settling your stomachs.”

Roland watched as the
passengers stumbled toward the water barrel. He felt his way along
the bulkhead until he reached a ladder. The air in the hold was
sour from days of vomit. He managed to put his foot on the bottom
rung and he pushed upward, shoving the hatch open with his
shoulder.

As the Swallow swayed,
the hatch fell down behind Roland and he dropped to his knees on
the deck, dragging in lungs full of fresh air. Sea spray drenched
him and the wind tore at his shirt. Lightning illuminated the
Swallow and Roland launched himself toward the mast, tangling his
fingers into the rigging. He pulled himself upright and braced his
legs, getting used to the Swallow’s dance. There appeared to be
less motion on the deck than below and he relaxed his grip.

Captain Rage stood at
the stern, his feet firmly planted in a wide stance, his large
hands curled around the ship’s wheel. The First Mate sat behind him
on the deck, tied to the bulwark, one arm bent at an impossible
angle. His head hung on his chest, swaying from side to side as the
ship rolled.

Roland risked letting
go of the rigging and he staggered toward the helm. “What happened
to him?” he shouted above the wind.

“Brace yourself,”
shouted Rage and Roland hooked his arm around the rail just in
time. The Swallow shuddered as she topped a crest. She struck the
other side with a jarring impact and it felt to Roland as though
his arm was going to tear off. Rage roared a challenge to the
heavens as he wrestled the wheel. The tendons in his neck bulged as
he forced the ship back on course.

“That’s what happened,”
he shouted. “Wheel slipped from his hands.”

“Can I do anything to
help?” shouted Roland.

“No, lad. You won’t be
able to move him on your own during this storm, an’ I’ve got the
ship to think of. Can’t let the wheel go.”

“How long before the
storm breaks?”

“Worst is past us,
laddie. Maybe another day. But the watch changes at midnight and my
crew will help him.”

It was difficult to
judge, but midnight was at least four hours away. Too long, thought
Roland.

Just then, a cabin door
on deck opened and a girl he had not yet seen among the passengers
entered the storm. She walked across the deck as if she was an
extension of the Swallow. As the ship lurched, she adjusted her
balance with ease, so it looked as though she was dancing toward
them.

“Get back to the cabin,
woman. Your father will drown me if something happens to you!”
shouted Rage.

“How are you doing, Sea
Uncle? Not tired yet?” she called back, her long red hair a storm
of their own in the ever changing wind. The captain grinned, his
black beard white from the salt.

“Not a chance in hell,
lass!”

Her eyes widened as she
saw the unconscious man and she shouted, “Jase!” running toward
him. She knelt down and touched his arm gingerly. There was an ugly
bulge where the broken bone pushed against his skin.

“We have to get him
inside!” she pleaded and Roland nodded. He untied the ropes and
grabbed the First Mate by the shoulders.

“Take his feet,” he
told the girl.

“Careful now,” said
Rage. “And I don’t want to see either of you on deck ’til the storm
lets up.”

“Slowly,” she warned as
Roland walked backward, holding the First Mate under his armpits.
He tried to mimic the girl’s movement as the ship swayed, but he
kept teetering on the edge of his balance.

“Don’t fight against
the sway. Move with it without giving in to it,” she told him.
That’s much easier said than done, thought Roland, and prayed for
the cabin door to come closer quicker. They managed to reach the
cabin without dropping the injured man and they laid him on the
deck. Roland opened the door and then he dragged the First Mate
inside, while the girl closed the door behind them, shutting out
the storm.