Assassin's Rise (6 page)

“Do you know the game
Manoeuvres?” Altmoor asked Roland as he passed the ale. “It takes
strategy and timing to defeat your foe. It’s a good test of ones
adaptability.”

Roland shook his head.
“First I want to hear about your armour.”

“Well,” Oldon started,
sipping his ale. “I and this old coot fought in the war – what,
fifty years ago?”

“Forty-five,” said
Altmoor.

Oldon nodded and
continued. “The desert empire had their sights set on Calvana and
we went to tell them it’s a bad idea.” He leaned back in the chair,
his blue eyes shining with an eerie light. Altmoor’s gaze fastened
on the board before him, the same light showing in his eyes. “It
was a terrible battle with heavy losses on both sides. Altmoor
here, being noble and all that, had the choice to stay at camp an’
hold meetings, but he went to the front lines fighting side by side
with me. Never understood the old coot –” he sipped from his mug,
“– but despite his valiant effort of joining up with me, we were
still being pushed back. That last night we sat around the
campfire, half starved to death, bleeding an’ cold, when that man
rode into the camp on a magnificent looking purebred. I remember we
all scattered and grabbed our swords, thinking the enemy has
slipped inside.”

“If I remember
correctly you ran so quickly you forgot your sword,” Altmoor
commented dryly.

“I was confident in my
fists, still am. So once we realised there was no enemy, we
gathered around and he started talking, outlaying a battle plan
that shot straight over our heads ... but it didn’t matter – we
were desperate enough to try anything.”

“What was he called?”
asked Roland.

“Rickter Shard, but we
called him Strategist. It was he who came up with Manoeuvres. Said
he used it to devise a battle plan against the desert empire.”

“So you won?”

“Chased them all the
way back into the desert, killing off more than two thirds ... but
Rickter fell in the final charge. Never even knew that his plan
worked so brilliantly.”

Silence settled around
the table, the two old warriors staring off into nowhere. Roland
regretted asking them about the armour and he asked, “How does
Manoeuvres work?” trying to change the mood. He noted that the
board was divided into alternating green and brown squares.

“Ah,” said Altmoor
leaning over the board. “Glad you asked. The object of the game is
to out manoeuvre your opponent and kill the opposing Commander.
Each player has fourteen units and you take turns moving them
across the battlefield, attacking and defending. These are your
Foot Soldiers,” he said and lifted a figurine for Roland to see.
The piece was a brilliant carving of a soldier in full armour
carrying a spear.

“You have seven of them
and they are primarily used for one thing only, and that is to hold
the enemy.” He placed his blue Foot Soldier in the centre of the
board, a red Foot Soldier directly apposite it.

“See, now neither piece
can move and are locked in stalemate. The only way for a Foot
Soldier to destroy the enemy is to be reinforced. The Foot Soldier
can move one square forward or one square directly to the side and
only on your turn. So, if I had another Foot Soldier here –” he
placed another Foot Soldier directly behind his blocked unit, “– my
original unit is now reinforced and the opposing Foot Soldier will
be defeated, removing it from the board.

“The rest of your
pieces are two Cavalries that can attack in all four directions,
two Archers that can attack up to three squares ahead, two
Assassins that are the only units able to move diagonally and
across the whole board in one move, and finally the Commander who
can move only one space and needs to be protected.

“Once one of your units
attack the enemy Commander, it’s considered your win. It is a
standard tactic to keep your Foot Soldiers in the front from the
start, since they act as a buffer for the rest of your units.” He
placed the Archer figurine four squares away from the enemy
Commander. “For example, in this position my Archer is one square
short of attacking the enemy Commander. On my next turn, I can move
it one square ahead bringing it into attack range and the Commander
will be defeated.

“Only your Foot
Soldiers need to be reinforced, of course. The rest of your units
are free to attack at will,” he finished, returning the figurines
to their original positions.

“I think the Assassins
are unfair units,” said Roland. “They are the only units capable of
moving diagonally and they also have the longest range of movement.
It seems as though Foot Soldiers can only block directly in front
of them and to the side, but not diagonally. So from the get go the
Assassin will be free to attack the enemy Commander.”

Altmoor looked up,
surprised. Manoeuvres were a complicated game not easily learned,
yet Roland had already seen a tactic from only an explanation.
“Indeed, very good of you to notice that,” he said. “Yes, the
Assassin is a very powerful piece, but it has one weakness,” he
held up a bony finger. “It can only attack once it has infiltrated
the enemy’s territory, which is considered to be across the halfway
point of the board. Of course, if an enemy invades your territory
it would be free to attack –”

“– and it’s wise to
keep a good eye on them sneaky bastards,” said Oldon and drained
his mug.

Roland collected the
empty mugs and went to fetch fresh ale, thinking that it if he
played the game, using the Assassin unit would be his definite
choice of attack.

R
oland stood in Academia Amlor
Registry, his hands clenched behind his back to keep them from
shaking. Before him sat seven men dressed in black robes, Altmoor
among them. They wore stern expressions, each carrying an air of
authority.

“We have reviewed the
results from your exam and would like to ask a few questions
...”

“Please do,” said
Roland, trying to keep his voice even. The fact that they took the
time to speak with him must mean that the exam went well. Altmoor
gave an almost unperceivable nod in his direction.

“Going back over the
exam, I would like you to give a clear and concise answer to
question number six. That was the question concerning spoiled
wounds. I would like you to answer as it is stated in the book,”
said a thin-faced man, watching Roland through narrowed eyes.

Roland thought back to
the question. The question had asked to specify treatment for
wounds inflicted by animal bite or claw when the flesh has spoiled.
“I do not remember the exact wording of the book, but it states
that such a wound should be regularly cleaned with a mixture of
honey, wine and sage or honeysuckle. If the wound does not improve,
amputation should be considered if practical.”

“Very good. Now please
elaborate on what you have written as an alternative to what the
book states.”

“To keep the patient in
a dark room and to cover the spoiled flesh with maggots. Then use a
damp cloth to cover both wound and maggots, as this is a favourable
environment for the creatures.”

As Roland finished the
thin-faced man slammed his hands on the table, his voice quivering
as he said, “Preposterous! Maggots are creatures of filth, born in
sickness. The patient is not there for you to experiment on using
barbarous treatments! The way you have worded your answer sounds
like you are in favour of keeping the maggots comfortable instead
of the patient.” He took a deep breath, his nostrils flared. “You
seem an intelligent and gifted individual. The knowledge you have
shown is astounding for one as young as you, so pray tell me why
you would write such foolishness?”

“You misunderstood,
sir,” said Roland, his hands trembling in dismay. “In no way have I
ever thought to use patients to test wild theories. I am from a
small village and we have no access to a Healer. We do however have
a brilliant Apothecary who has gone beyond his craft. This is a
treatment he has devised as an alternative to hacking away
someone’s limbs, and he has successfully applied it many times
over. Maggots are creatures born in filth, and true to their
nature, they only eat away the spoiled meat around the wound
leaving the healthy meat intact. If the treatment works, is it not
a valid answer?”

The seven black-robed
men murmured among themselves while Roland waited in silence. His
stomach churned and he felt nauseas.

“I am not confident
that allowing you into Academia Amlor is a good idea,” said the
thin-faced man. “My peers, however, believe that you should be
given a chance. Educator Altmoor, since you were the one who
received him I shall leave further instructions to you.”

Roland felt the
strength drain from his legs and as the black-robed men left the
room he sank to the floor. He looked up at Altmoor and asked, “Does
this mean I’m accepted?”

“It does, well
done.”

Altmoor stuck his hand
out and helped Roland to his feet.

“You will officially
enrol in one month’s time. I will have the academia prepare a room
for you and once you start class you will receive a stipend of
thirty silvers per week. Use this coming month wisely; the work
awaiting you will be of a high level.” He walked from the room,
pausing at the door. “Remember what I told you on the first day you
came here?”

Roland shook his head.
For the moment he was incapable of remembering past
conversations.

“I told you that until
you pass the exam, nothing changes.” He smiled at the young Healer.
“Once more, well done.”

*

Carla worked the silver
brooch to a high sheen using a soft cloth. She lightly ran her
thumb across the shield, tracing the smooth protrusions of the
small leaf. It fitted the motif perfectly. She held it up so
sunlight caught it, searching for imperfections.

“I can scarce believe
it’s only the second brooch you’ve made,” said her uncle,
inspecting the piece with an expert eye. “I will put it on display
in the front of the shop where everyone can see it. You’re sure to
make good coin of it.”

“It’s not for sale,”
she said, wrapping the cloth around it.

“Why in the blazes not?
It’s a perfect piece!” He tried to take the brooch and Carla
stepped back. Her uncle threw his hands into the air, his red beard
quivering as he spoke.

“This is an opportunity
for you to get your name out there, lass. If people like your work,
you will get orders, you’ll become famous, but you have to sell
what you make first!”

Carla’s aunt stuck her
head around the corner. “There’s a handsome young man in the shop
asking for you, dear,” she said. Her uncle looked from his wife to
Carla suspiciously.

“Is this why you won’t
sell it? You made it as a gift – for a boy!”

Carla ran from the
workshop, deftly sidestepping her uncle. He made to follow but his
wife stood in the door, hands on hips. “Now, now. We’ve already had
our fun. You let her enjoy life, too.”

He placed his hands on
her shoulders. “It’s the joy that I’m worried about!”

*

Roland stood in the
goldsmith’s shop inspecting the various pieces, wondering if Carla
had made any of the jewellery on display. This was the second shop
he had visited searching for her, and he thought the pieces here
was of a higher quality. Bronze, gold and silver armbands,
earrings, brooches, halters, rings and jewellery he did not know
the names of, decorated the walls and the inside of a display case
to the rear of the shop. He wondered if he should have bought her a
gift of some sort, but he was so excited over his exam results that
the only thing on his mind was sharing the news with Carla. Once
Altmoor had finished with him, he had set off in search of her.

Carla emerged from a
door behind the display case, her red hair capturing the late
afternoon sun. She breathed quickly, the yellow dress she wore
outlining her small breasts with every breath. Roland drank her
in.

“I’ve been –” he
started but she grabbed him by the hand.

“Run,” she said and
pulled him along, giggling uncontrollably. He felt himself swept
along by her enthusiasm, and before long, he was running alongside
her, the cobbled street loudly broadcasting their youthful
spirits.

“Up here,” she said and
slowed to a walk, slightly panting for breath.

“Why did we run?”

“No specific reason. I
just felt like running.”

Roland watched her as
she entered a park that rested on the crest of an overhang. There
was a small stone-pond filled with water, a statue of a woman
holding a curved dagger in the centre of the pond. The edge of the
park saw the earth falling away, shrubs and trees clinging to the
side at impossible angles. The lawn was thick and a stone bench was
positioned so it overlooked the harbour down below. Carla ran her
hand through the water and she wiped her face. She went to the
bench and sat down as the sun slipped away, covering the hills in
the distance in a red blanket. Roland followed suit.

In silence, they
watched the city rooftops and the harbour below them. White smoke
curled from the many chimneys and small fishing boats rowed back
into the harbour, the water smooth and calm behind them, gentle
swells rising and falling. Twilight blanketed Darma and orange orbs
sprung up between the buildings as the City Watch lit torches.

“I passed my entrance
exam today,” said Roland, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“I will start at the academia in one month.”

“That’s fantastic,” she
said and turned to face him. “This makes it the best time then ...”
She handed him the brooch wrapped in cloth. “I hope you like it
...”

Roland opened the
cloth, holding the brooch up to the failing light. “Did you make
it?” he asked, running his finger over the leaf covering the
shield.