Assassin's Rise (7 page)

“Yes, what do you
think?”

He did not know what to
say. The leaf on the shield said it all. She had made it thinking
of him.

“You – don’t like
it?”

“No, I like it very
much. You are very talented ... it’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad,” she said
and leaned over, her lips slightly parted. Roland’s heart beat in
his throat as he slowly brought his lips to hers. Water splashed
behind him and he looked around disappointed. Carla followed his
gaze. Three men sat on the edge of the stone pond, watching them
with cold looks.

“Two peasants sitting
in the dark, I wonder what on earth they are doing in my park,”
said the man in the centre and stood up while his two friends
laughed maniacally. He was tall and broad shouldered. His face was
not unhandsome, with a strong jaw and a pencil-thin beard on the
centre of his chin. His fair hair hung to his shoulders, gold wire
weaved into the tips. His clothes were of an expensive cut and an
emblem of a bear standing on his hind legs decorated his one
shoulder. On his right hand, he wore a gold ring with an enormous
ruby set into it.

“Let’s go,” whispered
Carla.

Roland took her hand
and stood. Judging their expensive clothes and manner, they were
obviously of noble blood and he did not want to drag Carla into
trouble. He did not like the air surrounding the men. He liked
their expressions even less. Carla stood with him and together they
walked to the park exit.

The tall man’s two
friends blocked their path.

“Excuse me,” said
Roland, a prickle of unease starting in his stomach.

“Excuse me,” they
mimicked. From behind Roland, the tall one clasped his hands
together and lifted them above his head. A dull thud echoed as he
slammed his fists onto the back of Roland’s neck. Roland’s knees
buckled and he fell to the ground, his vision a swirl of coloured
lights. Carla screamed and a sharp clap resounded through the park
as the tall one slapped her. She staggered back and he grabbed her
by the hair, flinging her to the ground. She tried crawling away
and he kicked her on the hip. He flipped her over and straddled
her, one hand squeezing her breast.

“Aren’t you the pretty
little peasant,” he said, breathing hoarsely.

“No,” Roland groaned.
He tried standing and a boot caught him in the side. He dug his
fingers into the ground, dragging himself to Carla. One of the men
jumped onto his back and wrapped his arm around Roland’s throat,
wrenching his head up.

“Watch what happens to
peasant whores,” he whispered in Roland’s ear.

Carla wrenched her head
from side to side, clawing at the tall one’s face, her nails
seeking his eyes. He punched her and there was an audible crack.
Tears streamed from her eyes, mixing with blood spurting from nose.
He grabbed her dress by the hem and wrenched it up and over her
head, exposing her body to the navel.

“Can’t do it with your
peasant face all bloody like this, now can I?”

Pitiful cries tore from
Carla’s throat as he thrust, his mouth pulled in a sneering grin.
Roland bucked, trying to throw the one from his back.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll
rip your head off!” he screamed, digging his fingers into the stone
path, his nails tearing off as he forced his way forward. The tall
one clamped his hand over Carla’s mouth as her screams grew louder.
He cursed as she bit him through the material of her dress and he
punched her on the side of her neck.

“How-dare-you-hurt-me!”
he roared, accentuating each word with a blow to the head, neck,
chest; wherever his fists happened to land. Carla’s hands reached
up to him, shaking, trembling, and then her arms fell to her sides.
He stopped his thrusting, watching her with a cocked eyebrow.

“Whore’s dead,” he said
and stood upright, pulling up his breeches.

“YOU BASTARD! You will
die, I swear you will DIE!” bellowed Roland. He shook, tears and
spittle running down his chin. His vision was still blurry from the
blow to his neck and the arm wrapped around his throat was cutting
the blood flow to his head.

“Hold him just like
that, Felros,” said the tall one and kicked out, his boot smashing
into Roland’s face. Again and again he kicked, Roland’s head
bouncing with every blow.

*

“CARLA!” Roland shot
upright, a white sheet clenched in his hands. His face was a mass
of black bruises. Stitches covered his left cheek and the bank
above his left eye, the eye swollen near shut. His throat felt
bruised and hurt as he swallowed his spit. A hand gripped him by
the shoulder and gently forced him back down onto the bed.

“Carla? Where is
Carla?” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I don’t know. I am a
Healer employed by the city. The City Watch brought you here and is
waiting outside. You are lucky to have woken up. I’ve stitched your
cuts but feared that there was damage inside your head.”

Roland tried to fix his
vision onto the Healer. His left eye struggled to focus. “Bring
them in. I need to speak with them.”

“Rest first. You should
not strain yourself. I will tell them to come back tomorrow.”

“Bring them in!” roared
Roland, forcing himself to sit upright. “Please,” he added.

The Healer nodded, his
knees shaking. For just a moment, the wounded man had filled him
with terrible fear. He left the sick room and returned with a hefty
man carrying an iron helmet underneath his arm. He pulled a chair
toward the bed and sat down.

“I’m Officer of the
Watch, Kendly. Can you tell me what in the blue blazes happened in
that park?”

“Carla,” said Roland, a
heaving sob escaping his throat. He clenched his teeth, willing his
emotions down. “There was a red-headed girl with me. Where is
she?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes. She was ... I
love her. We went to the park to celebrate. She gave me a gift.” A
tear squeezed from below his swollen eyelid. He lowered his head
and there was a moment of silence. When he lifted his head back up,
his dark eyes gleamed with fury. He turned them on Kendly.

“Where is she?”

“I’m sorry. She was
dead when we arrived.”

Roland’s shoulders
sagged. He had still hoped. “That bastard.” He clenched his hands,
the broken nails digging into his palms. “I will cut his eyes
out!”

Kendly and the Healer
looked at one another, uncomfortable under the rage swirling around
the dark-haired man.

“What bastard?” asked
Kendly.

“He was with two
friends. He called one of them Felros.”

Kendly shifted
uncomfortably in his chair. Perspiration covered his upper lid. “Do
you know his name?” asked Kendly carefully.

“No, but he wore a big
ruby ring and on his shoulder was an emblem – a bear of some
sort.”

Kendly’s heart sank
into his boots. He cursed the heavens for letting him be on watch
this night. “Sirol Vanderman,” he said softly.

“Sirol? Is that his
name?” Roland leaned over and gripped Kendly by the shoulders.

“No, no. Not at all.
Don’t mind me.” Kendly stood and pulled a cloth from behind his
breastplate, wiping his mouth. “I’ll tell my men to keep an eye out
for one that fits your description. You should rest and concentrate
on getting better first.” Kendly hurried from the room, not looking
back.

“He said Sirol
Vanderman, did he not?”

The Healer shrugged and
handed Roland a hot tisane. “Drink this, it will speed your
recovery.” Roland did as he was bid, the hot liquid easing his
bruised throat. “It is a tisane I specially make from a blend of
chamomile, kava, and poppy seeds,” the Healer said proudly. “You
will sleep for three days straight after drinking it.”

“No, don’t want to
sleep,” said Roland and fell back, the little bit of strength he
had left draining from him. The Healer watched as his face relaxed
and his breathing deepened.

“It’s for your own
good, lad,” he said and pulled a blanket over Roland, sadly shaking
his head over what he had heard. The cruelty of the world made him
feel ill at times.

J
eklor listened to the footsteps as
they drew closer. About time, he thought. He was starving.

He stood up and
scratched his new beard. The lice were driving him crazy. He looked
down at his filthy blanket. It was barely thick enough to block the
cold seeping up from the stone floor and he kicked it away in
disgust. Two months and already he was in this state. He briefly
wondered how long before he died in this cold room, then he firmly
pushed the thought from his mind. Somewhere a chance would present
itself.

He went to stand next
to the thick oak door, the only thing that stood in his way. If I
only had an axe, he whished, promising himself that if he ever got
out of here he would buy (or steal) an axe and pay it homage.

A small hatch at the
top of the door slid open. A pair of squinting eyes stared through
the hatch, trying the pierce the darkness in the gloomy cell.

“Yes, I’m still here,
and I hope you brought me the fowl and beef combo I ordered
yesterday.” The top hatch slammed shut and one at the bottom of the
door opened, a plate carrying bread and a mug with water pushed
through it. “Remind me to fire the cook, my good man,” Jeklor said
and picked up the plate.

“Hear you’re getting
someone to share the room with,” said the guard from behind the
door.

“Oh.” Jeklor bit into
the bread, tore a chunk off and chased it down with lukewarm water.
“And who’s this lucky fellow?” he asked as he swallowed.

“Heard he beat a girl
to death while raping her.” The guard chuckled. “Better watch
yourself. Woman, man or beast, he gets a kick out of anything that
breathes.”

That was just great,
though Jeklor. The cell was small enough as it was, never mind
sharing it with a lunatic. “Can’t wait,” he said cheerfully; no
need for the guard to know he had succeeded in frightening him.

Disappointed, the
guard’s footsteps moved away and Jeklor called him back, hurriedly.
“The plate,” he quickly said, and pushed it through the bottom
hatch as the guard pulled it open. He did not want anything that
his new friend might decide to use as a weapon lying around.

Jeklor went back to his
favourite corner and stared at his blanket. He folded it twice and
sat on it, his back leaning against the stone wall. He shifted his
rump. It felt comfortable; maybe he should try and sleep in this
position.

He sighed loudly, the
sound strangely amplified in the cold, empty cell. I wonder what
you look like, my new friend, he wondered with closed eyes. If
there was one thing he got good at while stuck here, it was
thinking stuff up. “Not much else to do, Jeklor my boy,” he said
aloud.

That was it, he
thought. Once he got out, he would become a poet. He wasn’t much of
a thief, and now he had all the time in the world to come up with
epic tales: Heroes and dragons, princesses and demons. His new
friend will be the molesting demon, he the hero who smites evil.
What fantastic potential, he thought, patting the blanket.

“Thou shall not touch
one lock on thy maiden’s fair head, demon! Molest this – the sword
of holy fire!”

Jeklor chuckled. His
future looked bright.

*

Torchlight flared into
the room as the cell door opened and Jeklor covered his eyes
against the glare. After two months in perpetual gloom, they were
sensitive to light.

He peeked through his
fingers at the two guards who entered the room. They dragged a
figure between them. Tears streamed from Jeklor’s eyes, but if he
ever wanted to escape, he should first get used to the light again.
He forced himself to look at the torches hanging in the
hallway.

The guards dropped the
man on the cell floor. They threw a blanket next to him. The man
did not make a sound.

“Why bother locking up
an already dead man?” said Jeklor, rapidly blinking his eyes.

“He’d wish he was dead.
He was given a sleeping Potion.”

“How thoughtful,”
commented Jeklor. “So he’s the molesting Demon?”

“You mean the one who
killed and raped the girl? It’s him right.”

Jeklor threw his head
back and laughed. “I see the City Watch is incompetent as
always!”

“What do you mean?”
asked the guard, hesitating inside the doorway.

“Did you not see the
state of his face? Who was he suppose to rape, a bear?”

“You won’t be clever
for much longer,” said the guard and slammed the door shut.

Jeklor stood up and
walked over to his new cellmate, his blanket in one hand. He
kneeled by the prisoner’s head, inspecting his face. He whistled
softly.

“So, after you raped
the behemoth woman who gave you a heroic thrashing, you somehow
made it to a Healer, got stitched up and then somehow got
caught?”

He laid his own blanket
over the sleeping man, then took the fresh blanket and returned to
his corner. “Don’t think badly of me, old horse. But you won’t even
notice what I’ve done.”

*

Another meal came and
went, but still his new cellmate slept. During the night he had
thrashed around, growling in a voice that made the fine hairs on
Jeklor’s neck stood upright.

Jeklor sat with his
back propped against the cell wall, watching the sleeping man. The
man was lying on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest. What in
heavens name happened to you, wondered Jeklor.

The sleeping man
suddenly sat upright, his dark hair falling over his face. He
looked around and then fixed a dark gaze on Jeklor. “Where am I?”
he said and stood up with unsteady legs.

Jeklor stopped his
mouth from blurting out a nonsensical reply. This was not the time
to jest. “You are in a holding cell at the City Watch Guard House,”
he said sincerely.

“A holding cell?” He
stumbled toward Jeklor. “Why am I in a holding cell?”