Assassin's Rise (8 page)

Jeklor moved along the
wall. “They say you raped and killed a girl,” he said, creating
distance between them. The dark haired man stopped in his tracks,
his eyes bulging in his head. “Now calm down,” said Jeklor, lifting
his hands. “I saved you a meal. Let’s eat.”

“It can’t be.” He swung
his head around, his hands gripping his hair. “That bastard!” He
ran to the cell door and struck it with his shoulder. The heavy
thud reverberated through the room.

“Where is Sirol? It was
he! I will kill him!” he screamed, kicking and punching the door,
the dull thuds shaking the oak in its frame.

“What the devil!” a
shout came from outside and the top hatch in the door slammed open.
“Stop this at once!”

The dark haired man
leaned against the door, panting for breath. “It was he,” he said,
gasping. “Sirol Vanderman. He killed her! WHERE IS HE?”

“Hold your tongue,
scum,” said the guard and spat through the hatch. “If you want to
place blame you should seek someone more believable than the great
Lord Sirol.”

“No! It was he. He beat
her to death! He, he...” He slammed against the door with his
shoulder. “Get me out, I have to find him!”

“Oh you will get out
alright.” The guard grinned, his eyes narrowed. “We have a place
for scum like you – the mines to the north. You have two weeks
left. Better sit quietly and enjoy your life while you can.”

“The mines! You don’t
mean The Tomb?” asked Jeklor, his eyes wide.

“Fitting name don’t you
think,” laughed the guard.

“You should know I have
nothing to do with him,” said Jeklor, turning pale. “He just
appeared here yesterday. Never saw him before.”

“Keep him calm or I’ll
add you to the list,” said the guard and slammed the hatch
shut.

“For the love of seven
gods, stop that,” said Jeklor and sprinted to the door, grabbing
the man from behind. “Please stop! You won’t achieve anything
behaving like this!”

The man dropped his
arms, his shoulders sagging. Jeklor carefully loosened his grip.
“That’s right. Come, let us eat. No point in starving
yourself.”

He led the man to the
back of the cell where he had stored his share of the previous
meal. He handed him a bowl with watery soup and a piece of bread.
To his surprise, the man sat down, devouring the food.

“Good, good. Just like
that,” said Jeklor, letting out a sigh of relief. He watched in
silence as the man ate, ready to dive on top of him if he suddenly
moved.

“What are you called?”
the man asked, wiping the bottom of the bowl clean with the last
bit of bread.

“Jeklor the handsome.
Some say Jeklor the brave.”

“Well Jeklor. Tell me
what you know of Sirol Vanderman.”

Jeklor shrugged.
“What’s to tell? He’s handsome and rich, the ladies love him – and
he’s the nephew of the Duke of Darma.” The man stiffened as Jeklor
spoke. Then he relaxed and leaned back against the wall, touching
the stitches on his cheek and above his eye, a frown on his
face.

“Have you calmed down
now? What is your name?”

“Roland.”

“It seems you have a
powerful enemy, Roland.”

“It does not matter. He
will die.”

Jeklor snorted. “Better
give up on that, my good man. You might as well try and kill the
Duke.”

“What do you know of
these mines? What did you call it – The Tomb?”

“Well,’ started Jeklor,
and took a seat next to Roland. “The worst of all criminals gets
send to work the mines. It is in a desolate part of Calvana to the
north, and once you go in, you don’t come out – hence The
Tomb.”

“Has anyone ever
escaped from there?”

“I just told you that
you don’t come out,” Jeklor started and Roland fixed his dark eyes
on him. He sighed. “Sure, sure. Don’t mind me. I’ve heard tales of
prisoners escaping, but because of the mines location there is
nowhere to run to – unless you count on Drifters’ Hell.” He
shuddered. “And if you manage to reach that hell hole, it’s over.
You are dead. The place is a wooden city build over a swamp, the
outcasts of society forging their empires there. Pirates,
Assassins, Politicians, Slavers – the worst kind of scum you can
imagine.”

Roland leaned his head
against the wall, staring intently at the stone ceiling. After a
few moments he said, “Does Drifters’ Hell have access to the
ocean?”

“Yes, a broad river
leads up to ... What? Don’t even think of it. Believe me, that
place is a death trap.”

“You said the same
thing about The Tomb.” Roland stood and stretched. His muscles
ached and a dull pain thudded behind his left eye. The stitches
felt tight and they itched. He was glad, it was a sign that the
wounds were healing.

Carla flashed in his
mind and bitterness welled up from his heart .He stuck his hand
inside his pocket, his fingers curling around the silver brooch.
They did not even bother to search him before locking him up. To
eager to protect Sirol’s name, Roland thought bitterly. He bit his
lip, his mouth filling with blood. He did not notice.

“I swear I will avenge
you,” he promised silently. “I swear I will destroy them and their
power.”

He looked down on
Jeklor who sat staring up at him. Jeklor had a mop of matted fair
hair and a light brown beard covered his face. His eyes held a
constant, mischievous gleam.

“Why are you here?”
Roland asked him.

“I am sometimes called
the Nimble Thief. Ladies swoon when I steal their hearts, and not
gold nor virtue is safe from me. One day, while I was walking in
the forest –”

“– the short version,
please.”

Jeklor sighed. “I stole
the wrong horse.”

A
ltmoor’s fist struck the top of
the table, making the guard jump in fright. “Why is he locked up?”
he demanded, his piercing eyes boring into the hapless guard.

“I don’t know, Lord.
They say he murdered a girl.”

“Preposterous!” Altmoor
paced in front of the table, his fists clenched by his sides. He
turned his eyes on the guard who withered under the stare. “Where
did he murder this girl? What witnesses do you have?” He slammed
his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face mere inches
from the guard’s. “What evidence do you hold?” he said, his voice
promising a coming winter storm.

The guard backed away.
“It came down straight from Vanderman, Lord,” he cried. His captain
could go and take a piss on his secret order for all he cared. This
old man was crazy, and he meant business.

Altmoor straightened.
“Vanderman? What has he got to do with this?”

“I don’t know, Lord.
I’m just a lowly guard. They did not tell me!”

Altmoor’s lip curled in
disgust. “Thank the gods your type was not in the war. We would
have lost before we reached the battle.” He pointed his bony finger
at the guard’s face. “You will take me to his cell
immediately.”

“Yes, Lord.” The guard
bowed gratefully and hurried to the end of the room, disappearing
down a set of stairs. Altmoor lifted the hem of his robes off the
floor and followed the guard down the steps. What did Vanderman
have to do with it, he wondered as his sandals clapped down the
stone steps. The steps led to a hallway, torches flickering inside
iron-brackets lining the blackened walls. The father or the son?
The father, he decided as he passed by the different cell doors.
The son did not have the authority, yet. Was it to protect his
son?

“Over here, Lord,” said
the guard.

“Open the door.”

“Lord?”

Altmoor narrowed his
eyes at the nervous man. “Open the door and let me in. You can lock
it behind me. I will call you when I’m done.”

The guard hesitated. It
went completely against procedure. Altmoor prodded him in the
chest.

“Now,” he
commanded.

“Yes, Lord,” the guard
said miserably and unlocked the door. Altmoor stepped inside, the
stench of the room hitting him like a physical blow. The door
slammed shut behind him.

“Call me when you are
done, Lord,” the guard said from behind the door. Altmoor ignored
him. He closed his eyes, waiting for his sight to get used to the
gloom. A hand gripped him by the shoulder.

Roland must have read
the shock on Altmoor’s face as he opened his eyes, because he said
self-consciously, “I’ve known better times,” scratching a scab on
his cheek. The swelling of his face had gone down, but his left
side was nearly black from blood coagulating underneath the
skin.

“Tell me everything
that happened,” said Altmoor, a vein pulsing in his neck.

Roland dreaded reliving
the event, but Altmoor had helped him since his arrival in Darma,
and he owed the old man the truth, so he told him starting with how
he had met Carla on the Swallow. Jeklor sat in the corner,
listening as the tale unfolded, feeling ill as Roland relived what
had happened in the park. Jeklor spat next to him, his pulse
quickening in anger.

Altmoor broke the
oppressive silence that followed first. “You have been through hard
times, lad,” he said, “but it is over now. I will appeal your case.
I will take it before the Duke if I have to.”

“For a noble you don’t
know nobles at all, do you?” said Roland, patting the old man on
the shoulder. “Forgive my frankness, but having one old Educator
disappearing in the night is not a difficult thing to do.”

“You think they will go
that far?”

Jeklor snorted in the
corner. “Unless you have more authority than Vanderman, you’re just
a sack of old bones, my good man,” he said.

“You just expect me to
let it go! This is not why we went to war. We are talking about
someone’s life here. This is justice!”

“And justice there will
be,” said Roland softly, his eyes burning into Altmoor’s. “But you
will promise to leave this alone. I already have one soul to carry
on my shoulders and I will not add yours to it.”

“It was not your fault,
lad,” said Altmoor.

Roland shook his head.
“It was my naivety that caused this. I trusted that we would be
protected in the city. I sensed that there was something wrong with
those three, but instead of acting, I did nothing. I could have
stopped it from happening, was I prepared.”

“No man can be prepared
for something like that,” Altmoor said, his voice gentle.

“Promise me that you
will stay out of this.”

“I can not, Roland.
This is not right.”

Roland dropped his
head, his hands still resting on the old man’s shoulders. “Three
years,” he said, lifting his head. “Give me three years. If I am
not free then, you can do what you will.”

“You will give up three
years of your life?”

“It will be a just
punishment for my negligence if it comes to that, but no, I don’t
plan on being a prisoner for all that time, but I need three years
to prepare. Now swear it to me. Swear it!”

“I swear,” said
Altmoor, the words as bitter as bile on his tongue.

“Good, now what is the
news outside. Who knows of it?”

“That’s what is so
peculiar. Not a soul knows of it. If the Healer who treated you did
not mention it to me, I would not have known either. I have told
Oldon, but apart from us two, no one in the city knows what
happened.”

“Keep it like that. No
one must know of it. The truth will come out when the time is
right.” Roland relaxed his grip on Altmoor’s shoulders.

“That fool Oldon was
ready to march down here and cut the guards down when I told him,”
said Altmoor. “Grabbed his sword and almost took my arm off in the
process.”

Roland smiled, and
Altmoor was glad to see it. “Make sure he does not do anything
foolish. And also, I need to write four letters. Can you bring me
writing tools, wax and a knife?”

“I will. When do you
need it?”

“Today,’ said Roland.
“I need to set things in motion as soon as possible.”

*

“It seems you have it
all planned out, old horse,” said Jeklor as Altmoor left the cell.
“The dark hero standing against injustice, triumphing over the
odds, defeating the dragon and rescuing the princess.” He scratched
his head and then smelled his hand, grimacing. “I will give ten
years of my life for a hot bath!”

Roland ignored his
cellmate, pacing the room as he waited for Altmoor’s return. There
were only a few days left until he was send to The Tomb. If Altmoor
had not arrived today, things would have been far more complicated.
He was grateful toward the old man.

“So how do you plan on
escaping from here?” asked Jeklor, wiping his hand on his
trousers.

Roland stopped his
pacing. “I don’t plan to.”

“Have you lost your
head? You go to the mines in a few days. This is my best chance to
get out of here!”

“Your best chance?”

“Well,” he studied his
nails intently. “I had thought to slip out in your wake. Sort of
disappearing during the chaos.”

“Just wait it out. You
can’t have long left for stealing a horse.”

“I still have a year
left.”

“Just what kind of
horse did you steal?”

“The more handsome
looking one that fitted my image better. Unfortunately it belonged
to the Captain of the Guard.”

Roland shook his head
and continued his pacing. There were all sorts in this world, it
seemed.

“No words of
condolences?”

“No.”

Jeklor sighed and
continued to study his nails. “Sit down already,” he told Roland.
“The cell is small enough without you stepping over me.”

Roland stopped and sat
down. “I was nowhere near you,” he grunted.

“But it felt like it.
So how will you escape The Tomb?” he asked innocently.

“I will see when I get
there, but there will be a way,” said Roland, closing his eyes. He
wished for Altmoor to hurry up.

“And what will you do
after?”