by CJ Whrite
Assassin’s Rise
By
C.J. Whrite
Copyright 2012 C.J. Whrite
Smashwords Edition
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Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my family and friends who have made Assassin’s Rise possible. Without your valuable input, this tale would not have seen the light.
An axe to the thumb is surprisingly inspirational.
Thank you doc, for stitching it back on
* * *
Prologue
Apothecary Pelron hurried through the village, a leather satchel clutched at his side, his brown cloak flaring out behind him. Villagers called out greetings as he passed them by, but he gave no signs of acknowledgment. It was not that he was ignoring them on purpose, but he had matters more pressing on his mind – he neither saw nor heard their cheerful greetings.
For nigh on four months now he had been treating Magda, and he was at his wit’s end. She had first come to him complaining of frequently breaking water, and he had been sure it was a sickness of the bladder. Lucerne and bilberries were the usual remedy, and he had instructed Magda to ground the purple flowers and take it as a tisane as often as she could, and to compliment each meal with a handful of berries. Lucerne and bilberries were both cheap and bountiful, and he had always had success with the treatment. But Magda did not improve, and now she was bedridden. He had tried every possible herb and trick he could think of, but her condition kept worsening. He had finally written to an old friend of his, a Healer that practiced in Darma. He had noted the treatments he had tried so far, and had explained her worsening condition: she was loosing weight rapidly, grew unusually fatigued with the slightest effort, and her eyesight was deteriorating.
This morning a rider had knocked on the Apothecary’s door, handing him a letter and a leather satchel. The letter was a reply from his friend explaining that he had successfully treated similar symptoms before. Although visiting the privy often usually pointed to a disease of the bladder, in this case, he believed that it pointed to a weakness in the blood.
Pelron halted in front of the small wooden house that Magda and her son shared. He could almost smell the desperation wafting through the small, wooden shutters. The boy was barely twelve summers old, and with Magda now bedridden, he had to care for both himself and his mother. The meagre coin he made from doing odd tasks around the village was barely enough to keep them fed, yet the boy never complained, and over the months of treating Magda, Pelron had grown to like him.
Pelron knocked softly and pushed the door open, the floorboards creaking as he stepped inside the dimly lit room. The windows were covered with cloth, blocking the outside glare, and a single candle burned on a table that took centre in the room.
Magda was alone, sleeping on a pallet bed in one corner, and Pelron smiled as he noted how carefully the boy had placed water and food around the bed. The boy must be out searching for the means to survive another day.
Pelron opened the leather satchel his friend had sent him, sniffing the contents. It was filled with clover-shaped leaves, although he had never quite seen such oddly large clovers. According to the letter, these came from thousands of miles to the east and were from a plant called Kugua. The letter explained that although the fruit of the plant held the highest healing properties, it was impossible to preserve it over such long distances and that the leaves were a suitable substitute. Apparently the fruit was cucumber shaped with heavy ridges and extremely bitter to taste.
“Bitter Gourd,” Pelron muttered as he recalled what his friend had named it.
The satchel held enough leaves for two months use. He would have to write his friend another letter requesting more. The leaves were expensive, and Pelron knew that Magda and the boy could never afford it. He sighed; once more realising he would never be a rich man.
“Apothecary,” a voice called from the door and Pelron turned around. The boy was tall for his age and his breadth of shoulder promised that he would be a powerful man. His black hair was unkempt and tousled strands fell to his shoulders and over his dark eyes. He smiled at Pelron, revealing healthy teeth, and he lifted his hands, each hand holding a limp pheasant by the neck.
“I don’t even want to hear where you found those, Roland Belanu,” said Pelron with mock seriousness. “Light the hearth and boil some water. I have new herbs to prepare for your mother.”
Roland eagerly set about his task, striking flint and steel with gusto.
“Will these new herbs help her?” asked Roland, touching his mother’s wax pale skin. She opened her eyes, smiling weakly. He handed her a clay cup filled with cool water and helped her to sit upright.
“Apothecary Pelron,” she said as her eyes focused on Pelron’s back.
Pelron turned his head and smiled at her. “Don’t you worry, madam. I have a friend that is a great Healer and he sent me new herbs from the east. Within a week you will be up and like new.”
“They must be expensive,” she said, sinking back onto the bed.
Roland frowned, but then gritted his teeth and forced a smile. Pelron’s heart went out to the scruffy boy. “Yes, they are very expensive,” said Pelron, turning his gaze back to the task at hand, ignoring the look on Roland’s face. “But, I’m in somewhat of a dilemma. I’m looking for an apprentice to help me with the gathering of herbs and treating the villagers. He will of course be paid a weekly stipend ... but I have no idea where to find such a person.”
“Enough to pay for the new herbs?” asked Roland, beaming.
“Naturally. There may even be enough coin left over to pay for pheasants from now on ...”
Chapter 1
Roland opened his eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the fresh mountain air. He stood up and stretched, looking toward his village. From his viewpoint high in the mountain, it felt like he could see into tomorrow if he so chose.
The sharp call of a mountain eagle shattered the morning silence and Roland watched as the large bird dived through the air. He felt a kindred spirit with the predator: both of them were celebrating the new morning and looked forward to things to come.
He crouched and rolled up the blanket, tying it with a rawhide string to his shoulder. He had finished gathering the required herbs for Pelron yesterday, but the sun had caught him and he had decided to spend the night in the mountain. There were traitorous rock faces he had to navigate down, and doing it in the dark asked for a broken leg or worse.
He chose against preparing breakfast. Today was summer solstice and he wanted to hurry back to the village. It was not everyday that you turned sixteen and became a man.
He double-checked the contents of the cotton sack used for gathering herbs and tied it to his belt. The eagle gave a triumphant call and Roland watched as it flew up the mountain, a bundle of feathers clutched in its talons. Roland wondered if it had chicks to feed, and then his stomach grumbled reminding him that he was looking forward to breakfast, too. Spurred on by the thought he set off quickly; he should reach the village by early afternoon.
*
Seven Streams was a buzz of activity.
On the first day of summer there was no craft or trade, and the day was instead spent preparing for what was to come. The afternoon held an event where the men of the village would compete in games and the evening was reserv
ed for food, song and dance.
Men carried huge, oaken tables from the Town Hall toward the town square, bantering and sweating under the new summer sun, while the women already had fires going, cutting meat and chopping vegetables. The boys coming of age were especially excited, for tonight would be their opportunity to swagger around and catch the eyes of pretty village girls.
The Apothecary was a small wooden building near the centre of the village and was about the only business still open on this day. Pelron was inside, standing behind the oak counter that nearly spanned the width of the shop, busy re-organising the many shelves on the rear of the wall filled with jars, sacks and bottles, containing numerous leaves, roots, and powders, preparing for when Roland returned with the fresh herbs. This was not really needed, for Roland was adept at sorting the various herbs, but he wanted to keep busy while he waited for the boy.
Each container sported a label with a tiny, hand drawn picture of the contents together with its name and uses, written in clear, neat script. Four years earlier Pelron had no need for labels or catalogue, for he could recognise the different herbs by colour and texture alone, and after the thirty odd summers of plying his trade, he knew the uses by heart. At first he had taken Roland in as an apprentice more as an act of kindness, but he had soon realised that the boy had a good head on his shoulders and that he was keen to learn about the different uses of herbs and their specific treatments. Since then, Pelron had made an effort to impart his knowledge to Roland and labelling his stock with name and uses was one idea he had come up with. Teaching the boy to decipher the script was another matter entirely, but Roland had eventually come up with a method of his own. He took to drawing accurate depictions of the contents on the labels, which helped him to memorise the script in turn.
On the whole, Pelron was satisfied with Roland’s progress and the boy’s natural talent toward healing reaffirmed his belief that Roland should aspire to what he did not.
The Apothecary door opened and Magda stepped inside, greeting Pelron with a warm smile. “It is good to see you, Pelron,” she said.
“Happy solstice, Magda. What brings you here? Do you need more Bitter Gourd?”
“Not yet. I seem to be using it less and less as time goes on.”
“Be careful not to stop its use too suddenly,” warned Pelron. When he had started Magda on her treatment of the eastern leaves, she had shown quick and positive results. After a short while he had stopped administering it, believing her symptoms cured, but she had relapsed into illness soon after. He held a suspicion that she would never truly be free of the disease and that the bitter leaves would be her companion for a long time to come.
“I want to speak of Roland,” she said. She was a woman of small stature, but she lifted her head proudly and her presence filled the room. “You have helped us out so much when I was down with illness, and even took Roland under your wing –” she sniffed, and Pelron saw that she was close to tears, “– and today my boy becomes a man. I just wanted to thank you, Pelron, for guiding him.”
Pelron kept quiet, knowing she was not yet finished.
“I was hoping that he could continue to learn from you. It’s so easy for a boy his age to waste time and never amount to anything ...”
“I, too, have something I want to discuss with you,” said Pelron and reached below the counter. He handed Magda a rolled-up parchment that she took with unsure hands. He smiled kindly, inviting her to open it.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never learned my letters,” she said, blushing, and returned the scroll.
“How foolish of me,” said Pelron, flushing as red as she was. “May I?” He unrolled the parchment and Magda nodded.
After he finished reading, there was a moment of silence through which Pelron thought that there might be a problem. But then Magda raised her hand to her breast, twisting the thin cotton dress between her fingers. “How could I ever thank you? To think that you have so much faith in my boy.”
“Then it’s decided,” said Pelron and rolled the parchment back up proudly. She was right. He had high hopes for the boy.
*
As Roland neared the village, he could hear excited laughter and the smell from cooking fires made his mouth water. He grinned and felt his heart race in anticipation.
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.