Assassin's Rise

by CJ Whrite

  “Pardon me,” said Roland once he reached the small table. An old man sat hunched over the table, devouring a plate filled with raw vegetables and a thick piece of meat.

  “Expect you want to know my secret,” said the old man and raised his head. He had the same piercing blue eyes as Altmoor. “You look like a good sort, so I’ll tell you.” He spread his arms over the table. “It’s what you see before you, laddie ... it’s Meat. And not those fish and bird things they fool you into calling meat, but real meat. Red meat. The thicker the better, the rawer the better. And vegetables. Raw vegetables. The more vibrant the colour, the better. The secret’s in the soil, you see. You must take –”

  “Altmoor send me,” Roland said quickly. It seemed as though the old man would not stop once he got going.

  “Altmoor? Is that old coot still alive? It’s about high time I visit the Assassins Guild and take out a contract on his name. The secret’s in approaching them from the sewers. Unpleasant, I know, but you won’t find any better killers. But, with that old coot even an assassin might fail. You cut his head off, and chances are it will grow back.”

  “Stop acting like a fool, dad,” said Alfeer, handing him a mug of ale.

  “You might call it foolish, but stories need spice.” The old man lifted the mug and drained it. “So what can I do for you, lad?” he asked Roland.

  “I need a room for eight nights,” he said, looking from the old man to Alfeer. Maybe he had made a mistake in coming here.

  “Eight nights ... that will cost you fourteen silvers – and that’s cheap. You look like a country folk so you probably can’t afford it.” He chuckled at a private joke. “Tell you what, lad,” he went on before Roland could reply. “You work for me for the next week, and your board and food is free.” He smiled broadly. “Show him to his room, Alfeer,” he told his son, returning his attention to the plate of food.

  Alfeer led the confused Roland up a set of rickety, wooden stairs. “Don’t let it bother you,” he said seeing Roland’s expression. “He gets carried away sometimes, but my dad’s a good man. His name’s Oldon. You’ll probably clean once we close at night and help set up in the morning. It won’t be hard work. Well, here we are.” He opened a warped door and Roland automatically stepped inside.

  “Tonight’s on the house. Come down for food when you’re ready.” He closed the door and Roland heard footsteps going back down the stairs.

  The room was a small one, containing only a bed with a straw filled mattress. Roland stepped to the window and looked outside. Half his view was blocked by a building and the other half looked over the market square. It was early evening and the merchants were busy packing up. Roland dropped onto the bed, sending up a small puff of dust.

  What a strange bunch, he thought, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Carla gently turned the wax figure over in her hands. It was modelled into a brooch, the motif a round shield with a leaf in the centre. The wax had been taking shape in her mind since the events on the Swallow and she had finally finished it three days ago.

  She laid the wax brooch on a soft cloth and lifted the clay mould. The mould was a round ball, tightly wrapped with string and painted with resin. She had prepared it as soon as she had finished shaping the wax brooch. She had used a mixture of clay and cattle droppings as the combination gave a smoother imprint and was less likely to crack when dry. Using two soft pieces of the clay mixture, she had pressed it over the wax brooch, leaving an indentation in the centre of the clay. She had then waited for the clay to dry, smoothing out any imperfections in the imprint. Once the clay had dried, she stuck the two pieces together using a blend of boiled fish bones and tree sap. Again, she waited for it to dry. A day later, she had wrapped the mould with string and resin.

  She felt her heartbeat quicken. It was ready. Her uncle watched her with one eye squinted shut. “Never seen you so worked up before, lass,” he said, his deep voice resonating through the workshop.

  She smiled at him and a slight tint appeared high on her cheekbones. “I think it’s ready for casting, Uncle.”

  “Are you sure you want to use silver?”

  Carla nodded. “It has to be silver. It fits the motif best.”

  “You better be sure your mould is ready.” He scratched his red beard, studying the mould. “Silver melts at a higher temperature than bronze. The heat can crack your mould like a rotten egg.”

  “I know, Uncle, but it’ll hold.”

  “If you say so, lass. Come to the furnace. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Carla worked the bellows, her green eyes fixed on the silver nuggets inside the melting pot. Small droplets of sweat ran down her face as the charcoal turned white hot. Her red hair caught the glare, and it looked as if a blazing fire surrounded her head.

  The melting pot turned a fiery red, and the silver nuggets started falling in on themselves, slowly filling the bottom of the crucible with flowing silver.

  “Careful now, you don’t want to overheat the alloy,” warned her uncle, secretly pleased with her work. She let go of the bellows, wiping the sweat from her face. A smear of soot covered her cheek.

  “Pour it now, lass – quick!”

  The clay mould rested inside a bucket filled with sand to the side of the furnace. Carla grabbed the long-steel tong, hooked its crescent jaw around the crucible and clamped down. She lifted the melting pot and swung it over to the mould. She tipped the beak toward the mould, trying to balance speed with precision. The molten silver almost caught her by surprise; it flowed far quicker than she had anticipated. The silver spilled into the mould, tendrils of heat rising from the clay.

  “Please hold,” she pleaded as the mould filled up.

  *

  Academia Amlor library held a wealth of books and scrolls, and not only those with regard on healing, but also on philosophy and theology.

  Candle light flickered as Roland paged through a leather bound volume. He was surprised to learn that until recently, healing was the exclusive domain of priests. Of the seven gods, Rivander was considered the deity of healing and treatment consisted of prayer and fasting. Roland shook his head. This was a mere century and a half ago. How could any sick person in their right mind forgo food in order to heal? That humans had managed to survive through such a period was a mystery, although Roland realised that modern illnesses were uncommon that long ago. It seemed to him that whenever people conglomerated, it became a breeding pot for new diseases.

  According to the volume he read, healing techniques were in its infancy and progression was slow. The author theorised that failure to break from age-old traditions was the most likely culprit. Roland disagreed. Where healing was first the exclusive domain of priests, it now turned into a coin-gathering business for the nobles. He was but the sixth commoner since Amlor’s founding allowed to attempt the entrance exam. Did nobles really believe that their blood alone gave them superior abilities?

  The library held several volumes theorising that blood could be transferred between humans. If that were true, would it mean that noble blood was of a different sort? Were they not human, also?

  Roland closed the volume and returned it to its shelf. He had three days left until the entrance exam and he felt confident that he had covered all the work. The first few days he had spend copying diagrams showing human bones and organs. Since then he had been reading up on the history of healing and even more so on predictions of possible future techniques and cures.

  The only light in the library came from candle; the sun had set hours ago. Roland hurriedly gathered his notes and left the academia. Oldon would have his hide if he were to miss the tavern’s closing time.

  *

  Roland ran toward the tavern, his footing sure. Nighttime in Darma meant the City Watch lit torches found on the corners of buildings in the busiest areas, and Roland had no trouble navigating the dark.

  Upon reaching the tavern, Roland entered through the backdoor and went up to hi
s room to stow his library notes. He had bought a new set of clothes for when he visited the academia, which he also changed out off, putting on his regular brown trousers and a grey woollen shirt.

  As he entered the tavern floor, the last patrons were leaving. Roland immediately gathered the empty mugs and plates and passed it to the kitchen where the serving girls were washing it, and set to wiping the tables clean. Once done he moved the tables to the side of the tavern and started sweeping the wooden floor.

  Alfreed was busy behind the counter, putting stoppers into open wine bottles and ale barrels. That done he wiped his counter for the hundredth time, watching Roland as he swept the floor.

  “Did you get enough time to study?”

  Roland looked up. “More than enough, I can take the exam anytime.”

  He only really worked in the early mornings and during closing times. Sometimes Oldon sent him into the city to buy stock for the tavern, but on the whole each day saw him with plenty of time to spare. If he failed the exam, it would be due to his own lack of ability.

  Alfeer grunted. “A commoner becoming a Healer. What is the world coming to?”

  “Learning new skills has nothing to do with being common or noble. You’re a commoner yourself; don’t you feel angry when nobles tell you you are incapable of doing things simply because of your blood?”

  Alfeer shrugged. “It has always been so,” he replied. He was comfortable with the way the world worked.

  “Not so,” said Roland, leaning against the broom. “Just over a century ago nobles had nothing to do with healing. It was considered the domain of priests. So how come nobles suddenly get to decide who does what?”

  “Well said, Roland,” came Oldon’s voice as he stepped down the stairs. He wore a battered old breastplate and an iron helmet covered his head. On his right shoulder was a dented pouldron, and his bony legs carried greaves. Under one arm he clutched a wooden board, the other hand holding a bulging leather pouch. Roland had gotten used to the eccentrics of the old man, but the look in his eyes together with his battle armour was a new experience.

  “Set up a table and two chairs, my boy,” said Oldon. “The enemy should arrive soon.”

  Roland looked at Alfeer but he only rolled his eyes. As Roland dragged a table over there was a knock on the tavern door. Alfeer went to open it while Oldon waited with folded arms. “You finally show yourself,” he said as Altmoor entered the tavern. He wore the same black robes he did when Roland had first met him.

  “Ready for another beating, old man,” said Altmoor and marched up to Oldon. They clasped each other by the wrist as a way of greeting.

  “Educator Altmoor?” said Roland, surprised.

  “Just Altmoor, Roland. How are your studies coming along? You should know that I expect you to pass the exam.”

  “Very well, uh, thank you,” stammered Roland.

  “Good. Well, ready to loose, old man?”

  Oldon’s reply was vulgar, short, and to the point. He placed the wooden board on the table while Altmoor chuckled. Altmoor removed his robes revealing a breastplate of similar design to Oldon’s and took a seat. He untied the leather pouch and emptied it on the board. Several wooden pieces carved into the shape of soldiers fell from the pouch.

  “Blue or red?” he asked Oldon.

  “I think it’s a good day for red,” said Oldon. “Roland, you keep the ale flowing.”

  Roland stood open-mouthed as he watched the two men. Both wore old armour and both had their arms exposed, revealing hundreds of fine white lines criss-crossing around bicep and forearm. Roland knew what those white lines represented: standing toe to toe with your enemy using sword and shield, never showing your back, always pushing forward – those were battle scars.

  He headed to the kitchen to find clean mugs, trying to picture the two old men fighting in battle. He filled the mugs with foaming ale and returned to the table. Altmoor and Oldon sat directly opposite each other with the board between them, the wooden figures arranged on top. Oldon’s side was red and Altmoor’s was blue.

  “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 sho
rt 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.

  Chapter 5

  Roland 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.