by CJ Whrite
Altmoor walked around the cart and jumped onto the back. His foot tangled in the hem of his robes and he landed face first. He heard people laughing but he did not care. He decided that today marked the day where he would discard the overblown nobles pride and dignity. He waved at the laughing crowd. They tried to hide their faces from being recognised.
Digging in a pouch hanging by his side, he handed the surprised driver a handful of silver. “Take me to Academia Amlor,” he said.
The man’s eyes widened as he counted the small fortune. He whipped the reins, urging the donkey into action, eager to move before the crazy old noble changed his mind.
*
The cell door opened and Altmoor stepped inside, the guard closing the door behind him. He held a burning candle in front of him, his one hand curled around the back of the flame, blocking most of the glare. Roland and Jeklor squinted their eyes. Altmoor placed the candle on the floor, keeping his hand in place.
“Thank you, but we will be fine,” said Roland. Altmoor nodded and lifted his hand.
The two prisoners sat and stared at the candle, their eyes getting used to the light, while Altmoor arranged the writing instruments on the floor. He laid four sheaves of slightly, yellowish parchment on a clean cloth, a bottle of ink and a quill placed next to it. A stub of red wax went next to the candle.
“Will you be able to write or should I?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,’ said Roland and moved to the cloth. ‘Thank you, you have been a great help.”
“It’s the least I can do,” said Altmoor, ashamed, seething inside thinking of what his noble peers were doing.
Roland sat cross-legged in front of the cloth, took the quill and dipped it into the ink. He only paused for a moment before he started writing, the quill rasping across the parchment. He finished two letters and blew on the ink to keep it from smudging. He rolled the parchments up and wrote down the destinations. He proceeded to hold the stub of wax to the candles flame before sealing each letter with a portion of melted wax. He waited for the wax to harden before handing the two letters to Altmoor.
“These two letters are to go to my village, Seven Streams. They are for my Mother and my Master, Apothecary Pelron. I’ve told them that I’ve passed the exam, and that I will be going to the east for five years, learning about their healing techniques. I trust you to keep the truth from them.”
Altmoor accepted the letters, a puzzled look on his face. “I can understand why you wrote that, but what will you do after five years, lad? You can’t hide it forever.”
“I can, and I will. You’ve said yourself that there is no news in the city over what has happened. The crime is hidden to protect a noble, and no one knows my name. In five years, I will have a sick house in the poor quarter of Darma, free to visit for all commoners. At that time I will bring my Mother and Master to Darma and show it to them.” Roland spoke with a single-minded determination, his eyes never wavering in the slightest.
Altmoor dropped his gaze and stared into the candle flame. He could almost believe it when Roland spoke like that, but he knew that it would not be that easy. To even get to the stage of opening a sick house – and that while in a dark cell wrongfully accused – would be an unbelievable accomplishment. To make it free for all commoners would require a wealth that Roland would not be able to gather in his lifetime. But as long as you dreamed, no matter how impossible it was, it meant you could still face tomorrow. He just hoped the truth would not break Roland.
“I will do as you ask,” he said.
Roland took much longer to write the third letter. He addressed and sealed it, handing it to Altmoor. “This letter is for Captain Rage of the Swallow. I am sorry to ask this of you, but you will have to wait at the harbour for his ship to come in. I don’t know when that will be.” He reached into his pocket and held out Carla’s brooch. “Tell him that this was a gift Carla made for me, and that I entrust it to his care.”
Altmoor could see the struggle on Roland’s face as he held out the brooch, and Altmoor accepted the brooch with shaking hands. “It will be done,” he said, his voice trembling. If he were only twenty years younger, he would call his old comrades and burn Vanderman from his estate. “You are too old for dreams, you old fool,” he chided himself softly.
Roland sat with his head bowed, his right hand resting on the remaining sheave of parchment. Altmoor and Jeklor watched him in silence.
“The knife please, Altmoor,” he said and held his hand out.
Altmoor hesitated for a moment, then reached into the fold of his robes and handed Roland a small knife. Roland was no coward; he could trust him with it, even if the lad’s spirits were low.
It looked like a skinning knife, the blade curved and razor sharp. Roland placed the blade on his left palm and pulled it back. The blood was dark and hot flowing down his arm. It pooled in the crook of his elbow before spilling over. As the heavy droplets struck the stone floor, the sound sang loud in the silent, cold room.
“What are you doing?” Altmoor asked, startled. His eyes followed the crimson tears path through the air, watching as the blood mixed with filth on the stone floor.
Roland’s eyes narrowed, a vortex of loss and anger enveloping him. “The final letter will be written in blood,” he said.
Jeklor shifted uncomfortable against the wall; Roland’s expression reminded him of a wild beast hunting his prey.
Roland wiped the ink from the quill and dipped it in his blood. He wrote slowly, deliberately, often wetting the quill in the cut on his palm. He finished the letter and wrapped the cloth around his bleeding hand. He sat holding his hand in his lap, reading over what he had written several times, his eyes cold.
Know that the moment you put your hands on the girl, your life was forfeit.
Know that I swear by my blood to visit you within three years.
Know that each breath of every moment is a breath closer to my oath.
Know that you are already dead, and that I am the reaper of your soul.
“I swear,” he said and sealed the letter. He handed it to Altmoor. The old man’s eyes grew wide as he read to whom it was intended for.
“Do not deliver the letter yourself. It should not, under any circumstances be known that you’ve had any dealings with me. There are many urchins in the city, and they are well organised and nimble of foot. Pay one of them to hand the letter to a servant of the Vanderman household and then to run,” said Roland.
“Are you sure about this?” said Altmoor carefully. “What did you write?”
“The time leading up to my meeting with Sirol Vanderman will have him consumed with fear, always looking over his shoulder, never resting without nightmares. He will know remorse for what he has done.”
“And then? What do you plan on doing, lad?” asked Altmoor, his expression troubled.
Roland lifted his wrapped hand, clenching it so dark stains seeped through the white cloth, his face hard and unforgiving. “I will learn to move diagonally,” he said.
Chapter 8
The guard stepped into the cell and pulled a bolt from the wooden shackle he carried, lifting the top clear. “Hands out,” he said.
The guard who remained in the doorway grinned.
Roland placed his wrists into the curves carved into the bottom of the shackle. The guard slammed the top over his wrists, sealing his hands within the wooden block. He dropped the bolt back into the hole bored through the centre of the shackle, and slipped a pin through a tiny hole in the end of the bolt as it emerged from underneath.
Roland opened and closed his hands. The shackle was a tight fit but it did not restrict his circulation overly much. His arms grew tired and his hands dropped to his thighs; the shackle was surprisingly heavy. The guard grabbed him by the shoulder, shoving him to the cell door.
“Not so fast, old horse,” called Jeklor. “I think I will be joining the good man on his excursion.”
Roland swung his head around and shouted, “What are you thi
nking!”
“Your will and passion has spoken to me. Besides, I still have a year left to rot in this hole – show me that you are not just talk.”
“Your name is not on the list,” said the guard, his voice bored. Why anyone would willingly go to The Tomb was beyond him. “The mines are for the worst kind of scum. You are only a failed horse thief.”
“Oh?”
Jeklor stepped toward the guard and nimbly leapt into the air. His foot cracked against the guard’s head, his iron helmet spinning through the air. It struck the stone wall with a sharp clang. “I guess I can go now?” he said standing over the dazed man. The guard in the doorway turned pale.
“Prison break!” he screamed, and footsteps thundered down the hallway.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Roland, shaking his head.
“It should be fun,” replied Jeklor, and sagely held his hands out ready.
*
After two months of travel by wagon and ship, Roland and Jeklor together with the other nominated prisoners were unceremoniously dragged from the wooden cage resting on top of the flatbed wagon.
Roland picked himself up, the crisp wind of the northern mountains cutting straight through his tattered clothes. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyes from stubborn hair hanging over his brow. His dark hair was long and greasy, hanging below his shoulders. “The Tomb,” he muttered, looking up at the immense fort that seemed to be an extension of the mountainside. The walls were of large, grey stones, the towers cracked and weathered. Vegetation crept up the walls, disappearing inside the abandoned turrets.
“It’s probably the entrance to the mines,” whispered Jeklor, his usually jaunty voice sounding oddly deflated – almost scared.
The fort opened, chains rattling as an iron-reinforced gate lifted up. From inside marched five men, aiming for the prisoners. They wore no armour, instead wearing thick, woollen cloaks and sheepskin moccasins, but as they drew closer, the guards flanking the prisoners saluted sharply.
The man in the centre lazily returned the salute. He was at least two heads taller than the average man, a thick, black beard covering his face. His eyes were small and dark, reminding Roland of tunnels burrowed into the earth.
“Six new bodies – and just in time,” he said, his voice sounding oddly high coming from such a large frame. “We are running behind schedule. Well done, Captain,” he greeted the guard who had stepped forward upon his approach.
“Thank you, Lord,” said the Captain and smartly about turned, facing the prisoners. “This is Lord Alsoner. He will be your new master for as long as you draw breath,” he told the bedraggled men. “You have been removed from society. You are deemed unworthy to live among Calvanians. You should be hanged and quartered, but the Duke of Darma in his infinite wisdom has seen it fit to put your lives to use for the greater good.”
Jeklor snorted and said dryly, “You mean he uses us to make himself richer still.”
The Captain’s face turned purple but Alsoner placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. He nodded to a man at his side who wore a woollen cloak similar to his. The man reversed his spear and slammed the but-end into Jeklor’s stomach. Jeklor fell to his knees, dry-heaving, sweat running down his face despite the chill.
Roland stood his ground; only his narrowed eyes and his clenched jaw showed his anger. Jeklor was stupid. He was drawing attention. He was also angry that Jeklor had insisted on accompanying him – he now felt responsible for the fair-haired man’s life.
“As the Captain said,” continued Alsoner in a smooth voice, ignoring the kneeling Jeklor, “your miserable lives are finally put to good use. Trust is put into your unworthy selves to provide Calvana with her silver. This is an honour and should I deem you ungrateful – I will simply kill you.” He kept his voice conversational, but his eyes were cold as he swept his gaze across the prisoners.
“Take them to their new quarters,” he said with a smirk.
*
At spear point, the prisoners shuffled through the fort. Roland peered through his dark hair, keeping his shoulders slumped to seem meek, trying to memorise the layout of the fort. Directly through the entrance was a large, open room, staircases at the sides leading to the upper levels. The fort seemed eerily quiet – as if devoid of human presence. Very few guards patrolled the fort and it struck Roland as odd.
They walked through winding hallways, burning torches flickering against the walls, shadows dancing alongside the shuffling prisoners. The fort seemed far larger from the outside; it felt cramped on the inside. Roland had time to wonder why the fort was build in the first place, before a small iron gate blocked his way.
Two guards flanked the gate, spears in hand and swords hanging from their belts. Each guard grabbed a wooden lever on either side of the gate and started rotating the levers with wide, sweeping motions. Chains rattled and the gate lifted with a screech.
Spear points prodded the prisoners from behind and they stepped through the gate. The gate immediately fell down behind them with a clang, and Roland noted that there were no levers on this side of the gate.
“Hands out,” said a guard and removed the wooden shackles from the prisoners’ hands.
Roland rubbed his wrists, eyeing the small room they found themselves in. The grey stone walls ended abruptly against the mountain side, vertical rock walls stretching up and past the ceiling. A tunnel (broad enough to accommodate two men walking abreast) disappeared into the mountain, the end out of sight.
Roland now understood why there were so few guards. To escape you had to go through the gate, and it could only be opened from the other side. You would be stuck in this room with no way out, awaiting Lord Alsoner’s mercy.
The guard who had removed their shackles took a torch from the wall and stepped inside the tunnel. He grinned at the prisoners, revealing blackened teeth and said, “Welcome to The Tomb,” chuckling as he disappeared inside the mountain, not waiting to see if they followed. They had no other choice.
*
Roland’s pickaxe bit into the soft earth in front of him. He pulled back and a clump of dirt fell at his feet. A chain ran from his left leg to Jeklor’s right who stood next to him, swinging his pickaxe without enthusiasm. Clangs of metal striking stone drifted up and down the hive of tunnels crisscrossing the inside of the mountain as the prisoners worked. How long they have been inside the mountain, Roland had no idea. It was difficult to judge time without the open sky; it could be two months – it could be four.
He had wanted to explore the tunnels many times before, but an opportunity had not yet presented itself. Like he and Jeklor, all prisoners were chained together in pairs, and it was impossible to walk through the mine without the sound of the rattling chain giving you away.
Prisoners worked in small groups of two, mining for silver, chipping the precious metal from the hard, black reefs found inside the mountain using iron tools. The guards were few, but they were hard and cruel men, watching over the prisoners with whip and club, eager to urge them to greater speeds.
Roland and Jeklor worked by themselves, digging a new tunnel seeking more of the black reefs that carried the silver metal. Roland thought them lucky so far – they had not struck rock yet and the work was less strenuous than what their fellow prisoners were doing.
Behind them wooden poles were propped against the sides of the tunnel, supporting broad wooden boards to prevent the roof from falling in. Wax candles on top of iron-brackets provided just enough light to distinguish between persons.
Roland dropped his pickaxe and picked up a wooden shovel, scooping the growing mound of loose dirt in front of him into a wooden cart behind him. The cart was of a strange shape, and the first he had seen of its sort. It came to Roland’s chest in height, was about the same length as he was, and was again twice as broad as he was. It had a heavy frame of oak, (or maybe ironwood – Roland was not sure) and wooden planks were hammered onto the frame. On either end of the cart was an iron ring, a thick rope tied to an i
ron hook hooked through one of the rings. The rope ran from the cart back down the tunnel and into the centre of the mine, which was a large natural cavern, the size of an amphitheatre.
Once Roland had filled the cart with dirt, he lifted the rope and tugged it a few times. Moments later the rope grew taut and the cart was pulled back down the tunnel, the rope-fibres creaking in protest against the weight.
“Have you not thought of anything yet?” asked Jeklor desperately, making sure he kept his voice down: sound had the tendency to travel right across the mine. He kept swinging his pickaxe as he spoke, the dull thuds of iron gouging earth rhythmically pounding down the tunnel – they had soon learned that the guards were eager to use whip and club when the sounds of labour grew quiet.
Roland dropped the shovel and picked up his pickaxe. He buried its head inside the earth and said, “I’ve been wondering where they take the dirt to?”
Jeklor paused in mid-swing, looking at Roland. “What do you mean?”
“The ore mined, plus our dirt gets pulled back to the centre of the mine. Where does it go from there?”
The sound of wheels crunching on dirt and pebble drifted up to them, and Jeklor resumed his work as two prisoners pushed an empty cart back up the tunnel. “To the fort – where else?” he whispered, looking back over his shoulder at the approaching cart.
Roland shook his head and whispered back, “But not through the tunnel we came in through. The room and gate are far too small to use for moving ore back and forth.”
The approaching cart stopped, the two prisoners who had pushed it turning around and shuffling back down the tunnel.
“Wait!” whispered Jeklor urgently at them. They halted and looked back. Both were skeletal thin and had hollowed cheeks framed with long matted hair, tangled beards hanging on their chests. One of them was very tall and he stood hunched, a defeated look on his face. Dirt was ingrained into their faces, their dull eyes peering from blackened skin.