Assassin's Rise

by CJ Whrite

  “Where did our filled cart go?” asked Roland.

  “The mules took it,” said the shorter one, his voice barely above a whisper.

  They quickly shuffled off, hurrying to get back to the cavern before the guards could call them. Roland saw several angry, red scars leaking puss on their backs, their shirts in tatters from whip slicing through cloth and peeling back skin. He bit down his anger and resumed swinging his pickaxe.

  “Mules ... they must use them to pull the carts outside!” said Jeklor, his eyes glinting excitedly.

  “Yes. There must be another way in and out from the mine,” said Roland, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small smile. He ran his tongue along his teeth and spat, clearing his mouth from dirt crunching as he spoke.

  “But that means we have a chance!” said Jeklor and rubbed his eyes. Many times over, he had wished that he were still in the small cell in Darma. He always did this; leapt before looking.

  Before Roland could reply, a gong sounded, the dull chimes of padded wood striking bronze drifting up the tunnel. Three times the gong was struck.

  Roland and Jeklor dropped their tools and shuffled back down the tunnel, the chain between their legs dragging and clanking over the floor. No guard watched over them and they took their time walking. The noise they made digging the tunnel was enough to satisfy the guards. The guards only paid attention to those working on the silver veins, making sure that the prisoners worked at breakneck speed, and not dare take any of the precious metal for themselves.

  Roland gave a thin smile as they neared the centre of the mine. He finally had something to work with.

  Chapter 9

  When the gong sounded three times, it was the signal for the end of the day and the prisoners rushed to assemble in the centre of the mine. All the tunnels birthed from this natural cavern, which also housed the prisoners while they slept and ate. From each tunnel, a thick rope led into the cavern, wrapped around short wooden posts. The posts were smooth, and gleamed in the torch light from the years of rope friction. Large, upright wheels mounted on small platforms stood behind the posts.

  Roland and Jeklor were among the first to arrive in the cavern, the chain shackling their legs together announcing their arrival as it dragged between them, rattling.

  Roland quickly glanced around, trying to find the tunnel that the mules went down, but the cavern was massive and held little light; there were few torches. He could see no apparent signs of where the mules were kept, and he did not want to investigate with the guards standing around: he felt that success lay in remaining inconspicuous.

  On one side of the cavern was a deep basin, filled with fresh underground water, and the other side had small cells dug into the granite wall where the prisoners were locked up during the night (or what Roland assumed to be the night). In the centre of the cavern stood a wooden platform that housed a large, bronze gong, which the guards used to pass along signals. So far, Roland only knew two signals: striking the gong four times signalled the start of the day, and three times signalled the end.

  He and Jeklor aimed straight for the water basin, looking to rinse their mouths and soothe their dry throats. The guards let them be. They were still young and strong, and it would not do to weaken Lord Alsoner’s property. Silver production came first.

  Roland splashed the cool water on his face and dipped his head so his mouth reached the surface. He took deep draughts, the water sweet and refreshing.

  “Which tunnel do you think is used to transfer the carts?” said Jeklor softly, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Don’t stare,” warned Roland. “We’ll ask the prisoners who work in the cavern later.”

  “Hurry up you bag-of-puss!” They heard a guard’s voice booming. Roland tried to close his ears against the pitiful cries of a man as the guard helped him along with his whip. The older prisoners received no mercy from the guards. There would always be freshly convicted, able-bodied men who could replace them.

  Roughly fifty prisoners had assembled in front of the wooden platform and Roland and Jeklor hurried over to join them. They all looked up eagerly at the three guards who stood on the platform, bulging cotton-bags slung over their shoulders.

  “Eat!” shouted the guards and threw the bags between the prisoners. There was a roar as the prisoners dived for the bags, the strongest getting to the food first. Roland hated himself as he punched and kicked, but this was a matter of survival – he could not afford to grow weak from hunger. The guards stood around laughing, placing bets on which prisoners were likely to go without food for the day.

  A particularly old prisoner was chained to a young one. He tried keeping up with the young one, but he was more of a hindrance; the chain was no more than three foot long. The young prisoner shouted his frustration and turned on the old man, clubbing him in the face and kicking him ...

  The guards cheered him on.

  Roland carried a long jagged scar on his left cheek from his encounter with Sirol Vanderman, but it was the thin, white scar above his left eye which turned a pulsing red as he grew angry, watching as the old prisoner tried to cover his face, the guards laughing at him.

  “Done!” shouted Jeklor and they quickly shuffled off, putting distance between themselves and the mass of heaving and hungry bodies. They sat down and Jeklor handed Roland a small, round bread. He had managed to grab three. They devoured a loaf each, and as Jeklor started breaking the third bread, Roland put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Look there,” he said.

  Jeklor eyed the remaining bread hungrily, but then looked up to where Roland was pointing. Several of the older prisoners who were lucky enough to be chained together had retreated from the fight for food, and sat observing the heaving mass of bodies from a distance.

  “Probably praying there will be some left after they finish,” said Jeklor, clutching the remaining loaf to his chest. “This is the lowest point of my life.”

  Roland privately agreed, but said nothing. Watching as the guards cheered the prisoners on only served to fuel the anger in his heart. There was no justice in any of this. No man deserved to be treated like a beast, and that was what they were turning into: animals. And how many of the so called prisoners were innocent, paying for a crime to protect noble blood?

  His dark eyes bored into the laughing guards. He wanted to run up to them, cutting and stabbing, cheering at each death as they did. Roland looked at his hands, ashamed at his thoughts. Was he not a Healer, one who was supposed to treasure life? Giving his utmost to save and protect life?

  “No,” he said softly and forced his feelings down. What had happened to Carla – witnessing how those of higher station abused their power – there was no need for him to feel guilt over his thoughts. He would become the protector of common blood. In killing, he would be saving countless lives – more than he ever could with herbs.

  “What do you want to do with the remaining loaf?” asked Jeklor, cutting through his thoughts.

  “We’ll save it for tomorrow. Let’s hope the same two men will bring us an empty cart.”

  *

  Roland and Jeklor lay back to back, curled up on the floor. The cell was small, with bare rock walls and dirt floor. The opening was sealed with a heavy wooden door resting inside an oak frame, hammered into the hard rock. There were several small cells and the prisoners were divided between them, counting on body heat to keep them warm. Roland had long since given up on the idea to escape during the night. Breaking down the door would immediately alert the guards: sound travelling through the mine had turned out to be his greatest enemy.

  The loaf of bread was tucked underneath Roland’s shirt, his arms clenched around his stomach to disguise the bulge. He had hoped that the two men who had pushed the cart would share his cell, but no such luck. The room was filled with heavy snores, the prisoners’ airways blocked from the constant dust hanging in the air.

  Roland could hear Jeklor snoring behind him, and he felt grateful that the man had joined h
im. No matter how angry he had felt when Jeklor had done so, he now realised how much he counted on Jeklor during the months underground. He thought that he might have gone insane had Jeklor not supported him. And even if just one of them managed to escape, he would give his all to make sure that Jeklor was the one. Chained together inside a mountain digging tunnels had the tendency to make one appreciate another.

  *

  The following day Roland and Jeklor dug with renewed vigour, eager to fill the wooden cart with dirt. By the afternoon (or what they deemed the afternoon) the cart was filled with fresh earth. Roland tugged on the rope, signalling that the cart was ready. Almost immediately the slack in the rope was taken up, and the cart slowly rolled back down the tunnel.

  “Think it will be the same two?” said Jeklor, leaning against the side of the tunnel, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Roland shrugged. “So long as they are old.”

  “You mean weak and hungry,” snapped Jeklor.

  Roland looked at him, candle light throwing shadows across his face. “I don’t like it either,” he said.

  “I know,” sighed Jeklor and lifted his pickaxe. He swung overhead and wrenched a clump of earth from the wall. “The mine is getting to me,” he said apologetically.

  Roland knew what he meant. Constantly hemmed in on all sides by dirt walls was enough to make any man loose hope, and they were quick to anger.

  “Just pray we don’t strike a black reef,” he told Jeklor. If they were unlucky enough to find a silver vein, their chances of escape would disappear. Guards would swoop down on them and they would be under constant watch.

  The crunch of wheels on dirt told Roland that a fresh cart was on its way. He peered down the tunnel, trying to identify the two men. Only once they passed by a candle further down in the tunnel, the light revealed their features. He immediately recognised their hollowed faces. Roland bent down and picked up his shirt that was wrapped around the loaf of bread.

  “What are you called?” he whispered as the two men came closer.

  They ignored him and pushed the cart to the end of the tunnel. Jeklor had stopped working and Roland motioned for him to carry on. He snorted and continued swinging his pickaxe, dull thuds filling the tunnel.

  “Wait, I have food!” called Roland as the two men shuffled back down the tunnel. They paused and yanked their heads around, watching Roland eagerly. Roland unwrapped the loaf and held it out.

  “It’s yours,” he whispered.

  They hurried toward Roland, the chain bouncing between them. One man grabbed the loaf from Roland’s hands and bit down, his dull eyes coming to life. He tore a chunk from the loaf and swallowed without chewing, chocking as the bread stuck in his throat. His friend watched him with pleading eyes and he handed him the remainder, coughing and beating his chest.

  “I am called Andros,” he said, his voice feeble. “Don’t know what his name is, he can’t speak – got no tongue,” he pointed at his friend and grinned, revealing smooth gums, “but I call him Dragon.”

  Dragon looked up at him and smiled, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. On closer inspection, Roland realised that Dragon was not as old as he appeared to be: the years of dirt, cruelty and starvation served to make him seem ancient, though.

  “Make sure you and Dragon bring us another cart tomorrow. I’ll have some more food for you then,” said Roland.

  Dragon nodded enthusiastically.

  “Better go now before the guards come looking. You can eat as you walk.”

  The two men shuffled off and before they disappeared, Dragon gave Roland a small wave.

  Roland pulled his shirt back on and grabbed his pickaxe, joining Jeklor. Clumps of earth fell on his head but he ignored it, his face screwed up.

  “Was that all?” asked Jeklor, sounding disappointed.

  “All for now. They first have to trust us.”

  Jeklor shrugged and they continued working. Roland strained his ears to hear if there was punishment being dealt out in the cavern, but he heard no cries or shouts and he relaxed; the guards apparently did not notice anything different about Andros and Dragon.

  “We’ll need to find a way to cut through these chains,” he told Jeklor as they worked.

  “It’s uncomfortable, yes. But the chain is long enough for us to run if we have to,” said Jeklor. He thought the discomfort a small price to pay.

  “I’m talking about the noise they make. How will we escape the mine if everyone can hear us coming?”

  “Ah ... but won’t it make just as much noise to break it?”

  Roland hadn’t thought of that. A different obstacle met each new plan that took shape in his mind.

  More clumps of earth fell on his head, now positively showering him. Roland shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, rubbing his face with his forearm.

  “What the – RUN!” Jeklor suddenly shouted and sprinted off. His leg yanked out from underneath him; the chain linking him and Roland had pulled taut as Roland remained where he was. He hit the floor face first with a groan. The roof over their heads was bulging outwards, cracks running up and down the soft earth.

  “No, we need the tunnel!” shouted Roland desperately, and grabbed a wooden board propped against the side of the tunnel. He heaved and lifted it over his head, pressing it against the roof. “Quick! Supporting poles,” he yelled.

  Jeklor remained on his stomach and stretched his arm out, his fingers just touching a pole lying in front of him. He didn’t dare move forward; Roland could stumble and lose his hold on the board.

  Jeklor groaned as he stretched – it felt as though he was dislocating his shoulder, but then he managed to wrap his fingers around the end of the pole. Carefully he dragged the pole toward him; it would not do to let it slip.

  He jumped up and lifted the pole, pressing the end underneath one side of the board. He kicked the bottom of the pole into position, the foot end gouging into the tunnel floor as the pole took the weight of the board. Roland shifted to the side, pressing both his hands at the edge of the board. Dirt trickled down the side of the board and he lowered his head, breathing deeply as the pressure increased. Jeklor grabbed the remaining pole and pushed it underneath the other side of the board. Roland quickly wrenched his fingers out of the way and helped Jeklor to shove the pole into position.

  It had taken no more than two minutes, but both men were exhausted. Jeklor fell back, lying stretched out on the floor, looking at the roof. The supporting structure groaned, and a bulge formed in the centre of the board – but it held.

  “Never again,” he said, closing his eyes. “I think I made a mistake coming with you, old horse.”

  “Never asked you to,” said Roland and pressed a pickaxe into Jeklor’s hand. “Come, let’s hope the guards haven’t noticed anything.”

  Jeklor groaned. “You would make a splendid guard yourself,” he said and stood up. Together they swung their pickaxes into the tunnel-end, sweat glistening on their faces from shock and adrenalin.

  They continued working, tensed up, but no guards came sweeping down the tunnel.

  “Looks like they either don’t care or haven’t noticed,” said Jeklor finally.

  “Let’s hope it’s the latter,” said Roland and stepped back, running his fingers along the board supporting the roof, a deep frown on his face. “Could we –” He looked up and down the tunnel, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “Jeklor, help me,” he said.

  They dashed down the tunnel toward another wooden board propped against the side, two poles lying on top of it. They rolled the poles off the board and carried the board back toward the empty cart.

  “Like this,” Roland said and held the board over the cart opening. The board was twice the width of the cart, but the same length – maybe a little shorter, thought Roland as he measured with his eyes.

  “I have an idea,” he said and grinned.

  *

  The gong sounded three times and prisoners throughout the mine lifted their head
s at the glorious sound of the dull chimes; they had survived another day.

  Roland could hear tools being dropped and chains rattling as the prisoners made their way toward the cavern. The thunderclap of a whip-crack echoed toward him, accompanied by yelps and pleading – somewhere a pair of prisoners were moving too slow. At least Andros and Dragon were safe, Roland thought. They were already in the cavern and needed not navigate the tunnels.

  As they usually did, Jeklor started down the tunnel, but Roland held him back. “Let’s take our time today. I want to make sure of something.”

  Jeklor did not like the idea too much; he was already envisioning a whip biting into his back. “You saw the wounds on Andros and friend,” he said carefully. “The weaker we get the less chance we have to escape.”

  He was right, of course, but even so, Roland felt that being late on purpose was crucial to his plan. “I need to know if the guards will notice us coming in late,” said Roland, his face set.

  Jeklor was still not satisfied. If the guards did notice them taking their time, not only would they be punished, security would also tighten – but he held his tongue. He knew Roland well enough by now to see that there was no point in asking more questions. At times, he felt that Roland could see things that he could not, and he had no choice but to put his trust into the sometimes fiercely resolute-, sometimes fiercely grim man.

  “Let’s go,” said Roland as the noise of rattling chains quieted down. They hurried down the tunnel; the chain between their legs pulled up and held in hand, muffling the worst of the sound.

  As they reached the cavern, the guards threw bags of food to the prisoners, and Roland and Jeklor increased their speed to reach the food.

  No one paid them any notice.

  *

  Roland and Jeklor had retreated from the fighting prisoners, breaking a loaf between them. They had only managed to grab two loaves, and they were saving the other loaf for Andros and Dragon.

  “It’s not enough”, complained Jeklor as he swallowed his pitiful share.