by CJ Whrite
“Kick, Dragon,” shouted Roland, he and Jeklor swimming for all they were worth. Dragon kicked out with his free leg, his eyes wide and fearful.
They reached the edge, and the two men pulled Dragon (still on his back), from the water. Roland dropped to his knees and prodded around the gash in the side of Andros’s head. He must have struck it falling from the cart. He was still breathing though, his thin chest barely rising with each breath.
Roland had never missed his leather, herbal pouch as much as he did at that point in time. The wound was bleeding profusely, but head wounds always did. Roland did not think the skull cracked, or the blood would be spurting and very light of texture and colour, mixed with the clear fluids held in the head. Dragon clutched Andros tightly to his chest, unearthly moans coming from his wide-opened mouth.
“Stop with the noise, ye great buffoon,” croaked Andros and opened his eyes. “Help me to my feet will you.”
Dragon choked back a moan and his lips pulled back, revealing surprisingly small teeth. He stood up, Andros still clutched to his chest, and he threw his head back at the heavens, his large frame heaving as he silently celebrated, his cheeks wet.
He lowered Andros, steadying him as he stood on unsure feet. His hands reached out, lightly patting Andros’s skeletal face.
“Enough already!” said Andros, not unkindly, and pressed his hand to his head.
Roland tore his shirt off and dipped it into the water, wringing it – it was as clean as he would ever get it. He rolled the shirt up and wrapped in around Andros’s head.
“It will have to do ’til daylight,” he said apologetically.
Andros grabbed Roland by the shoulders, his thin arms shaking. “You’ve done more than I could ever repay already,” his said, his voice trembling. He clenched his eyes shut, but tears still trickled from underneath.
Roland patted him clumsily and turned to Jeklor. “We better go and hide in the woods – we’re not safe yet,” he said.
Chapter 12
For the last nine days, Roland, Jeklor, Andros and Dragon had followed the river south, keeping hidden in the woods. Their progress was slow being shackled together and they were weak from little food.
Roland had wanted to search for herbs, but it was just not practical (the chains restricted them to moving at the edge of the woods – further in it was much too overgrown) and he had to make do with plants growing close by the riverbank, which he used to treat Andros’s wound. At least mushrooms grew in abundance, and they survived on a diet of mushrooms and wild onions, and sometimes roots and berries that Roland reckoned would not kill them outright. They had no flint though, so each meal was eaten raw, and at nighttimes, they huddled close together to share body heat.
Their destination was Drifters’ Hell, which they had no idea of how far it was, but they had all agreed that it was most likely found at the river at some point, since Jeklor had heard that it had access to the ocean. Roland was eager to get there, Jeklor not so much, while Dragon merely nodded and smiled at anyone and everything, and Andros kept his tongue but turned a deadly shade of pale. Both Jeklor and Andros had conflicting stories to tell about Drifters’ Hell, but in all fairness, Andros had spend the last ten years (or so he reckoned), inside a mountain. While Jeklor reckoned their chances of survival were slim, Andros felt that they might as well drown themselves in the river and save time.
Roland had told Andros that he and Dragon did not need to feel obligated to go to Drifters’ Hell, but Dragon would have none of it (pointing at the three men, himself, and then clapping his hands), and even Andros maintained that he owed Roland a debt, and that since he had met Roland his luck had changed for the better (although he had muttered by the sixth day that luck was a fickle beast ...).
By day fourteen, their stomachs were sour from a diet of wild plants and they had to make frequent stops at nearby bushes – an unpleasant affair being chained together – and they walked with pained expressions. If not for Roland’s resolution bordering on the obsessive to reach Drifters’ Hell (he was frequently muttering: “... getting closer ... the time is near ...”) and the fact that his dark moods inspired the party to greater speeds, they might have grown too weak and would never have made it.
Nevertheless, by day nineteen, they finally saw smoke curling upwards in the distance ...
*
As the party walked further on, the river broadened, the water covering a wide area of land. Wooden platforms resting on thick stilts stood in the water, the platforms connected by long walkways and supported by trees. Round wooden huts with reed-thatched roofs stood close together on the platforms, many of them similar in size and design, although Roland noted a few wider platforms devoted entirely to extra large huts with benches and tables strewn about them – he assumed that those were places of trade, since many rough looking men sat nursing bucket-sized mugs, served by even fiercer looking women. Huts had also been constructed next to the river on dry land, and those had similar walkways that connected them to the dwellings on the water. Enormous Bald Cypress-, Weeping Willow- and Pumpkin Ash trees surrounded the village, many of which grew in the water and between the huts, resulting in the river-village being covered by an evergreen canopy, and the humidity was rather high. Drifters’ Hell was not (as Jeklor had heard) built over a swamp, but there was a definite damp feel to it.
Dragon looked very excited as they walked across the water, and he waved at the villagers enthusiastically – no one waved back, though.
“They look rather unfriendly,” whispered Jeklor to Roland as they neared one of the wider platforms.
“More friendly than the guards in the mine, though,” said Roland.
All eyes were fixed on the tattered four men as they walked through the village, their chains clonking on the wooden walkways, but none of the villagers called a greeting.
“Don’t reckon we’re much welcome,” muttered Andros.
Roland stopped in the centre of a wide platform that was devoted to benches, tables, and a large hut. Roland saw that the hut was actually a tavern, but the inside was empty – all the patrons were seated outside. Most of them were drinking what Roland thought was ale, and others ate what looked like fish stew. The smell of the food made his mouth water, but there were more pressing matters to attend to first.
A serving woman paused in her work, but did not invite them to take a seat. It was clear they had not a bent copper coin among them. He, Jeklor, Andros and Dragon were a sorry sight: their clothes were so tattered it barely covered their bodies, and where skin showed, so did bones. Their hair was long and matted, their faces hollowed.
Roland, however, stood tall, staring down at the seated men, his dark eyes skipping from face to face, as if he was searching for a particular person. Jeklor stood slightly behind him, shifting his feet, his eyes lowered. So were Andros’s eyes, but Dragon stood with his arms folded, his thin chest puffed out, mimicking Roland’s gaze. The villagers remained silent, although a few shifted uncomfortably.
Then Roland broke the silence. “I am looking for the strongest man in this settlement,” he said.
Whatever the villagers had expected, that was not it. There was a moment of shocked silence, and then they threw their heads back and howled with laughter, banging mugs on the tables.
“An’ what will you do once you find him? Have a bout?”
“I will pay him two thousand gold pieces to train me for a year,” said Roland.
Again, there was a shocked silence. None of the men had ever owned, nor even seen, so much gold – and neither had Roland for that matter. They looked at him suspiciously, trying to figure out if this was a joke of some kind. His appearance did not exactly lend him any credibility.
Roland smirked at them. “I’ve heard that Drifters’ Hell was home to the most vicious and dangerous men in Calvana. I had though that one of you might have talents that I can use – but it seems the tales were inflated.”
Roland turned his back on them, facing Jeklor, Andr
os and Dragon.
“Two thousand gold pieces – are you mad!” whispered Jeklor. “They will tear us limb from limb if they find out you’re lying.
“I don’t have it yet, but I will,” Roland said calmly.
Jeklor opened and closed his mouth a few times, but his voice kept failing him. This was madness, but he knew no words that could fittingly inform Roland of what a fool he was.
“Hold it!” someone called from behind Roland.
Roland smiled and patted Jeklor on the shoulder. “Best be ready for anything,” he said as he turned back toward the crowd.
“Ready for what!” cried Jeklor, trying to keep his voice down. He looked over at Andros for help, but Andros stood rigid as a statue, his eyes very wide.
“You said two thousand gold pieces,” said a man, coming to stand before Roland. He was tall and skinny, but appeared like a well trained gladiator compared to Roland’s wasted body. His face was thin, and hair even dirtier than Roland’s framed his face.
“I did,” said Roland, and looked the man up and down. He wasn’t impressed by what he saw.
“For training you for a year –“
“That’s right.”
“Training in what?” the man asked, his small eyes resting on the chain shackled to Roland’s leg.
“In death,” said Roland. “But I said the strongest man – you are not it.”
The men seated at the tables had followed the conversation closely, and they burst out laughing. “Saw straight through you, Darsken, he did!” they snorted with laughter.
Darsken’s face turned beet-red, and he pulled a dagger, resting the point on Roland’s chest. “Think you’re funny, dung breath. How ’bout I cut you’re heart out – will you make jokes then ... eh?”
Roland’s eyes narrowed, but not at the dagger at his chest. A bandy-legged man had appeared next to Darsken, a long, slightly curved scabbard with sword inside hooked through a black sash wrapped around his waist. He wore a strange kind of long-sleeved shirt that he seemed to have folded around him, rather than pulling it on over his head, and his trousers were wide, flaring around his legs. Everything he wore was black, apart from his sandals, which were light brown and seemed to have been woven from straw. He was completely bald, and a long thin braided beard hung from his chin, the hair snow white. His eyes were strangely almond shaped and almost as dark as Roland’s. Darsken had not noticed the silent arrival.
“Not so funny now, eh?” sneered Darsken, and pressed the tip of the dagger into Roland’s skin so a trickle of blood ran down his chest.
Roland completely ignored him, instead watching the bandy-legged man. The man returned Roland’s stare, his face impassive, but Roland had the feeling of being measured. Then the man’s hand moved to the hilt of his curved sword, lightly touching it. If Roland had not watched it, he would have missed it. Roland blinked – for but a moment, the scabbard had emptied and sword and hand had disappeared, and then ...
Darsken suddenly crumbled onto the platform, his head coming to rest a few feet away from his body.
The crowed hushed, and Roland heard Jeklor drew in a sharp breath behind him, but still he kept his eyes fixed on the bandy-legged man. The man’s expression had not changed in the slightest, and his eyes had not moved from Roland’s since his arrival. Then the man spoke – his voice soft, but firm.
“Why you wish to kill?”
“To right a wrong.”
“You think death will change past?”
“No, but it will prevent more of its sort.”
“And once you have your death?”
Roland hesitated, and then said, “There will always be more wrongs.”
“Are you prepared?”
“I am.”
“Will you follow teachings without talk?”
“I will.”
The man’s eyes flicked towards Roland’s companions and back. “They part of deal?”
“Yes, but they are free to leave if they should so choose –”
Open mouthed, Jeklor watched the exchange between the two men. They talked so fast it seemed as though they had rehearsed the conversation beforehand. He glanced at Andros, but his eyes were wider than ever, now fixed on the de-bodied head resting by his feet. Dragon, however, did not seem cowed at all. He was watching the exchange with rapt attention, but it did not surprise Jeklor. Dragon, after all, would not be able to comprehend that his own head could be gracing the floor at any moment, too. Jeklor just prayed that Roland knew what he was doing. The man he was talking to was very dangerous. If light had not glinted on the sword as it had sliced through Darsken’s neck, he would have missed it. Jeklor had never seen anything move so fast before. He was sure that Darsken did not even realise he was dead.
“– I am called Roland. And this is Jeklor, Andros and Dragon,” said Roland.
“I am Li Ho,” the man said, his eyes resting for a moment on each man in turn. His gaze stopped at Dragon, and he studied Dragon’s face intently. “You look like dead man come to life. I have good food for you,” Li Ho said kindly, his voice filled with warmth.
Dragon opened his mouth and made a guttural sound.
“Yes,” said Li Ho, unperturbed, “meat also.”
Dragon beamed and Li Ho turned on his heel, striding towards the walkway, stepping over Darsken’s body, his hands clasped behind his back. “Follow,” he said as he walked, “I live outside.”
*
“You have not asked about payment,” said Roland to Li Ho as they followed a narrow trail in the woods, the sound of the river far behind them.
“I have not asked, yes. You have not got gold yet. If I train well, you will make much gold and pay me.”
“You know what I intend to do?”
“Not know, no. But have good idea,” said Li Ho.
Somehow, it did not surprise Roland, but he still had to ask, “How do you know?” He glanced at Li Ho from the side of his eyes.
Li Ho stopped, surprised. “You told me, I listen.”
“No I didn’t. When did I tell you?”
Li Ho snorted and walked ahead of Roland. “You say: ‘There will always be more wrongs.’ That means you will deal death for long time, because many wrongs there is.
“Work long time, make much gold, pay me.”
Jeklor tapped Roland on the shoulder and shook his head, pointing his finger at his ear and drawing small circles in the air with it.
“I see you,” said Li Ho without looking back and all the blood drained from Jeklor’s face. “You clever man. If not so scared all the time, will be even more clever.”
Li Ho stopped walking, and Roland and Jeklor halted behind him. Jeklor grew paler still. “I was just joking,” he said quickly.
Li Ho pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, back down the trail. “Your friends are tired. We go more slow.”
Roland and Jeklor looked behind them and true enough, Andros and Dragon had fallen far behind.
“So you were planning on becoming an assassin from the start,” said Jeklor to Roland as they waited for Andros and Dragon to catch up.
Roland nodded. “When I woke up in that prison cell with you, I realised that Sirol Vanderman will never pay for his crimes –” a muscle twitched below his eye “– unless I did something about it, but I’m not skilled –”
“But you’re a Healer!” interjected Jeklor.
“– skilled with fighting or weapons,” continued Roland as if Jeklor had not said anything. “When you told me of Drifters’ Hell, and how the most vicious bastards were found here, I had the idea to have someone here teach me to kill. But I knew it would only work as long as I can promise gold – enough gold to ensure I get the best training. And the only way I can make enough gold is by collecting ... heads,” Roland finished grimly.
“You have not thought this through at all, have you?” said Jeklor. “So far the only thing that have carried your plan was luck! And how do one even become an assassin? Who will pay you for killing Sirol?”
Jeklor snorted.
“– and Sirol Vanderman I will kill for free,” he said, his eyes cold. “To make gold I will join the Assassins Guild.”
“Assassins Guild you say,” said Jeklor laughing. “The Assassins Guild is a myth – and even if it did exist, how will you even begin to find it?”
“The secret is in entering from the sewers,” said Roland mysteriously.
*
The party reached Li Ho’s cabin just before nightfall.
The woods in front of the cabin had been cleared in a wide arch, making it impossible for one to sneak up on his home without being in the open, and the rear of the cabin rested against a rocky hill.
Li Ho bade them to wait outside, saying, “You stink, not want flees in home,” and disappeared into the cabin. He returned moments later carrying a hammer, chisel and a large clay jug. He handed Roland the hammer and chisel, telling him to knock the pins from their shackles.
Each time a chain fell, it was a testament to being truly free, and once Roland started on his own shackle, his hands shook so much that Jeklor took over for him.
“No worries, old horse,” Jeklor said to Roland as he knocked the pin out, blinking his eyes rapidly.
The four men stood in silence for a moment, staring down at the chains as if they had never seen it before. Around each man’s leg where the shackle had bounded him, the skin was thick and calloused.
“Good,” said Li Ho breaking the silence. He handed Roland the clay jug and a small iron shovel. “Take path there to waterhole. Bury clothes there and wash.” He disappeared back into his cabin without another word.
The path Li Ho had told them to follow looked like a deer trail, and it led them around and to the rear of the hill. It continued up the hill, snaking between large boulders. The top of the hill was nearly flat, the edges encircled with rocks, and it felt as if they stood inside a roofless hall. There was a waterhole between the rocks, the last light of the day reflecting on the smooth surface.