Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite Page A

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
     
    T he 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 thinking!”
    “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,