Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite Read Free Book Online

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