Assassin's Rise by CJ Whrite

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 him. 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