Weapon of Flesh

by Chris A. Jackson

  Wiggen hefted the heavy bucket with a sigh and headed off toward the barn. It had been a long day and they had more guests than usual, six merchants, one with his young son, and a man who was traveling alone. She’d spent half the morning showing their strange new stable hand how to do his job, which had put her behind in her other chores. Granted, if he’d done all she told him to, he had cut her work in half, but she had her doubts about him. His manner was odd, as if he knew nothing at all. She remembered his question when they’d first met, “What is a father?” and shook her head. He must be an escaped slave or something, she thought, her fear and suspicion easing into cautious pity for his obviously inadequate upbringing. Granted, her own childhood had not been exactly easy, but at least she had a father.

  She stepped into the barn and stopped, her eyes widening slightly at the state of the place. Everything was spotless, or as spotless as a barn could be. The floor was swept clean, the tools were all put away, there was no clutter at all and every stall was strewn with a fresh layer of straw. The four saddle horses, and the team of two matched bays were all stabled, groomed, fed and watered, the merchant’s heavily laden wagon was moved to the back and looked to have been scrubbed. She certainly hadn’t expected such a thorough job, not on the first day with the small amount of instruction that she’d given him. But now he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Probably off sleeping somewhere,” she mused, her frown tugging at her scar, which always made her frown the more. “Lad?” she called toward the tack room.

  “Yes, Wiggen.”

  She turned in time to see him plummeting from the hayloft and almost let out a cry of alarm, but he landed as light as a feather. She tried to hide her startlement as he looked at her with that curious askance tilt of his head and placed the broom he’d been using carefully aside.

  “Why do you do that?” she asked, putting the bucket down to rest her aching shoulder.

  “Do what?”

  “Leap down like that. You could hurt yourself, and there’s a ladder right over there.”

  “Jumping is quicker and easier. I could not hurt myself.”

  “Well, be careful anyway.” She turned her head partially away to hide the scar and inspected him sidelong. He certainly looked like he’d been working all day; he was grimy to the elbows, sweat streaked his tunic and bits of straw riddled his hair and clothing. His bare feet were nothing short of filthy. She nodded to the bucket. “I thought you might want to wash up before supper, so I brought you water, some soap and a towel, and there’s some of Tam’s old clothes in here, too.” He took the bundle from her without a word and placed it on the nearby workbench.

  “The guests have eaten, so you can come in whenever you like.” She watched curiously as he sorted the pile of clothes and picked out the towel and soap. “We usually all eat in the kitchen after the guests have finished, so just come in the back way when --” She stopped suddenly as he stripped off his filthy tunic and began working on the knotted rope belt of his trousers. “What are you doing?”

  “I am washing.” He stopped instantly, his face a blank question. “You were correct that I wanted to wash. Should I not?”

  “Not here!” Didn’t this boy have any decency at all? Why, he was standing in plain view of the courtyard and she was three feet away! Her eyes lingered on the layers of corded muscle that his tunic had covered; he was not as skinny as she’d thought, and all of his weight was muscle. His skin was tan beneath the sweat and grime of a day’s work, and so thin that she could see the individual fibers playing in waves along his abdomen and chest.

  “Why not here?”

  “Uh... because!” She snapped her eyes away, hating the rush of heat that washed over her face. “It’s not decent! People can see!”

  “Where should I wash, then, Wiggen?”

  She looked back to him, taken aback at the utter lack of scorn, sarcasm or spite in his voice. On his face was nothing but complete trust, curiosity and the concern that he had done something wrong. She nodded toward one of the stalls, thinking again what a bleak childhood Lad must have had.

  “You can wash in one of the stalls for now. We have bathing rooms in the inn, but you’re a little too dirty to be walking through the common room.” She turned her back as he took the soap and towel and stepped into the first stall. “We like to keep the inn as clean as we can, Lad. The customers like it that way, which means more customers and more money coming in.” She heard him splashing and scrubbing and kept her attention on the courtyard. “If one of our own walks through all dirty and tracking filth from the stables, word might get out that the whole place was dirty, even the kitchen, and then we wouldn’t have any customers at all, see?”

  “I understand,” he said, and she heard one more great splash as he dumped the rest of the bucket over his head in a final rinse.

  “Do you need more water?” she asked. “I can get another bucket from the well if you do.”

  “I do not think I need more water, Wiggen.” She heard the flutter of the towel as he dried himself. “But I forgot the clothes that you brought. I do not want to stand where people can see.”

  “Oh, well here.” She stepped to the workbench and picked out a pair of trousers and a nice blue tunic that she had always liked when Tam wore them. “These should fit closely enough.” She stepped to the stall door, fully expecting him to be wrapped in the towel. She stopped with a gasp, her eyes popping wide at the sight of him standing there amid the damp straw, the towel flung casually over his shoulder.

  “Am I not clean enough?” he asked, looking down at himself and turning a circle before her. “I could not see my back, but I tried to wash well.”

  “No.” Wiggen gaped, forcing herself to turn away and hold out the clothes. “You’re clean.” He lifted the clothes from her hand and she stepped out of the stall, her eyes still wide but focusing on nothing, her hands clenching her apron. Well, he was definitely older than he looked. Earlier she’d thought he might be a tall, lanky thirteen or so; now she knew she’d underestimated by at least three years, which made him only a year or so younger than she. She shook her head sharply and clenched her eyes closed, but she felt as if the sight of him standing like that would be burned into her eyes forever.

  “Did I do something else wrong, Wiggen?”

  “No, er... yes. I mean... Oh, never mind! Just get dressed!”

  “I am dressed,” he said in that same expressionless tone. No malice, no trick, no sly seduction that she would have expected from anyone else. She turned back and knew instantly that she’d made a mistake in giving him those clothes.

  “Is something wrong, Wiggen?” Evidently he could see her discomfort in her face.

  “Oh, nothing. You just remind me of Tam in those clothes.”

  “Who is Tam?” he asked, retrieving his soiled things and the towel from the stall and taking them to the workbench.

  “He was my brother.” She reached for the clothes. “I’ll take those back to the inn.”

  “He is not your brother any longer?” He handed over the dirty things and his hand brushed hers slightly in passing. She drew back a step, snapping her eyes at him. Her ire melted at that same blank stare, so honest and empty.

  “No, he... He died about a year ago.”

  “Oh. I understand.” He took the rest of the clothes and blankets and opened the door to the tack room. Through the door she could see that the entire room had been cleaned and reorganized. The saddles gleamed with oil, the harnesses glittered in the evening sunlight streaming through the one tiny window, and the narrow cot that had formerly been piled with old saddle blankets was clean, the pallet packed with fresh straw.

  “You’ve done a lot of work today.”

  “Yes.” He stood before her and patted down his new tunic. “Am I clean enough to go into the inn?”

  She looked at him and smiled at the way his damp hair was sticking up in odd directions. “You’re clean, but... Here.” She reached up to pat it down, and he moved, snap
ping backward a half step, one hand rising as if to fend her off. “Hold still, Lad. I’m not going to hurt you. Your hair’s just a little ruffled.” She took another step forward and he held still while she finger combed his tumultuous hair into a semblance of order. “There. You’re presentable now.” She took a step back and smiled again. “Hungry?”

  “Yes.” His voice was slightly different, as if he were strained or scared. She shook her head and smiled. He certainly was a strange young man, but she knew now that she’d been wrong about him at first, and she was glad for it. It would be nice to have someone her own age around for a change.

  “Well, follow me, then, and we’ll get something to eat.” She turned and he followed her to the back door of the inn, so silent that she twice turned back to make sure he was there. He was there both times, half a step behind and to her left, like a shadow.

  Or a ghost, she thought, her smile fading once again with thoughts of Tam. She frowned and felt it tug at the year-old scar on her face.

  After dinner, Lad left the inn and strolled back toward the barn. Evening’s light was still fading, but stars had come out, and the moon was already halfway across the sky. He stopped and looked up for a moment, remembering Flindle’s love for sitting beside his forge in the evening and looking up at the stars. His mind wandered over his recent experiences and he wondered once again about his destiny and where he might find it. His eyes were drawn to the courtyard gate and the city beyond, so large and daunting.

  “So many decisions to make,” he said to himself.

  He looked back at the inn, recalling the warm feeling of sitting down and eating with Forbish, Wiggen and the surly serving woman, Josie, who bustled in and out with tankards of ale and wine. There was another decision, he realized suddenly; he could choose to stay here and not pursue his destiny at all. These people were kind, the food was good, and they enjoyed his help and his company. They cared for him, and he worked for them; the relationship was perfect, seamless, like a sword slipping into its scabbard.

  But the curiosity nagged at him, his Master’s words ringing in his mind over and over. He longed to know what he was made for, what purpose he was meant to serve. It called to him like a siren song and before he realized he was moving, Lad found that his steps had taken him across the inn courtyard and out the gate.

  The city of Twailin engulfed him and Lad began meticulously memorizing every detail, every street, building, signpost and storefront as he carefully began a systematic search through the twilight city streets for his destiny.

  Chapter XI

  As the faintest glow of predawn lightened Lad’s room his eyes opened as if on cue. It was cool in the tack room and the blankets were warm, but Lad had never known luxury or had the option of sleeping late. He sat up slowly, weary from his long night of prowling the city. His skin rose in gooseflesh, but he did not don his clothes yet. He rose and began a series of slow exercises that he had learned from one of his teachers; gentle stretches evolved into a liquid sequence of moves that prepared his body for the stresses of the day. The exercises became a fluid dance of slow strikes, sweeps and turns. He moved and flowed, becoming more limber with each successive position, his concentration guiding him flawlessly through the complex series. When he was finished, his skin was warm, though he had not broken a sweat. He donned his tunic and sat lotus upon the floor, his mind slipping into the calming meditation that ordered his thoughts.

  First the body, then the mind, and the two become one.

  This had become his routine over the last week: rise with dawn’s first light, stretch, exercise, meditate, see to his duties around the inn and stables throughout the day; then, after dinner, when darkness and silence took over the inn, he would slip out into the streets and prowl. He had memorized about a third of the city in his first seven nights’ excursions, ordering the jumble of streets and buildings into a pattern in his mind. He knew not what he was looking for, but he felt that becoming familiar with his environment was a reasonable first step. The need for sleep always brought him back to the inn some time after midnight, but habit and training opened his eyes at first light. There was a structure to this routine, a rhythm that he either craved innately or was compelled to require by the magic that was ingrained into his soul. Of course, Lad knew nothing of craving or compulsion; the routine just felt right.

  He stood and donned his trousers, awake and alert and ready for the day.

  The first wisps of smoke fluttered from the kitchen chimney as he left the barn. Forbish was stoking the fires in the kitchen stoves to life when he entered, and greeted Lad with his usual morning exuberance.

  “Morning, Lad! Sleep well? There’s a bite of bread for ya on the sideboard. Go ahead and lay a fire in the common room for me.”

  “Good morning, Forbish.” He took a slice of the dark bread and ate it as he entered the main room and quickly laid a fire. The door to the kitchen squeaked, and he knew it was Wiggen even before he turned his head.

  “Good morning, Wiggen.” She brought a bit of burning tallow from the kitchen fire to kindle the larger one, and smiled as he stepped aside for her.

  “G’morning, Lad.” Her voice was thick with sleep. He knew she was not at her best in the morning by her own admission that she rarely slept well, though he knew not why. He waited while she lit the tinder and coaxed the little blaze to life. He added two larger pieces of wood to the fire and watched them catch, but Wiggen just sat there staring at the flames. Usually she was up and back in the kitchen by now, helping Forbish with the morning bread and sipping at the dark brew that was half of the inn’s claim to fame. This departure from routine brought him up short. Had he done something wrong? Her eyes were locked onto the growing blaze as if some secret could be delved from its depths.

  “Wiggen?”

  “Oh! Sorry, Lad. I was just lost there for a moment, you know.”

  “Lost?” He placed two more pieces of wood on the fire and stood with her. She still stared at the flames, but was not transfixed by them now.

  “Yeah. I was remembering a dream I had last night and my mind wandered.”

  “A dream?” This was one more term that he didn’t know.

  “A bad dream, about the day Tam died. Sometimes in my dreams I see him alive again, and sometimes I watch him die again, just like before.” She looked at him and he could see water pooling in the crescents of her eyes. “I have them a lot. It’s why I don’t sleep very well, I guess.” She wiped at her eyes, a frown of annoyance tugging at the corners of her mouth. She moved her hair to cover the side of her face that was scarred. “I know it’s silly. It’s been over a year, but I still...”

  Lad still wasn’t quite sure what she was talking about, but he could see that she was troubled somehow. These dreams she spoke of sounded more like memories to him. He didn’t understand how memories could be good or bad, they just were. He had acute memories of his upbringing, his training, every fight he’d ever been in, and every moment he lay under his old master’s hands, feeling the press of the needles and the rush of power from the magic. His memories lay like books upon a shelf in his mind, there if he needed them, but only when he needed them. Perhaps others’ memories invaded their thoughts like unwelcome guests.

  “Your memories trouble you.”

  “Yeah.” She sniffed, and turned to go back to the kitchen. “I wish I could forget it all.”

  “You cannot forget, Wiggen, but your memories need not cause you trouble.”

  “What?” She turned back, her eyes narrow and skeptical.

  “You can order your thoughts.” He found it hard to explain the concept of meditation. “Your memories, those which cause you trouble, can be placed where they belong in your mind so that you recall them only when you need to. I was trained to do this. I will teach you, if you wish.”

  “How?”

  “The mind is like the body; just as you can teach someone to do something, like you taught me to milk the cows, you can teach the mind to perform certain ta
sks.” He shrugged, stumbling over the concept. His memories of the training were perfectly clear and most of his words were those of the one who had trained him. “It is not hard to learn, but very difficult to master. It may help you.”

  “I don’t --”

  “Wiggen!” The call from the kitchen was obviously Forbish, and he did not sound pleased.

  “After breakfast, Lad,” she said, whirling toward the kitchen.

  Lad squatted back down in front of the fire, adding two more lengths of pine and watching the flames lick at the pale wood. He looked into the flames, watched their patterns swirling in the constant upward spiral that was faintly hypnotic. No memories lurked in the flames to torment Lad’s mind; all of his memories were securely locked away, and would not come to the surface unless he needed them.

  “This is unprecedented, Grandfather.” Targus’ boots whisked along the flagstones of his master’s courtyard, half a pace behind the Grandfather’s silent steps. Jax followed them both, and Targus could feel the young man’s temper smoldering like a bed of coals. “She is naught but a girl, and a headstrong one at that! You will rue putting her in such a critical position.”

  “I will rue?” The Grandfather stopped in the span of a single stride, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Speak not of actions to be regretted when you commit them yourself, Master Targus! You overreach yourself when you deign to tell me what I will do!”

  “I spoke out of turn, Grandfather,” Targus said, the muscles of his jaw bunching and relaxing rhythmically. “I am simply concerned that you have put a witless girl in a position that may cause you difficulty in the future. She will serve herself in this, not you.”

  A dagger stood before Targus’ left eye before he could blink it, the needle point a finger-breadth from ending his life. He stood perfectly still, knowing better than to try anything as foolish as drawing a weapon. Even if he could have cleared the weapon from its sheath before being pithed, he was bound by more than words when it came to raising a hand against the Grandfather. He clenched his left hand on the obsidian ring that encircled his finger and bound his soul to his master.