“Well, we must help you find him, then, and with all alacrity!” Hensen stood and Mya followed suit.
“Thank you, Master Hensen,” she said, taking his proffered hand in a perfunctory clasp. “Your usual fee for locating missing persons, I assume?”
“Quite.” He swirled his cloak around himself and made for the door. “I shall send a messenger when the young man is located, Miss Mya. You need only await my word.”
“I will, Master Hensen.” When the door closed behind him, she muttered, “Cocky bastard,” barely loud enough for her own ears to hear.
She stood silently, weighing every word that had been said for several breaths. Finally she took her seat and sipped her blackbrew, perusing the maps once again.
“Permission to speak, Junior Journeyman?”
Mya looked up to find Jax standing stiffly in front of the table, his hands clenched behind him. She could see the strain in him and wondered just how much he hated her for passing him by so suddenly.
“Of course, Jax. What is it?”
“Hensen is no fool. He knows that the boy is valuable. He will capture him and hold him ransom. He will name his price, and we will risk war if we do not pay it.”
“Give me some credit, Jax. Hensen may very well be a genius, but he is an ignorant one.” Mya took a scone from the tray and bit off a corner, chewing thoughtfully while Jax squirmed in discomfort. “He doesn’t know how dangerous the weapon is. If he doesn’t take the hint I gave him and tries to apprehend the boy, all we’ll have to do is follow the trail of dead thieves straight to him.”
“You play a dangerous game, Mya,” he said, inclining his head in a mock bow.
“We all play the same game, Jax. We’ve been playing it since the day we joined the Guild. Some of us just know how dangerous it is.” She briefly searched her sheaf of papers and recovered a tightly bound scroll. “Take this to Brin in The Sprawls and tell her I want an answer by highsun.”
“At once, Junior Journeyman.” Jax took the scroll and went away. All Mya could wish was that she could make all her problems go away so easily.
“Hey! What do you --”
“Stop that, you!”
“What now?” Forbish muttered, dusting flour from his hands and rounding the kitchen table for the common room. Josie sounded angry. All they needed was another problem with one of the guests. He shouldered the door aside, drawing breath to settle the squabble, but a fist roughly the size of a tankard of ale came out of nowhere and met with the side of his head. The blow sent him to the floor, but the same huge hand grasped his tunic and lifted him bodily.
“Well, here’s Fat Man Forbish himself!” a voice thundered in his face. A smaller hand slapped him twice and the stars that were swimming in his vision cleared. Forbish knew immediately that he was in trouble.
“Urik!” he said, still dazed, but able to take in the mayhem that had overrun the common room.
Josie struggled in the grasp of another ruffian and one of the two guests that had been taking a late breakfast was picking himself up from the floor. There were four of the thugs in all, the huge brute that held Forbish, one that held Josie, another that was threatening his guests, and Urik, their boss. Forbish knew this one, and that alone was enough to confirm that this was no ordinary trouble.
“That’s right Fat Man. Urik the Knife.” The man drew his namesake and brandished it before Forbish’s face. “And this is your wake-up call.”
“What’s this about?” one of the guests asked, his voice shaking with impotent rage. All four of the thugs were armed and they would take what they wanted, that much was obvious.
“Unpaid taxes!” Urik bawled over his shoulder at the two men. “This place is under new management! Now show these two the door, Davish. They look like they need to take a walk.”
“You heard him,” the ruffian said, waving a short sword under their noses for emphasis. “Take a walk. Come back fer supper, and you can settle up accounts.”
The two men needed little encouragement. That these were not the Duke’s representatives was obvious, but being merchants themselves, they knew that there were other kinds of payments that the business owners of Twailin had to pay. The two merchants left, their departure accompanied by the raucous laughter of the four thugs.
At that point, Forbish heard the thump of the kitchen door swinging into the back of the hulking brute holding him, and a startled, “What the --” that could only be one person.
“Run, Wiggen!” he shouted, thinking only to save his daughter from the horrors that he knew were to come, horrors of which he knew she had already seen too many.
The crash of crockery hitting the floor and a scream as the back door banged open told him that she had fled. Two more screams and a man’s coarsely shouted curse told him that he’d failed. Forbish struggled to break the grip on him. He finally got a look at the brute and knew why he felt so weak against the hold. The man towered over him. His skin was the color of a rotten egg yolk and two short tusks protruded from between black lips. The man had ogre blood in his veins and the grip felt like a vise was being tightened upon his arms.
The kitchen door was slammed open and the thrashing, screaming, cursing bundle of skirts that was Wiggen was carried bodily into the room by the thug that had been waiting by the back door.
“Lookie what I caught!” the man crowed, grabbing a handful of hair and silencing Wiggen’s struggles with a jerk. He had four parallel welts running from his ear to the tip of his jaw that were beginning to leak blood. Her struggles had not been totally ineffectual. “You remember this one, don’t ya, Urik?”
“Oh, indeed I do!” Urik stepped around Forbish and up to the terrified girl. “But I see she hasn’t completely gotten over our last visit, has she?” He traced the scar on the side of her face then jerked his hand back from her gnashing teeth.
“Let her go, Urik!” Forbish was pleased that his voice didn’t show how terrified he was. “I’ve got your damned money. Let her go and you can have it.”
“You don’t understand, Fat Man,” the thug said, turning from Wiggen to Forbish. “Money’s not the point any more; you broke the rules. Rules that we had to teach you once before, and you still broke ’em.” He waved his dagger in front of Forbish’s face for emphasis. “The last time we had to teach you cost you a son and left your girl here marked for life. Though she don’t look too much the worse for wear.” He eyed Wiggen over his shoulder and grinned maliciously.
“I’ll double it!” Forbish cried, trying to think of anything to save his daughter.
“Double, triple, it don’t matter, Fat Man. You broke the rules.” He nodded to his men, and then at the kitchen door. “Lets go someplace where we can discuss this private, like.”
Forbish, Wiggen and the terrified serving woman Josie were pushed and prodded through the kitchen, tap room and finally into the storeroom. There, the hulking creature who held Forbish bound his hands and tied them to a hook that supported sacks of onions from the ceiling in the corner. The women were held, and Urik brandished his dagger, pacing the floor and chuckling dangerously.
“Nice thick stone walls in here. Good. We’re not likely to disturb the neighbors. Now Forbish, I’ll let you choose which of these lovely young ladies we’re going to entertain first.” He flipped the knife, a foot-long, double-edged fighting dagger, and spun it in his palm expertly. “Your daughter, or your employee?”
“Damn you, Urik!” Forbish struggled, but every move threatened to dislocate his shoulders.
“Oh, you want me to choose. How kind.” He strolled to Josie and leaned close with a predatory smile. “I think the serving wench first, then. That way the girl can see what’s in store for --”
Josie spat in his face.
“Filthy cow!” Urik’s dagger swung in the dim light, but it was the hilt, not the blade, that impacted upon Josie’s temple. The woman collapsed, sagging in the grasp of her captor. Urik wiped his face and waved the woman away as if she could respond. “Let he
r rest for a while, Baral. I’m sure she’ll wake up before we’re finished with the good innkeeper’s young daughter.”
Baral dropped Josie in the corner. She landed like a sack of grain, utterly senseless, blood oozing from the shallow cut on her temple. Urik turned to Wiggen and the girl’s struggles redoubled, even to the point where she broke one arm free and flailed at her captor.
“That just won’t do, Tomi. Let Quegul hold the girl.” He brandished the knife as Wiggen was handed off to the hulking half-ogre. Hands closed on her arms like iron manacles and all her struggles didn’t affect the brute’s grip in the slightest.
“Now...” He stepped forward and put the tip of his dagger under Wiggen’s nose. “Hold still while your daddy learns why he mustn’t break the rules any more, Lassie.” Without pause, he gripped the neck of her dress firmly in his free hand and jerked, tearing the material open to the waist.
Wiggen’s scream rose on the air like a dying bird, piercing and horrible, and it broke her fathers heart as surely as if a knife had been thrust through it.
“NOO!” Forbish wailed, wrenching forward against his bonds, heedless of the pain.
“Oh, so much over so little?” Urik laughed, grabbing a handful of the girl’s hair and wrenching her head back. “I haven’t even touched her yet and you’re both crying like spitted pigs!”
Wiggen’s tears streaked her face, her eyes clenched tightly, her chest heaving with each sobbing gasp. Forbish couldn’t take the sight of it, his daughter, his only child, naked and weeping. “Anything...” he cried, falling against his bonds. “Anything you want...”
“Oh, we’ll take what we want, Fat Man. You can be sure of that.” He brought his blade to the unscarred side of the girl’s face and said, “And what I want first is to give this young lass a little symmetry.”
“What are you doing?”
At the strange voice, everyone’s attention suddenly snapped to the door. Lad stood there, eyes wide, hands at his sides. Wiggen’s eyes snapped open, her sobs coming up short. The thugs stared in wonder at being surprised. The two at the door brandished their weapons, and Forbish saw Lad’s eyes shift left, then right, then back to Urik and Wiggen behind him.
“We’re just teachin’ this young lass some manners, Boyo,” he growled, jerking the girl’s hair again and waving the knife. “Unless you wanna be next, I suggest you take a hike.”
“Stop. I won’t let you do this.” Lad’s voice was the same calm timbre as ever, but there was a tremor in his jaw that Forbish had never seen.
Wiggen screamed, “No, Lad! Run!”
“Yes, run, Laddy,” Urik laughed, turning back to Wiggen and raising the knife. “Show him the door, boys.”
Forbish’s eyes were on his daughter, so he didn’t see what happened while his heart hammered twice in his chest. He heard a crack, a gasp, then a sickening crunch and the sound of a body hitting the floor. He looked back, fully expecting Lad to be lying in a pool of blood. His jaw dropped at what he saw.
“Unholy mother of --”
“What?” Urik looked back and his eyes widened until Forbish thought they would pop out. One corpse lay at Lad’s feet, its head twisted backward on its body, a look of utter astonishment painted on its features. The other man still stood, but the thug’s own sword, still gripped in his hand, was thrust up his nose and through the back of his skull. Lad released his bloodied grip on the man’s wrist and the twitching corpse dropped.
“Let her go.” Lad took a step forward, poised, blood dripping from his fingers, his eyes welded to Urik’s.
Urik grabbed Wiggen’s arm and stepped behind her, nudging his huge companion and nodding toward Lad as his blade tucked under the girl’s chin. The other thug limbered up two broad-bladed hand axes and stood ready, the weapons held on guard.
“Kill him,” Urik said simply and the huge brute lunged like a cat at an unsuspecting mouse while his companion spun in a sweeping two-bladed attack.
Forbish was watching this time and still Lad’s movement was almost too fast to follow.
Lad spun low. The heel of one lashing foot intersected the axe-wielding thug’s knee. Bone splintered and the thug went down screaming, but one of his sweeping axes was right on target. An inch before the blade would have cleaved Lad’s neck, it was clapped between his two flat palms and twisted from the man’s nerveless fingers. Lad’s deadly pirouette continued. The stolen weapon flipped in his grasp and swept around to meet the charging half-ogre’s skull just above the jutting brow. The creature landed with a resounding thump, its skull halved like a melon on display. The other thug lay crumpled and weeping, clutching the shards of bone that jutted from his leg.
Lad stood among the carnage, his eyes once again on Urik’s. He took a step, and to everyone’s astonishment, dropped the hand axe. He stood two strides from the embraced pair, but Urik’s dagger was firmly nestled at Wiggen’s throat.
“Now, let her go.”
“I’ll cut her pretty throat, Boy. Quick as you are, you can’t keep me from killing her!”
“You will not kill her.” Lad’s voice quivered like a tuning fork, the muscles of his jaw and neck bunching and relaxing rhythmically.
“Won’t I, Boy?” Urik grinned maniacally, jerking the girl’s hair back again.
“No, you --”
But Urik had seen something neither Lad nor Forbish had detected, and the innkeeper’s yell of warning could not prevent the dagger from plunging into the boy’s back.
“Lad!” he yelled as the man on the floor lunged, but it was too late.
He watched the dagger go in just below the ribs. It slammed to the hilt and Lad stood there, perfectly still. Forbish could see the blade tenting the skin of the boy’s stomach and thought he must be in shock. But Lad was not in shock, and reached back in a flash to grip the man’s wrist. His grip tightened until Forbish heard the bones of the man’s forearm crack and splinter. Screams shook the air as the man released the dagger, but none were Lad’s.
Then, as everyone stood in horror, Lad reached back with his free hand and pulled eight inches of bloodied steel from his back without so much as a twitch of pain. Crimson cascaded down his trousers as he brought the dagger around and economically drew it across the man’s throat. The screams died in a gurgling torrent.
Lad dropped the dagger, turned to Urik and took another step. He stood within striking distance now, and there was naught but terror in the thug’s eyes. Lad held out a bloodied hand.
“Give me the knife.”
“I’ll cut her Gods-damned throat!” Urik threatened, his voice trembling in stark fear.
Forbish stood stunned as Lad’s jaw clenched. He saw the muscles of his forearm and neck writhe under the skin. Then, as he watched, a faint spider web of light shone through the skin, green white, like runes or symbols. Forbish was three feet away and could feel the heat emanating from Lad in waves, as if he were on fire.
“Wiggen.” Lad’s voice was a whisper, calm and soothing.
“Wha --” Her attention snapped to his eyes, to the peace there, so contrasting the strain of his muscles.
“The dagger,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing as one foot moved minutely, “is a sparrow.”
She stood for a moment, then Forbish saw the most curious thing: Wiggen smiled, and closed her eyes.
In the next instant, Lad’s hand was wrapped around the blade of the dagger, his fingers between its edge and her throat. He pulled the blade away slowly and Urik’s hand came with it, his eyes wide with shock and surprise. Urik jerked and pulled at the blade and blood poured over it, the edge grating against bone, but Lad’s features remained calm, his grip like iron.
Then Lad moved.
His foot whisked over Wiggen’s head, brushing her hair in passing. The leading edge impacted upon Urik’s nose, smashing bone and driving his head back into the unyielding stone. Lad’s kick drove on, crushing bone, pulping flesh and sinew until his foot struck stone. The small room shook, dust falling like snow from the
rafters as Urik’s body slumped to the floor.
“Lad!” Wiggen lunged forward, her arms flung around him in a crushing embrace. “Oh, Lad!”
Forbish watched in shock as the boy stumbled backward with her weight. The strain and the odd green light were gone, or maybe never were, just a figment of an old man’s pain-ridden imagination. But his daughter’s sobs of relief were real, and watching her smother the stunned boy in teary kisses took much of the pain from his shoulders away. Then Lad’s hand opened slowly, and he saw the deep cuts as the dagger fell away.
“Wiggen! Stop it, Girl! He’s hurt!” More like dying, he thought, remembering the deep stab in his back.
“Oh, Gods!” Wiggen flung herself back, grasping at his hand. She snatched at her riven dress, tearing off strips of cloth to wrap his hand. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s amazing he’s even standing, Lass!” Forbish shouted. “Cut me loose and see if you can wake Josie. Someone’s got to run for a healer and you’re in no condition.”
“I am not hurt,” Lad said, wiping his hand on his trousers. While Wiggen fumbled for the dagger that would have ended her life, Lad took a step and parted Forbish’s bonds.
“Not hurt?” Forbish’s arms fell, pain lancing through his shoulders. “You should be dead, Lad! That was a killing stroke you took! Hold still while I have a look. You’re witless with blood loss, is what you are.”
“It is not so bad, Forbish,” he said as the man turned him and tore open the tunic from the hole the dagger had made.
“It was in to the bloody hilt, Lad!” He wiped the congealing blood away, but there was just a thin pink line where there should have been a gaping hole. “What in the name of the Gods?”
“It is healed. See?” He held up his hand for Forbish and Wiggen to see. As they watched, the torn skin closed. “I heal fast.”
“Fast?” Forbish gasped, taking a step back. He made a warding sign with his fingers.
“It’s magic!” Wiggen’s stood in awe, her eyes as big as saucers.
Weapon of Flesh Page 12
