by V. C. Willis
It was then I noticed the three smaller tomahawks in one man’s hands much like the one on my hip. Someone offered me an ale, and I took it without complaint. The brute locked eyes with me, tossing the three weapons as they grouped on the red mark without a glance once more. A snort escaped me, and he began a rolling fit of chuckling at my reaction. His stance was more relaxed, relying on the swing of his arm and trusting his body. There was no squaring off his footing but rather a side stance, and it hit me. Peripheral. He was relying on the movements, and though his target was stationary this time, this would serve effectively in battle. He’s a knight or fighter of some kind. Or at least was at some point. Another swig of ale, and I watched as someone retrieved his tomahawks as he marched up to me.
“Assassin, do you not want to join us?” His voice purred as he arched an eyebrow at me. “The name’s Jack, king of the Jacks. And you are?”
“I see. Call me… Half-pint.” Sucking on my cheek, gauging the stares, I confessed, “I’d love to join, but I’ve never thrown an axe besides to split wood on the block.”
“Well, that’s the first lesson, Half-pint.” He grinned, motioning for me to stand. “And how can you say you don’t throw with such a nice tomahawk at your side?”
Stretching, I cracked my neck one way then the next. “I never said I didn’t want to learn to throw. Figured obtaining the weapon would help when the opportunity presented itself.”
“Well, then we shall call this an opportunity!” He spun around as if showboating for the audience, arms thrown up to encourage the roar of laughter and slapping of thighs. “Never know until you make that first throw, hmm? Mr. Half-pint?”
“True.” He stepped back and motioned for me to step up to the crude line cut by a boot in the ground. “Any pointers for a first-timer?”
“Do you need it? You’ve been watching with such a serious gaze all night.” Taking a sip from a fresh ale, the foam dripping off the heavy stein, Jack added, “I think you have an idea how to start already.”
I took a deep breath, and the men’s laughter shifted to a low babbling of voices like a creek. Pulling the tomahawk free from my belt, I tossed it from one hand to the other in thought. These didn’t feel like the well-balanced throwing knives I had once played with in the Old Farmer’s den on snow-heavy days. The head of the weapon was heavy as well as the end of the handle. It begged to lead and stretch across the span, though it reminded me how I used to toss horseshoes with the stablemen in Glensdale. I squared my stance and chest with the target, gauging the distance. Looking to the weapon, I finally exhaled.
This is meant for one-handed throws, so I’ll have to take the other stance. Unlike the other lumberjacks, Jack’s axes were smaller and nothing like the wood splitters the others had thrown.
Twisting, I lined the side of my body with the target and rolled my shoulder. I’m going to throw like shit because it’s my right arm, but… Doing my best to mirror Jack’s throwing, I brought the tomahawk high, letting my elbow lock and used the rotation of my shoulder. I slung it forward, and it landed in the dirt to the right of the target. The lumberjacks shouted and cackled as I marched up and retrieved it.
“You did alright, first-timer,” gruffed Jack. “Point your toe at the target this time. After that, you need to learn how much power to put into it to keep her flying. Arm swing will do if you can keep it locked and swinging straight. Try again, Half-pint!”
Resetting at the line, I pointed my right toe to the target. This reminds me of how Ashton’s starting stance works. I wonder. Squatting slightly, ignoring the whispers and chuckles at my awkward adjustments to the stance compared to all who had thrown before me, I relaxed my body more. Inhaling deeply, I held it. Slinging my arm, I gave it more power than before.
Thud! The tomahawk hit the side of the tavern just above the target.
“Shit,” I muttered. So close on my second throw. Too much power.
“Well, look at that, boys!” Jack threw out his arms once more, addressing the watching eyes. “Who wants to put a coin down that he hits center next?”
“Horseshit,” spat an old veteran. “I’ll put a coin down he doesn’t!”
“Aye!” Another man stood, raising his glass high. “He’ll hit the dirt or the tavern again before the target as soft as his knees are!”
“How much ale has he had?” chortled a woman sitting in a man’s lap. “He can’t even stand up right.”
A few more shouts and the coins were stacking up, easily ten to one odds that I wouldn’t hit the target at all. Jack spun back to me as I stopped at the line once more. Pumping my fist, I flustered. This would be easier with my left, but Ashton was right-handed. Jack’s heavy hand patted my shoulder. The bitter stench of ale on his breath as he came nose-to-nose with me. Locking gazes, there was a coy look in his eyes.
“You hit the target in the red, and I’ll let you take the winnings,” he offered.
“Heh, you sure you want to make that kind of bet?” I arched an eyebrow, smirking.
“What those drunk old men don’t see is you knew what stance was right for the weapon on the first try.” I froze, his words sounding too sober for as much as he had downed all night. “The second try, you tried to relax into a more knowing stance, yes?” My silence was more than enough to goad him on. “So, this time, show them what it means to be in The Guild.”
“If I hit red, you keep the coins, and we sit in private for a talk,” I demanded, chills rolling over me as he released his grip.
“You’d have to split the target in two for that honor.” Jack spun, shielding his expression as he whistled. “Fresh target for this round!”
Snorting, I turned to the line. I don’t know who the hell he is, but something tells me he might provide insight on the brigade or even Fallen Arbor. Again, I pointed my toe and this time stood tall. Even when not looking, he stood tall but relaxed. Stretching my arm out, I followed the invisible path of where my foot pointed until I stared the target down the length of my arm and axe. That’s right. He always did this pose, though fleeting thanks to his experience, I imagine. Calming my nerves, I let the tension melt away like I did when settling into my training stance. In a quick, fluid motion I slung the tomahawk.
Thud-crack!
The target broke into halves, and the spectators leapt to their feet. A cacophony of whistles and shouts filled the air as they surrounded me in a rush. Slaps and pats, hand shaking, and praise waved out of them. Where’s Jack? Over the crowd of heads, I saw him leaning on a tree at the edge of the dark forest. Some place private. Let’s do this. Grabbing the coin bag, I handed it to the youth who had been running the targets all night, and he gave me back my tomahawk.
“Buy all these men a round and something for yourself!”
I didn’t wait for a reply. The lumberjacks followed the boy like dogs to scraps as I cut between the rushing bodies. By the time I got to the trees, Jack had finished. His prints sank heavily in the mud, and his scent lingered in the air. I took a deep breath, listening close as I swiveled my head to the right. He’s leading me pretty far out, but I don’t sense anyone else out here. I don’t think it’s an ambush. Shaking the shudder from my shoulders, I pulled my mask back on. Time to be serious. My steps marched through the trees, the tomahawk in my hand as I found him leaning on a tree, lighting a rolled cigarette.
“Be honest.” Deeper voiced now, he glanced at me with a cautious expression. “You’re the guy the Berserk Brigade came looking for, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know of any other assassins travelling with clergymen.”
He snorted and continued, slow and calculating, “I suppose you got me there. You seemed to have won over the villagers before I made it back from the mill. That’s no easy feat after what they did to these folks.”
“I wish we had gotten here sooner,” I whispered.
“With the state of the gear and tired from
travelling…” He looked me up and down, taking a slow draw of his cigarette before releasing the smoke. “…you would have made matters worse.”
Crossing my arms, the tomahawk’s blade hooked in my fingers, I challenged him, “If they took out the two strongest jacks, where were you?”
He shook his head, eyes darting up to express his anger. “Tricked. The Berserk Brigade didn’t want to chance me being here when they hit. Otherwise, we would have had some fighting chance or tact with my help. Had me looking for a lost boy who’d broken his legs…” The hard pause and tension made me uneasy. “Don’t repeat this, but the old logger’s grandson isn’t coming home. Buried the pitiful thing in an unmarked grave. There wasn’t much to bring back. Fucking monsters left him to… to a pack of Flesheaters.”
“I thought the Madness was dissipating?” Every nerve in my body was on high, tightening in my joints until they ached. “What is the status on the battlefront?”
“Look, Half-pint.” Another long drag and he looked me dead in the eyes, this time with a glazed look. “Since the Berserk Brigade showed on this side, the Madness has flared up and regained its hold. Rumors say they have some way of causing it, like the Rabid Dog, but I don’t know…”
A soul weapon. It can’t be… but if Fallen Arbor is supporting them… “Tell me more about their commander,” I demanded.
“He’s the biggest with a nasty burn down half his face to the point his lips won’t close all the way on one side and drool drips from his chin. Has a bull ring, and hell, every one of them are carrying blunt force weapons or large blades. Dasa is his name. No one knows much about him besides that the head knight of the Royal Guard brought him down and ended his spree of terrorizing the women of Captiva City. A few years later, the King declared a new ruling body and much to our horror, Dasa was named commander of the Berserk Brigade.” One more drag and the cigarette was spent. He snuffed the nub under his boot. “At first, folks hoped they’d stay on the battlefield, but when a fight between them and the Royal Guards unfolded, we lost faith in who was in charge of The Tower. Who makes their word law knowing they’d have their way with his own daughter if left alone with Princess Sonja? The king aims to kill her because he’d rather see her dead before letting a woman sit on his throne. Back when the queen passed away, many suspected foul play, and I think he was to blame there, too.”
Snorting, I soaked in the information before prodding further, “And what of the Princess?”
Shaking his head, he muttered curses under his breath. “Servants whisper that she’s been missing since the start of winter. We can’t figure out why no bounty or search party or something hasn’t been issued. Shitbag dad of the year, that king of ours. The House is looking like a safer nation to align with more and more each year.”
“Maybe he fears bringing it to light that she’s not safe in the castle or even city walls.” I shrugged, shoving the tomahawk in my belt. “It can’t be safe to let The House know she’s outside running amuck.”
He shook his head, grunting, “Nah, he’s always sounded the trumpets at first sign of anything he wanted back. No one’s seen the King in some time, not even the princess herself. Only that shady Bishop Marquis seems to have seen him as of late.”
A chill snaked up my spine, and I lowered my voice, “Then you think someone has taken his place in secret?”
“Let me ask you, Assassin. Have you heard of L’Arbre Tombe?”
“And if I have?” Narrowing my eyes, I wondered how deeply rooted Landon’s reach lay just south of The House’s territory. Is the King of Jacks an operative, too?
“Don’t oppose them. They’ll take everyone you love and hold dear from you.” He turned and began to march away. “I won’t be back before you leave, so take care and hope you live to see tomorrow.”
Shit. Things are worse than I thought. Valiente and the princess haven’t told us about the real dilemma in Captiva City, and until they do, I’m not leaving here without knowing.
Chapter 17
Sleepless Passion
By the time I made my way back into the tavern, the crowd of lumberjacks had dissipated and the bar was dark. Lanterns had been snuffed out, the inn keeper and bartender gone, and a man snored in a chair in a far corner. Some security this place has. A single figure sat at the bar in the darkness, and I pulled up a stool beside them, my senses telling me it was Red Wine.
“Did you get any answers?” Red Wine let her hood drop, placing her mask on the counter.
“More questions, I think.” Folding my arms, I leaned forward and rested my chin on them. “I’m sure you already knew the Berserk Brigade slammed this place looking for us.”
“I did, but I’m going to be honest, I haven’t faced these men before.” Pulling out a flask, she took a swig and closed it with haste. “I must say you surprised me today.”
“I seem to have a talent of surprising folks.” I snorted.
“You took a turned-upside-down-town into a support effort. Ashton wasn’t so quick-witted or sharp-tongued as…” She paused a moment and corrected her aim. “No. Let me try again. You are both sharp-tongued, but how you use it is quite different, more beneficial for the whole.”
“I suppose this is where you reprimand me and correct me to match my brother.” I drew in a slow, deep breath and blew it out my nose.
“No. This I like about you, Half-pint.” She propped her elbow on the table, picking me apart with her eyes. “Ashton cut people with his words. Don’t get me wrong—you both are very intimidating when you speak, but he spoke to goad them into action for better or worse. Meanwhile, you got us out of a trap I hadn’t completely figured out how to soothe over. So don’t lose this gift. It suits you.”
I grunted. “Did you just compliment me for being … me?”
“Perhaps. What else did you pry from the King of Jacks? He hasn’t been an informant for me since…” her voice faltered and she frowned, speaking tenderly, “since I failed to get here in time to stop Landon’s entourage from slaughtering his family.”
“Ah, so that’s what that was about.” Puffing out my cheeks, I thought back and realized I had failed to ask one vital question. “Tell me what you know about soul weapons.”
Her eyes shot away, her thoughts souring her face. “I only know what … what Warlord Sebastian told me about his own.”
“You mentioned him before. He smuggled you out of the Old Continent.”
“I hate how much you remember after only hearing something once,” she spat, sitting up straight. “Look, the Ogre Clan was the first to make a soul weapon. It’s taken Fallen Arbor a long time to replicate what they do, but they are inconsistent with the result.”
“What is an Ogre?”
“Ah, that race that’s stronger than a daemon or bloodeater.” Her cheek twitched. “Sebastian has a great sword that carries the souls of all his clan’s former warlords.”
I sat up, the idea of it alarming. “More than one soul?”
“Yes.” She smiled and tapped her fingers on the counter. “You see, they had many clans but only one remains. Ogre warlords have soul weapons. With the clans broken, they began to dissolve as Fallen Arbor took over, but Warlord Sebastian l’Ifrit is something… different.” Her voice softened, and she gave a sigh. Shaking her head, she abandoned the memories that had disrupted her. “The Fanged Lady was a willing participant, and so were Sebastian’s people. A soul weapon is only made from a living person who sacrifices their life willingly to become a weapon incarnate. Granted, it’s more complicated, and Fallen Arbor can force people with dark magic. What shape and power they take on can change dependent on the person and conditions of the creation.”
“How so?” This whole time … she had the answers I wanted, but still…
“Well, they often fall into three categories: cursed, blessed, then whatever Sebastian has. Self-aware? I mean, they all have some awareness of
who they were, but he would carry on talks with the damn thing and covered it when we…” She spun away, stretching as she stood. “Enough of that. I don’t know much else.”
“Well, is it too farfetched to think a soul weapon is to blame for the Madness?” I stood, hot on her heels as she aimed for the staircase.
“A cursed blade created from someone’s malice, like the Fanged Lady, was put out of commission, and the curse lifted, didn’t it?” She raced up the stairs, whimpering as I stayed close enough to slip past and block the door. “Why? I’m tired, and you seem to be hellbent on being a sleepless brute.”
“I think the Berserk Brigade has a soul weapon. That’s the information I got from King of Jacks.” She flinched and met my gaze before I forced her mask over her face. “You left this while running away from me. We’ll finish this talk later.”
Without another word, I marched to the end of the hall and came to a halt. Shit, I don’t know which room is which. Rubbing my neck, I looked at the identical doors in desperation, hoping one of them could hint where I should go. I’ll see if the innkeeper’s book has… When I turned around, Red Wine stood in my way, arms crossed.
“Oh, I thought we were finished.” I blinked.
“We were until I saw you standing here like a buffoon,” she spat, annoyance riding in her tone. “Don’t tell me you can’t tell which room he’s in.”
My face flushed, and I shot my eyes from hers. “I forgot to ask anyone which rooms were ours.”
“Let me rephrase this.” She was being curt with me, angry even. “You’re Ashton. He always knew where I was even when I didn’t want to be found. Something tells me you’re capable of doing the same thing, seeing how you hunted down my informants a week ago.”
I bit my lip and swallowed. She’s right. I’m not even trying to use those skills now, and I need to be always using them considering our situation. “I … see.”
She motioned her hand to the rows of doors. “So, Mr. Ashton. Which room?”
