Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  Memories… The stunning shock of a slap, blood in her mouth, shouting, ridicule, pain… More pain than any physical trauma could induce…pain that no child should endure.

  “Mommy please, don’t—”

  “Don’t call me that, you little rat! I should have rooted you out with a twig before you were born!”

  Then, seeking safety, she had become a slave to the sadistic whims of the Grandfather. And now, scratching and clawing to keep what little freedom she imagined she had, she got that godsdamned letter. She found herself twisting the ring on her finger. In her youth, she had thought the ring would bring her power, and that power would keep her safe.

  She had been wrong.

  The only thing the ring on her finger had brought her was more slavery, more pain, more fear. She didn’t know the Grandmaster, had no idea what being his direct underling would mean, and didn’t want to find out. Lad had delivered her from her slavery by killing the Grandfather, and she wasn’t about to put herself back under that kind of yoke.

  Lad…

  Mya went to a heavy oak door tucked away in the corner. Flinging it open, she stepped into her training room. Her eyes swept around the mirror-lined walls, the weapon racks, the smooth hardwood floor, and her heart slowed, the imagined bonds of slavery slipping away.

  Over the last five years she had covertly trained with the finest instructors in armed and unarmed combat that money could buy. Here, every morning, she would practice what they taught her. They had filled her with their knowledge, tested and pushed her skills to the utter limit. A month had passed since she had sought their training. They no longer challenged her. Their skills were no longer a match for hers.

  She slipped off her socks and unbuttoned her shirt. The dark wool rustled as she drew the shirt off her shoulders and flung it aside. Leather creaked as she loosed the belt of her trousers. The buckle clattered on the floor, and she kicked them away. Beneath her clothes, a layer of closely wrapped black cloth covered her from ankle to wrist to neck.

  A subtle enchantment within the cloth kept her warm or cool regardless of temperature, invaluable in the rainy spring and sweltering summer. The other enchantment lay in the weave of the fabric itself. Any cut or rent would mend instantly, keeping her skin covered.

  It kept her secret.

  Slowly, in a ritual that had become as much a part of her as breathing, she unwound the supple wrappings. Her neck bared first, gooseflesh rising as the cool air of the cellar touched her skin. Inch by inch, she unwrapped the bindings until the entire length of cloth puddled at her feet.

  In the mirrors, her bared flesh writhed with magic.

  Her secret…her power.

  Dark tattoos covered every bit of her skin save for face, neck and hands. Every night for five years, the runemage Vonlith had pressed his needles into her flesh, infusing her skin with his enchantments. Now she was complete, a dark tapestry of magic and flesh, woman and weapon. All of Lad’s gifts were now hers: his strength, his speed, his prowess.

  The runes squirmed before her eyes, as they would for anyone without a talent for magic. She could feel their power, her power.

  Tonight, in the first real test of her skills, two assassins had died with the flick of effort she would have used to swat a fly.

  She moved, smiling as her muscles rippled beneath the runes. Years of training had hardened her body and, along with the magic, made her into something more than she had been, something dangerous, something beautiful.

  You are an attractive, powerful young woman…

  The memory of Lad’s words brought her up short. Mya had long ago abandoned any thoughts of a close, personal relationship with a man. She had never craved that kind of attachment, thinking it would only open her up to more pain. Besides, no one would look at her thus and think her attractive. Tracing her fingertips down her torso, she felt the raised flesh of her inked skin.

  A memory stopped her movement.

  Runes of emerald fire had burned beneath Lad’s skin when she tested the bonds of his magic. Perhaps there was one man who might not think her secret so shocking or unsightly. She and Lad were the same, both etched with magic, both imbued with gifts no mortal could aspire to. He, if anyone, would understand her.

  “Lad…”

  Her own voice startled her, echoing off the four mirrored walls. She stood at an angle and looked into the infinite reflections of herself. Are there really that many Myas? Am I really so much?

  Without thought, she began the dance of death.

  Step, sweep, spin, punch…

  This, too, she owed to Lad.

  Block, step, turn, strike…

  He had taught her the dance, the perfect form, the symphony of movement he had devised from the six formal styles of unarmed combat. In five years, with all her training, she had not been able to improve upon it.

  Lunge, step, kick, spin…

  Mya increased the cadence, flowing through the dance as effortlessly as the blood flowed through her veins. Heat flushed her skin as she moved faster and faster. To normal eyes, her movements would have been a blur, but Mya was not normal. She saw every lightning-fast strike of arm and leg with utter clarity, analyzed every nuance of motion and form. She was the dance, felt the rhythm, the grace, the perfection.

  Thoughts of the Grandmaster’s letter blinked into her mind, and just as fast blinked out. She nearly laughed; he didn’t know who he was dealing with…

  Step, turn, strike, block…

  Blindingly fast now, each strike hammering the air with audible force, each step squeaking on the polished floor, each spin sending a shockwave of wind across the room, she was a deadly whirlwind.

  No one can touch me.

  Step, spin, strike, block…

  No one can hurt me.

  Kick, strike, block, sweep…

  No one…except—

  Mya halted the dance in the flick of a hummingbird’s wing, staring at her reflection in the mirror, a faint sheen of sweat glistening over the ever-shifting runes, as she considered her last thought.

  No one…except—

  Closing her eyes, she pictured the day that Saliez died. In her mind’s eye, she saw again a rune etched in the air, heard the gasps of pain and surprise as both Lad and the Grandfather lost their magic. One person knew her secret. One person held the magic that could snuff out her gift, rendering her helpless.

  One last threat hung in the air like a blade ready to sever her spine.

  Mya strode to the corner where she’d kicked her wrappings and picked them up. With an ease born of long practice, she rewound the cloth around her body, covering her secret from the eyes of those who would harm her if they knew. She tucked away the last flap of the wrappings and examined herself in the mirror again.

  Tonight. It will have to be tonight.

  She strode from the training room toward her bedchamber. From the dresser she chose a dark, slim-fitting shirt and trousers to don, then changed her mind. Vonlith’s home was well protected. The man was almost as paranoid as an assassin. Breaking in would only alert him. No, she needed to play this differently. She donned a silk shirt of deep rose and tucked it into her pants. Soft leather boots laced tightly, pants tucked in and rolled over the tops. A slim stiletto slipped into the top of one boot, the rolled cuff hiding the hilt nicely.

  In her bathing room, she brushed out her now-dry hair and added a touch of fragrance to mask the sweat of her exertion. Then, behind yet another mirror, she opened her secret egress and hurried out into the night.

  The damp, chill air invigorated her as she slipped quickly through the shadows. Vonlith’s home was more than halfway across Twailin. She had no time to waste.

  Chapter IV

  Lad walked away from the Golden Cockerel until the noise and lights faded, and shadows cloaked the roofs and alleyways. Stopping, he eased his mind into a light meditation, sharpening his senses until the hiss of light rain faded to distant white noise. He felt the patter of raindrops against his sodden hair
and clothes, each one distinct, and through the background hiss, he heard just what he expected to hear: the scuff of a boot, the creak of leather, the click of a buckle against a hilt.

  “Let the game begin.”

  The hiss of rain masked Lad’s whisper, but he didn’t really care if his stalkers overheard. They waited nearly every night to follow him as he left the inn. He’d never mentioned his dubious escort to Mya. If they weren’t her own Hunters, she’d probably have them killed, and the last thing he wanted was more death on his hands.

  Friends, wives, husbands, family…

  So tonight, as he had every other night, he would evade them.

  “Good practice…”

  Smiling, Lad accepted the challenge. He bent to remove his shoes, unconcerned by his exposed back; these stalkers never tried to attack him, only follow. Tying the laces in a loop over his shoulders, he stretched the taut muscles of his neck, picked a direction at random, and vanished into the night.

  Dashing from shadow to shadow, a silent wraith in the dark, Lad heard the patter of feet, the rustle of cloth, and the clatter of equipment behind him. Four tonight, he decided as he rounded a corner and doubled back through a courtyard. He lost two of the stalkers with that simple evasion. They must be new. He assumed his stalkers were apprentices—Hunters or of some other guild faction—assigned to follow him as a part of their training.

  He heard the clatter of a loose cobble and a brush of leather against slate. The other two were more tenacious.

  Good.

  Lad lengthened his stride, exulting in the rhythm of his movement, the chill rain forgotten in the blazing heat of muscle and magic. Twists and turns, streets, alleys, and doors all flashed past him. He turned a corner and stopped to listen. Still one left.

  He smiled, appreciating his stalker’s persistence. The exertion was a pleasure after a long day spent following Mya from meeting to meeting. Despite his abhorrence for killing, he had been created for this, and loved to practice his skills.

  Let’s see how good he is.

  Lad slipped into a narrow alley and bounded off a rough brick wall, converting his lateral momentum into vertical. A window ledge, a drainpipe, a clothesline hook, and his fingertips grasped the narrow eaves of the tenement’s roof. A twist and a flip, and he landed atop.

  Another moment’s pause to listen. The creek of the drainpipe touched his ears. His last stalker was still with him.

  Dashing across the roof, he leapt to another, his bare feet landing lightly on the wet slate shingles. He crouched behind a chimney and listened again. The faint patter of soft boots told him that his stalker had gained the roof and climbed to the crest, pausing there to look for his quarry. Whoever it was, they were very good.

  How good?

  Lad dashed into the open and over the next roof crest. Bounding like a cat, he landed with perfect precision, slid down the incline on the balls of his feet, and launched himself in a twisting leap into open air. Across the wide avenue, a balcony’s iron rail arrested his fall, but only for a moment. He released in a flip, and his feet touched the cobbles of the street.

  Dunworthy Avenue, just past Tony the baker’s shop.

  He knew every street, alley, nook and cranny of Twailin like he knew the scars on his own hands. The bakery’s colorful awning was drawn down over the door for the night, and Lad melted into the darkness of the tiny space beside it.

  Another pause to listen.

  A faint patter, then the hiss of soft-soled boots sliding on slate shingles. Then…nothing. If it hadn’t been raining, Lad might have heard the stalker’s labored breathing or pounding heart, but not tonight. Slowly, he lifted his face and looked up. Across the avenue, a slim figure stood on the eaves high above: his stalker.

  “Very good, indeed.” Lad watched the figure’s head sweep side to side, eyes scanning for movement. A minute passed, two—a stalemate of stealth against vigilance. Lad shifted his stance, considering his options. He had to leave his hiding place eventually, and his stalker knew it. When he did, the chase would resume.

  A rat skittered beside his foot, and he shifted to avoid its teeth.

  The slight movement must have caught his stalker’s eye, and the figure acted without hesitation. Stepping back from the three-story drop, he ran and leapt for the balcony, but at the last instant, the sole of his leather boot slipped on a slick shingle.

  He’s not going to make it!

  Even as the thought flashed through Lad’s mind, he burst into motion, his lifetime of training—a thousand-thousand tumbling falls, desperate grasps, and twisting plummets—impelling him into action in the span of half a heartbeat. The stalker’s trajectory was off by several inches; his fingertips would miss the balcony’s railing. The fall might not kill him, but Lad couldn’t take that chance. Lad vaulted to the awning bracket above Tony’s shop and launched himself at the balcony.

  Midair, he saw the stalker’s wide-eyed horror as he realized that he wasn’t going to make his leap. His eyes snapped to Lad’s and he twisted minutely, reaching not for the balcony rail, but instead toward his quarry’s outstretched hand.

  Lad snatched the stalker’s hand and the balcony railing at the same moment, gripping both with fingers like an iron vise. Pain lanced through his shoulders as the weight of the falling body jerked hard on the tendons that held his arms in their sockets. The stalker’s momentum swung him in a wide arc, but Lad kicked his legs and brought the two of them to a standstill, hanging there like an odd holiday ornament.

  He pulled the stalker up—the weight was barely enough to challenge his magically enhanced strength—releasing the hand when the boy had a firm hold on the iron railing. For a boy he was, lanky and wiry, with barely a whisper of hair on his chin. Only inches separated their faces, the boy’s panting breath hot on Lad’s cheek.

  “You’re good,” Lad told him, “but bare feet are always a better grip than leather. Remember!”

  “I will.” The boy gave him a startled grin. “You’re bloody amazing!”

  Lad released his grip on the railing and vanished before his stalker could move to follow. The boy’s face, the eager grin and eyes full of wonder, haunted him all the way home. Lad had always thought of evading these stalkers as a valuable and entertaining means of maintaining his skills; never had he considered it a life-or-death struggle. One boy’s clumsiness had changed all that. Imagining the boy’s broken body on the cobbles beneath the balcony, he wondered how many corpses he had unknowingly left in his wake, how many mourners.

  Friends, mothers, fathers, sisters…family.

  The streets of Twailin flashed beneath his feet in a wet blur. His senses remained vigilant, but his mind drifted.

  Family…

  A block from home, Lad paused to listen. Certain that no more stalkers shadowed his trail, he strolled down the street and turned into the courtyard of the Tap and Kettle. The first time he had walked these cobblestones he had been no older than his stalker. Lad shook his head, dismissing his worries about the stalkers’ safety. He could not control their decisions or actions any more than he could the assassins who had attacked him and Mya; they were only following orders. All he could do was try to keep them from dying. He remembered the two that Mya had killed only an hour ago. She, too, was someone over which he had no control.

  There are things I can affect and things I can’t affect. I can only worry about the things that matter.

  Home, family…

  Lad traversed the cobbled courtyard and slipped in through the kitchen door, bolting it behind him. The warm, cozy kitchen greeted him like a comforting embrace, the air still heavy with the smoky tang of roasted meat and the earthy scent of the taproom. At this late hour, all the guests were apt to be asleep. He smiled when he saw the towel and robe hung on the coat hooks beside the kitchen door.

  Home.

  Doffing his wet clothes, Lad scrubbed the towel over his skin. His shoulders ached from the wrenching pull, but that would pass with a good night’s sleep and so
me light exercise. The soft towel brushed over the lacework of scars from the magical runes he had broken years ago. Breaking the binding enchantment had also broken the healing spells, and the ones that suppressed pain and his emotions. Though he still had strength, speed, and enhanced senses, his wounds healed no faster than any normal man’s.

  Well worth it, he thought as he considered what he had gained in the bargain.

  Love, family, friends…

  He caught his reflection in the shiny copper pots hanging overhead. He no longer looked much like the lanky youth Forbish had hired. He had filled out—his muscles were thicker and his face less angular—due mostly to maturing into a full-grown man, though Forbish’s good cooking certainly helped. His unruly tangle of hair was longer now, braided in a simple queue down his back. He had cultivated these changes in his appearance, trying hard to leave behind the spellbound weapon, the assassin that he had been.

  Dry, Lad slipped into the robe and went to the oven. A covered plate held his dinner, still hot. Retrieving it with a towel to keep from scorching his fingers, he put it on the counter, filled a small tankard from a keg of Highland Summerbrew in the taproom, and pulled a kitchen stool over to settle down and eat.

  A faint noise from the common room caught his attention, a quiet slurp and grunt that he had come to know very well indeed. He wasn’t the only one up. Smiling, he loaded his plate and cup onto a tray and eased through the door.

  There, beside the glowing hearth, sat his two reasons for living.

  Wiggen snuggled down into the cushions of a big chair, their daughter, Lissa, tucked into the crook of her arm, suckling. His wife looked up as he came in, her face lighting with pleasure, her smile tugging at the deep scar that marred her cheek. Putting the tray down on the hearth, Lad leaned down to her, the sweetness of her kiss worth every pain of his broken magic.

  Who would have thought that a weapon could fall in love?

  After Saliez’s death, he’d avoided the inn during the day, slipping in through Wiggen’s bedroom window late every night. Only two years later had he finally deemed it safe to openly court and wed the woman he loved. Forbish, by this time married to his barmaid, Josie, and guardian to her two nephews, had nearly keeled over when Lad revealed that he was still alive, though Josie accepted the news with her usual surly aplomb. Her twin nephews, Tika and Ponce, had taken to Lad immediately, treating him like an adored uncle. And just when Lad thought that his happiness was complete, Lissa had come along and stolen his heart just as her mother had. He had more than he ever hoped for, more than he ever dreamed possible.