Weapon of Vengeance (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  Perfect…

  The pair wielding daggers lunged, one high, one low. Mya dropped into a ground-sweeping spin, her foot tripping both assailants. Pushing herself up off the ground with her hands, she continued her spin, and caught a glimpse of Lad. He spun also, deflecting attacks with his feet. Their eyes met, and he flung out a hand to her.

  Yes!

  Clasping wrists, they combined their rotation, spinning around their clenched hands. Mya leveled a roundhouse kick to the temple of one of Lad’s opponents, pulling her blow to keep from breaking his neck. He went down hard.

  No killing...

  Bone crunched as Lad struck down one of Mya’s foes. Something flicked her hair. She heard the slap of a hand against metal near her ear, and a dagger spun into the darkness. Lad had just saved her life.

  Their spin continued, then Lad released his grasp, and Mya reluctantly let go. They were back to their original opponents. Dagger woman was down, clutching her chest. Dagger man rolled aside, and flipped to his feet in a remarkable display of agility, though he didn’t attack. Mya stopped her spin and centered herself, reflexively aligning her stance with Lad’s.

  So perfect…

  Staff man lunged at her, now wielding two daggers. Mya grabbed his wrists, wrenched his arms in opposite directions to pull him in, and smashed her forehead into his nose. He fell like a steer in a slaughterhouse, and Mya snatched his blades. Behind her, a wet pop heralded a hoarse cry. A shoulder or hip had been wrenched out of joint. Lad had probably just immobilized his last foe.

  Mya’s last opponent backed away, flipped his blade, and threw. The dagger tumbled end-over-end in the lamplight, as slow as a falling feather to her accelerated senses. Never throw a knife at a monster… She threw both of her stolen blades, and caught the oncoming dagger by the hilt an inch before it pierced her chest. …you’ll just piss her off.

  Dagger man went down with both blades lodged hilt deep in his shoulders.

  Silence…save for labored breathing, moans of pain, and nine distinct heartbeats.

  No killing.

  Mya turned to find Lad holding the leader’s dislocated arm behind his back, and the man’s own dagger at his throat. She grinned. “We’re having all kinds of fun tonight!”

  “Fun?”

  She couldn’t interpret the look on Lad’s face. Anger? Disgust? He shook his head and cast the man’s dagger away.

  “Now about those questions…”

  “You’re both dead for this!” the man spat between gasps of pain. “The guild will have your heads!”

  “Which guild?” Mya approached the man, brandishing the dagger, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a snarl. “If you like your eyes, you’ll tell us.”

  “Which guild do you think?”

  “Well, you don’t look like a teamster or longshoreman to me.”

  Of course he was reluctant to tell them; admitting that you were in the Assassins Guild was usually a death sentence. But the way these thugs had fought, it couldn’t be anything else.

  Mya held her hand up before the man’s face, the obsidian master’s ring glinting on her finger. “Maybe you should have answered our questions before you attacked us, idiot.”

  The man’s eyes widened and his clenched jaw dropped open. “You… You’re guild?”

  “Yes. See how easy it is to ask questions and get answers?” Lad released his hold on the man’s wrist and stepped to Mya’s side. “Now, who are you? Which guild and faction do you belong to? And who ordered you to attack us?”

  The man’s eyes flicked to Lad’s hand and widened even further when he saw the gold and obsidian on his finger. “I’m Borlic, journeyman Enforcer in the Tsing Assassins Guild. Nobody ordered me to attack you. I’ve standing orders to handle anyone who asks too many questions in my area.” He swallowed and winced as he tried to move his arm. The shoulder was still out of joint. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the Twailin Guildmaster, and this is my Master Hunter. We’re here to meet with the Grandmaster.”

  “Twailin?” The man’s eyes widened. “Twailin doesn’t have a guildmaster.”

  “He’s new.” Mya tossed the dagger away and turned to Lad. “Maybe we should kill him. He doesn’t seem too quick on the uptake.”

  “No, I have more questions.” Lad fixed the man with a curious look. “Do you pay the constables not to bother you?”

  “Yes, but only south of the river.”

  “Why not north of the river?”

  “No need.” The man shrugged, wincing in pain at the motion. “We don’t run rackets north of the river.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just a journeyman. They don’t tell me how or why, they just tell me what to do.”

  “Fair enough.” Lad bit his lower lip and looked around at the groaning and unconscious assassins. “Sorry about the mess. Maybe next time you’ll answer a few simple questions before you start a fight.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Borlic’s glare told them that he’d no more follow their advice than he would sprout wings and fly away.

  Idiot…

  “Let me take care of that arm.”

  “Wait! I—”

  Lad grabbed the man’s wrist and planted a foot in his armpit. One hard jerk popped the bone back into the socket and elicited an anguished cry from between the assassin’s clenched teeth. When Lad released his grip, Borlic crumpled to his knees, cradling his arm.

  “Come on.” Lad stepped over a fallen assassin and walked away.

  Mya hopped over the body and fell in beside him, her steps bouncing with the lingering exhilaration of the fight. A giddy ebullience bubbled up from her stomach, and she couldn’t keep a smile off her face. “That was very nice of you, tending his arm like that.”

  “It was the least I could do.”

  “I still think we should have killed him. They started it, after all.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I don’t?” She stared at him, suspicious of some joke, but he was dead serious.

  “You told me so just the other night. Killing someone doesn’t make you feel any better.”

  Mya thought for a moment, the pleasant feeling ebbing. “Yes… Yes, I did say that.” She hated it when he used her own words against her.

  Chapter XX

  Norwood’s carriage plunged into darkness, swallowed by the tunnel that passed from the Imperial Palace’s outer court to the inner. The first heavy iron portcullis rumbled down behind them, and the second rose only high enough to admit several more palace guards. The carriage jerked to a halt, and a heavy-set sergeant rapped on the carriage door. Norwood sighed. They’d already been checked over twice, but they were apparently going to be checked yet again. At least now Norwood knew what they would ask of him.

  “I’m Captain Norwood of the Twailin Royal Guard. I’m here with vital news for the emperor.” He held out his signet ring. “This should verify who I am readily enough.”

  The sergeant took the ring and looked up at him dubiously. “Be just a moment.” He walked away, under the portcullis, undoubtedly to verify Norwood’s claim.

  “Tight-arsed lot, aren’t they?”

  Norwood scowled at Tamir’s comment. “That’s enough, Sergeant. They’re charged with keeping the emperor safe. They have to be thorough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They waited. The guard sergeant was back in only a few minutes with the ring and a scrap of parchment. “Here you are, sir. Present this to the commander of the inner court.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Best of luck to you, sir.” The sergeant saluted and signaled the men managing the portcullis. The heavy grating rumbled up its track, and the carriage clattered forward into the inner court.

  “Son of a…” Tamir clamped his jaw down on his exclamation, but Norwood wouldn’t have faulted him. This was his first sight of the Imperial Palace inner court, too, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?”


  “That’s putting it lightly, sir.”

  The carriage circled the expansive parade ground. Perhaps a hundred imperial guards stood or marched about in rigid formations, their tabards, helmets, and weapons glittering like gems in the sun. The palace itself loomed before them, a massive stone structure sporting hundreds of gilded embrasures, lofty windows of stained glass, and towering spires of polished white stone and gold.

  “At least now I know where my tax money goes.”

  “One more comment like that, Sergeant, and I’ll leave you in the carriage with Brutus!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and Brutus heaved his bulk up from his spot on the floor, his stubby tail twitching.

  “Not this time, Brutus.” Norwood held out a hand, palm toward the dog’s nose. “Stay!”

  Brutus eyed him dubiously and whined.

  “Sorry, boy.” The captain followed Tamir out of the carriage, unfolding his legs gingerly. His backside was numb from the long ride. They’d pushed hard since Farthane, but a broken wheel had delayed them half a day. They’d left the last way-inn well before sunrise this morning to arrive in Tsing early. Norwood was exhausted, but he vowed not to rest until he delivered his message to the emperor.

  Spies in the palace. Who would believe it? The answer was easy: no one. That was why Norwood had no intention of mentioning spies until he was in the imperial presence. He hoped that an urgent message that concerned the safety of the emperor would get him inside the palace, but he’d never attempted anything like this before. He shuddered to consider what could happen if his message arrived too late, if the “right hand of death” somehow gained access to the emperor.

  A dozen imperial guards approached in tight formation, a grim-faced commander at the fore.

  “They certainly have this place buttoned up tight.” Tamir stood at parade rest beside his captain, looking worried.

  “They do indeed.”

  Norwood knew the sociopolitical situation in Tsing, his position affording him news that others rarely heard. Tynean Tsing II had not exactly ingratiated himself with the general populace, and the iron-clad security surrounding the palace was a direct result. Thankfully, Duke Mir despised the heavy-handed practices employed in the central empire, and fought tooth and nail to maintain his own less strict system.

  The commander, dressed in breastplate, greaves, steel gauntlets, and gleaming helm, saluted Norwood’s rank insignia, and Norwood saluted back. This was where he would have to pull out all the stops. Not being in the same chain of command, the captain could not order the guardsman to let him see the emperor. However, the insignia on his collar did command respect, and he hoped that the man would recognize that they were, in truth, brothers in arms, with the empire’s best interests at heart.

  “I’m Commander Ithross. May I help you, Captain?”

  “Yes, you may. I’m Captain Norwood of the Twailin Royal Guard.” He handed over the note from the gate guard.

  Ithross scanned the note, and an eyebrow rose skeptically.

  Norwood tried not to interpret the reaction too suspiciously. He had to walk a fine line between discretion and urgency. Not just anyone could be the spy he sought. It had to be someone highly placed, or with special access, an imperial page or secretary, maybe. The chance of an Imperial Guard commander being involved was miniscule, but he had tipped his hand just by riding through the gate. The spy knew who Norwood was, and might already know that he was here.

  Norwood forged ahead. “I’ve critical news for the emperor’s ear alone. We’ve ridden halfway across the empire to deliver it. It may concern His Majesty’s safety.”

  The commander looked up from the note. “May concern?”

  Norwood was bristled at the man’s tone. “That’s right. Isn’t it your job to ensure the emperor’s safety?”

  The commander’s face hardened. “Yes it is, Captain, but let me tell you for your own good that you had better be damned sure this concerns His Majesty’s safety before I submit your name for an unscheduled audience. Emperor Tynean is not a temperate man.”

  Norwood nodded, taking the advice in the spirit in which it was given. “Your advice is well received, commander. Rest assured, His Majesty will want to hear what I have to say.”

  “You’d be better off writing your message down and letting me deliver it to the emperor’s secretary.” He gestured to the lathered team in the traces of Norwood’s coach. “Looks like you’ve traveled hard. I can put you up in comfortable quarters while you wait for the reply.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but no, Commander.” Norwood’s resolve firmed, despite the temptation. “I must speak to His Majesty personally, and as soon as possible.”

  “It’s your head.” The commander pointed to Norwood’s sword. “You may as well leave your weapons in your carriage, sir. Not so much as a paring knife is allowed in the imperial presence, and it’ll save me the trouble of storing them away.”

  “All right.” He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Tamir. The sergeant stowed it in the carriage along with his own sword, five daggers, a pair of brass knuckles, a garrote, and a set of throwing stars that he had secreted behind his belt buckle.

  At Norwood’s incredulous stare, he shrugged. “Just a few personal items, sir.”

  “You must feel a stone lighter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tamir’s face remained blank.

  He knows I’ll order him to stay behind if he mouths off. Tamir had argued long and hard to accompany his commander into the Imperial Palace, and the captain had finally agreed. Having another pair of eyes when there was a spy about could save the emperor’s life.

  Norwood turned to Commander Ithross and waved toward the looming doors of the palace. “Lead on, Commander.”

  The commander signaled his troop, and four guardsmen fell in around them. “This way, sir.”

  Norwood wasn’t surprised when Ithross led them to a postern door in the corner of the courtyard. He knew that only nobles rated an entry through the front doors, but he was disappointed nonetheless. The main entry hall was said to be beautiful beyond compare. Instead, they were ushered through passages no more grandiose than the interior of the Twailin Royal Guard headquarters. Tamir muttered something under his breath about scullery maids and chimney sweeps, but a glance from Norwood silenced him. After a long walk through a veritable labyrinth, the commander opened a door and led them into a small sitting room.

  “I’ll warn you, Captain,” he said, “the emperor’s schedule is set weeks in advance. He may not even see you today. All I can do is send a message that you’re here.”

  “I understand, Commander, but please impress upon His Majesty the fact that I bear news that could influence his safety and certainly concerns the security of the empire.” Norwood’s tone brooked no argument.

  “I’ll use your exact words, but you’ll still have to wait.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Good.” The commander gestured to the ornate chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  At the commander’s signal, the four guards took station at the room’s two exits, standing at parade rest, hands on their swords. Tamir looked around and opened his mouth, but a glare from Norwood shut him up.

  “Have a seat, Sergeant. We’ve got some waiting to do.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They sat down to wait. Unfortunately for their already sore backsides, the chairs were made for elegance, not comfort.

  A sliver of sunlight crept across Lad’s face, and he stirred from a deep, dream-laden sleep.

  Wiggen…

  He refused to open his eyes, instead compelling the memory of her…hair draped across her scarred cheek, lips curled in a smile, eyes gleaming with love…

  Oh, Wiggen…

  By sheer force of will, Lad rolled up from the divan. A glance at the wall clock told him it was midmorning. They’d not gotten back to their room until the small hours of the morning, and the stress of
the night’s events sent him into a deep and uninterrupted sleep rich with dreams of Wiggen.

  Striding to the window, he flipped the latch and opened it wide, taking a deep breath…and instantly regretting it. The morning sea breeze wafted the stench of rotting fish and open sewage into the room. With a grimace of disgust, Lad slammed the window closed.

  Doesn’t the wind ever blow the stink away? Granted, Twailin often stank, especially during the dry season when the river no longer ran full enough to wash away all the detritus of the city, but nothing like this.

  The bedroom door opened. Mya stood there in her pajamas, her hair sticking up at all angles. “We overslept.”

  “We don’t have to catch a carriage today, so what does it matter?” He pulled the bell rope beside the door. “Hungry?”

  “Ravenous.” She retreated back to the bedroom.

  Lad tidied up his sleeping area, fluffing the pillows and putting away the blanket. The divan was more comfortable than sleeping on the floor, at least. A knock sounded at the door, and Lad answered it.

  A servant in the inn’s livery stood there expectantly. “Yes, sir?”

  “Breakfast for two, please. Eggs, toast, blackbrew, sausages…whatever’s available.”

  “Very good, sir. Be ready in half a glass.”

  “That’s fine.” He closed the door.

  Lad changed into trousers and a light shirt, but didn’t bother to button the top button and didn’t even touch the hated neck cloth. If they went out later he would have to dress in the full rig, but not for breakfast in his own room. He stared at his shoes for a moment, and decided to wear his more comfortable pair, even though there was a bit of blood on one from last night’s fight.

  He’d relived the encounter in his mind a half-dozen times on their way back to the inn last night, recalling the strangely comfortable synchronicity he experienced fighting alongside Mya. He’d enjoyed exercising with her, honing their skills in tandem, and now it felt…natural to have Mya at his back. Her exuberance after the fight, however, her casual bloodlust, disgusted him.