“Walk the mounts out while I have a look at this, Mya. Jax, draw some water for them.” Targus knelt to the hard-packed dirt while his apprentices moved wordlessly to comply. His eyes read the ground like a scholar’s would read a text, and the history of the last few days unfolded before him.
Six horses with riders had passed from west to east in a hurry five days ago; they had stopped long enough to water their mounts, and then continued on. The same six had returned a day later, traveling in the opposite direction, more slowly. A wagon had passed from east to west the previous day as well, but Targus and his apprentices had passed that one on the road, and it was not the one they were looking for. The six horses going first one way, then the other, bothered him. They had not ridden as far as Twailin, for there hadn’t been enough time between their two passages to reach the city.
“They were searching for something,” Targus muttered quietly, mulling over his explanation of the behavior of the six mounts. “Or someone...” This did not bode well.
There was other wagon traffic evident upon the rutted track; one heavily laden wagon with a team of four draft horses had come from Twailin and turned up the logging camp road five days ago; and several had gone the other way, laden with timber, no doubt, and returned less laden, probably with supplies for the men that worked the camp. Other traffic had taken the southern track toward Melfey, but they had all come from Twailin. There were no tracks from the east that turned off the main road.
“A lot of traffic,” his elder apprentice said, stepping up beside his master. “Someone was in a hurry.”
“Yes, Jax.” Targus felt the crease along the edge of one of the hoof prints. “In a hurry going west, but not so much of a hurry going back east. And equally laden in both directions. They didn’t find what they were looking for.”
“A search party?” The apprentice knelt beside his master, studying the tracks with an experienced hand. “Not from Twailin. There must be trouble up ahead.”
“There was trouble, and it has escaped them.” Targus stood and walked a slow, careful circle around the crossroads, stopping at the watering trough to wet his face beside the slurping horses. As his soft leather boots scuffed the earth around the northeast corner of the two crossing roads, he stopped. Something here was not right.
There were no tracks, but a few grains of dirt were pressed down into the hard soil more deeply than they should have been. Something had stood here, or been placed here, and then picked up. Targus walked a slow circle around the spot. There were no tracks around it. He looked up, but there were no overhanging tree limbs from which something could have been dropped or picked up. The undergrowth beside the road was undisturbed. A squirrel chittered at him from a nearby tree, snapping his attention. Targus frowned down at the mystery written in the dirt; he did not like mysteries that he was unable to unravel.
“Something?” Jax asked, tracing a wide circle around the spot that Targus was studying.
“Less than something, but more than nothing. A riddle without an answer.” He outlined the spot where something had stood with his finger. “Something stood on this spot without leaving a scuff or print, and did not leave a track while coming or going. What possibilities are there to explain this, apprentice?”
“Something that flew, or a wizard using a transposition spell.” He also looked up at the lack of overhanging branches.
“Or something that doesn’t leave tracks or doesn’t walk, but has weight enough to leave an impression when it stands in one place long enough.” Targus’ younger apprentice walked up to the scene and cocked one eyebrow, one slim finger running along her shapely jaw as she knelt to examine the spot.
“And what might do that, Mya?” Targus’ voice was flat, unreadable, but his face was alight with his youngest apprentice’s audacity.
She shrugged and stood. “I have no idea, Master Targus. You have told me that there are people trained in stealth who can walk without leaving a track. The Grandfather, for one, does not leave a mark when he walks across the courtyard; not even in the dirt of the stable yard.”
“True, but I doubt there are any grandmaster assassins roaming the countryside. We search for a wizard, and a boy your age who has been magically enhanced as a killing weapon.” Targus stepped right into the middle of the spot that he had been examining, and walked past his two apprentices. Both looked down reflexively, and each could see the clear scuff of their master’s boot. Their eyes met and an infinitesimal shrug of Jax’s shoulders was answered by an equally minute nod from his younger peer. They moved to the horses and mounted. By late that night they should be in the village of Thistledown.
Chapter VII
Stableboy!” Targus snapped, stepping out of the saddle as his mount came to a halt in front of Thistledown’s one and only inn.
“Yessir!” The boy came running up and eagerly took the reins from Targus.
“Walk them out, groom them and give them a mash. They’ve been running hard, so take your time.” A silver crown arced through the darkness, and the boy snatched it out of the air like a bat picking off a stray moth.
“Yessir! Right away, sir!”
“Jax. Mya. With me.”
The two apprentices handed over their mounts and mumbled acquiescence, following him up the steps to the inn’s door. Their knees wobbled after so long in the saddle, and a night’s sleep loomed at the top of the stairs like a proverbial pot of gold. That treasure vanished as readily as any leprechaun’s secret stash as soon as they entered the inn’s common room, however, for they could all see that something unusual had happened here. There was information to be gleaned from this place before any of them got a single wink of sleep.
The bartender stood with his arm in a sling and bound in splints, his free hand lazily polishing a mug while he talked with a man wearing the garb and odor of a swineherd. Two barmaids scurried to and from the tables, all of which were seated to capacity; all of the occupants looked like locals. Mya also noticed that several planks in the main room’s back wall had been recently replaced. Either they’d been broken in some kind of disturbance, or their replacement was coincidence.
Targus did not believe in coincidence.
“Innkeeper!” He moved to the bar, his face open, his smile friendly. “I would purchase a meal and a room for myself and my friends, but I see that your inn is full to bursting. Have we happened into Thistledown in the midst of the spring festival?”
Mya almost smiled at her master’s manner; having seen it dozens of times, she knew the magic he worked on such people as these. This, even more than his ability to track any living creature anywhere in the world, was Targus’ most valuable skill. He could blend into any surroundings like a native and often talked the locals out of everything up to and including their daughters’ virginity. But right now there was no time for fun; he was working, and his only goal was their quarry. She marveled at his skill, memorizing every movement, every nuance of his voice, learning his skill of persuasion with every move he made.
“’Tis no festival that put my arm in splints, good sir,” the innkeeper stated, lifting his injured limb for all to see, as evidence to his claim.
“I thought it may have been a simple scuffle, as often breaks out when spirits are high, that resulted in your injury, good innkeeper.” He placed a gold crown on the bar. “We would have a sip of your ale before dinner, and listen to the tale of what happened to put you, such a capable man, into such a state.”
“A madman came through here not a week ago and did this damage you see, good sir,” the innkeeper said, motioning his nearest barmaid to fill three tankards for the new arrivals. “Or mad boy I should say, for no older than your young lass there was he.”
“Oh, now I’ll not believe a mere boy could lay a hand on you, much less deal such a blow as to put your arm in splints!” Targus quaffed a swallow of ale and smiled winningly. “The fellow must have been wielding a fair length of stout oak to mark you thus.”
“Nay! And that’s the weird of it, si
r, for ’twas naught but a boy, and dressed like a slave, he was. No boot on his foot, nor knife on his belt, I say.” The entire common room had gone silent, all of the locals listening intently to the tale that they had all undoubtedly heard before. “It was well into the night, and myself and the two girls were seein’ to the needs of six good customers, when in comes a boy no older, as I’ve said, than your own girl here. He just walks in and stands at the door, dirty and smellin’ like he’d rolled in one of Master Fensford’s sties. I asks him what he’s about, and he says he needs food. Well, I figured him for a common beggar, and told him that without money, he wasn’t gettin’ nothin’ from me!”
“A fair assumption, I say,” Targus said with a nod and another swallow of ale.
“And so I thought, but it wasn’t so, for it was like he didn’t even know what money was, and asked me outright ‘what’s money?’. Well, that got a laugh from the customers, it did, along with the rest of his cock-and-bull story, and I was beginnin’ to think that the poor lad was wrong in the head. Then he comes out and says ‘then give me some money’!”
“The audacity!” Targus had them in his pocket now, and Mya could see that the entire room was rapt with the retelling of the tale.
“Exactly what I said!” the innkeeper agreed, thumping his good hand upon the bar. “I would have offered him work if he’d asked for it, but to come right out and tell me to give him money, well, I made to throw him out like I would any good-for-nothin’ beggar, but that was what set him off.”
“Set him off? How do you mean?”
“Well, I made to push the lad, but he grabbed my hand and pulled it near right off, I tell ya!” Murmurs raked the crowd as the scene was replayed by the innkeeper’s clumsy movements. “Then, barehanded, he snaps my arm like a stick of kindling, clean as you please! Just crack! And my arm’s bent like a horseshoe from elbow to wrist!” Some of the patrons made comments of disbelief at this, but both of the maids corroborated the story to the letter, silencing the crowd.
“And he’d have done worse, but for Marra pleading with him to hold,” the innkeeper continued, nodding to the blushing maid. “I don’t mind sayin’ that I was worried that I’d drawn my last breath right there, but then Jorry McAllen and his three brothers stood up from their table and he told the lad to be off, or else.”
“So the boy released you and left?” Targus was playing the innkeeper well, egging him on at just the right moment.
“Oh, he released my arm then, sure enough, but as far as leavin’... Facin’ four well-grown men all totin’ steel and well acquainted in its use, the boy just stood there and asked why, like he didn’t understand. Well, Jorry drew steel then, tellin’ the boy that he’d use it if he didn’t leave, but the words weren’t even out of his mouth before the boy took him.”
“Took him. An armed man?”
“Aye, armed with this.” The innkeeper reached below the bar and retrieved two pieces of a broken sword. He dropped them on the bar for all to see. “I was starin’ right at the boy, I was, and he moved so fast I couldn’t see it, nor tell you exactly what happened. One moment he’s standin’ right where you are, the next Jorry’s slammed up against that wall there with broken ribs, and his sword is snapped like a twig. Not only that, but the boy has this long piece here clapped between his hands, and he’s crouched down like a wildcat ready to pounce. Well, Vik, the youngest, wanted to fight him, but Lem said he’d not draw steel on someone who could take Jorry so easily, and I gotta say, I think he made the right decision.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well, Marra here put some leftovers in a sack and told the boy to just take the food and go. And, believe it or no, that’s exactly what he did. He picks up the bag and goes to the door, then turns and says that he never wanted any trouble, just food. That was the last we saw of him, and I’m thankful for that.”
“So you just let him go?”
“Let him go, indeed! Should we have tried to stop him and all been killed?” The innkeeper made a rude noise and put the broken pieces of sword back beneath the bar. “The constable took a few men to search the road for him. They rode almost as far as Twailin, and found no sign of him. They left this morning up the dwarf road to the east, but I don’t think they’ll have any better luck.”
“A strange tale indeed, innkeeper!” Targus finished his ale and waved at the full common room. “As to our own needs, if you are full to capacity this evening...”
“Oh, we’ve a few private rooms where you and your friends can have a meal, and there’s no shortage of beds. All these folk live hereabouts, and they’ll be headin’ home soon enough.”
“Very good!” Targus motioned his two apprentices to follow, and they were soon seated comfortably in a small room set in the back of the inn. When the maid left them, Targus lowered his voice. “This mysterious boy is undoubtedly our quarry. The innkeeper’s story may be exaggerated somewhat, but there is no doubt that they were lucky. The boy could have easily killed them all.” He fixed his apprentices’ eyes with his own, driving home the gravity of the situation.
“We must inform the Grandfather of what has happened. Somehow, the weapon has escaped Corillian and is roaming free. Mya, take all that we have learned here back to Twailin and relate it all to the Grandfather. Talk to no one but him about this.”
“Yes, Master. I will need a fresh horse.” Her voice was thick with lack of sleep, and the thought of days ahead that would offer no rest.
“Here.” Targus pushed a small pouch across the table to her. “Buy the best horse this place has to offer and leave as soon as we eat. And take this.” He handed her a small glass vial full of amber liquid. “Drink half of that after you eat. It will keep you awake and alert for a full day. As you feel it start to wear off, drink the other half. That should get you to Twailin. Jax and I will take your horse as a spare and head east. I doubt that the weapon is in that direction, but my instructions were to travel all the way to Krakengul Keep unless we found what we were looking for.”
The door creaked, and the maid entered with a huge platter of food and a pitcher of ale. An hour later, Mya rode out of town to the west astride a leggy gelding, her senses sharp as a needle and her ears ringing from the effect of the potion. Targus and Jax would leave Thistledown to the east in the morning.
Lad bent to the watering trough and drank deeply. The downhill slope had allowed him to make very good time from the logging camp. He had left that morning, and the night was at its deepest now, perhaps a quarter day before sunrise. He tore off a hand-sized piece of hard tack and chewed one corner, looking down first the road to the west, then the road to the south. He chewed and thought.
When the piece of bread was gone and he’d had another drink, he turned to the west. There was no solid reason that west was better than south, but there seemed to be a few more rutted tracks in that direction, coming from both the southern and the logging camp roads. Traffic meant people, and he knew that his destiny had something to do with people. It seemed reasonable, since his lifetime of training had been concerned solely with how to most efficiently kill them.
His gait stretched out into the conservative pace to which he’d grown accustomed, and his mind wandered into meandering thoughts concerning his destiny. As yet, he had no inkling that the very people in whose hands his destiny lay were presently hunting him.
The gelding’s hooves dug twin furrows in the road’s hard-packed surface, a grunt of displeasure escaping the horse’s nostrils with a cloud of steamy breath. Mya jerked the rein smartly, bringing the willful horse into line. She’d been riding hard all night, but had kept her pace well within both her and her mount’s limits. The last thing she needed was a dead horse a day out from Twailin. But now she rubbed her eyes and wondered if she were pushing herself too hard. Maybe the elixir that Targus had given her was making her see things. She blinked hard and refocused, squinting through the bright sunshine.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she muttered to herself, su
re now that she was actually seeing what had caused her to rein in her mount so sharply. A boy, skinny and dressed in peasant garb, stood in the middle of the road less than a furlong ahead, looking back at her. She could see no detail from this distance, but thought immediately of their quarry. Her mind raced with options as she sat astride her fidgeting horse, watching him watch her. There was no way from this distance that she could tell for sure that this was the one they sought, so she would have to get closer, perhaps within killing range, to find out. She had no idea how violent the boy was, or if he only killed when threatened or told to do so. She could not hope to subdue him, but perhaps there was another way, a less dangerous way, to get him to Twailin and to the Grandfather.
She kicked her mount into a trot, making a show of taking a long drink from her water skin, and nibbling on some trail rations from her bag. While doing so, she carefully loosened the lacings of her tunic. Perhaps her best weapon against such a boy was the one he would never know hit him. The boy turned away and continued walking at a brisk pace as she came upon him and prudently guided her horse to keep a respectful distance between them.
“Hello there,” she said, trying for her most amiable tone, friendly without being too familiar. “You headed for Twailin?”
“Hello.” His voice was a pleasing tenor, totally without fear, or any other emotion that she could detect. “What is ‘Twailin’?”
“Twailin’s a city.” She tried not to sound incredulous. “It’s the city where this road leads. You’ll be there before midday tomorrow if you keep that pace.” She nodded, indicating his brisk walk, a fast walk even for her horse.
“What is a city?”
“What’s a city?” She couldn’t help her tone at this, then admonished herself for her outburst. The Grandfather had said that the weapon might act strangely, and this boy’s manner was puzzling to say the least. “Like a town or a village, only larger. A lot larger. Twailin’s home to more than twenty thousand souls.”
Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) Page 6
