Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “Yes, Grandfather,” she managed, as the pressure abated.

  “See that you remember it. And you, Jarred.” He turned from her and shook Jingles’ hand. “Well done! You will be compensated for the people you lost this night, of course, and for the healing of the one who was wounded.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” he said with a bow. “But it was Mya who took the prize this night, sir. We would all be dead if not for her, and your weapon would be that much the warier.”

  “Oh?” The old man’s gaze slid sideways to Mya once again, his eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly, either in scrutiny or warning, she could not tell. “How so?”

  “He knew we were there the moment he walked into the barn, sir.” Jingles bit his lower lip but continued with his account, ignorant of Mya’s glare. “We lost two blades before we got as many decent shots off, one of which the boy plucked out of the air like a bat pickin’ off a juicy moth. He would’a cleaned us up slicker than spilt grease if Mya hadn’t tricked him.”

  “Tricked him?” His eyes snapped to focus again on Jingles and the man shrunk under the scrutiny. “Tricked him how?”

  “Well, when two more of our people were down, and the boy said that we’d be safe and let go free if we just gave up, she made like she would take him up on it.” His eyes flickered back and forth from Mya to the Grandfather, but there was no contest as to where the greater threat lay. “She even had me fooled with the way she played right into his offer. Stood right out in the open and ordered me to come out. Well, I refused flat out, but she said you wouldn’t kill us for lettin’ the boy go since we were so much overmatched, so I came out.”

  “You believed her?” There was the slightest edge of sarcasm in that ancient voice, Mya thought.

  “Well, not really, sir. But she was in command of the operation, like you said. And then when he came out, she tricked him into shakin’ her hand and he dropped like a pole-axed steer!”

  “You had an envenomed ring?” the oldster asked, flicking her a stare that would have stopped a charging bull in its tracks.

  “I did, Grandfather.” She left it at that, refusing to embellish.

  “That was most deceitful of you, Mya,” he said, one gray eyebrow twitching upward.

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” she said with a short bow. She did not smile at his irony.

  “And very quick thinking, to change tactics so drastically in the middle of an operation. I must say that I am impressed.” He turned to Jingles and said, “You may go. You can expect a package from me tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” Jingles turned on his heel and mounted, calling the rest of his people together with the snap of his fingers. Mya didn’t particularly like the man, but felt his departure keenly. She was now the only target for the Grandfather’s wrath or gratitude, whichever he chose to wield, and at this point she wasn’t particularly sure which she would prefer.

  “Come with me, Mya.” He turned and entered the estate, and she was forced to follow.

  She followed him down the same stairs that she knew led to the sparring chamber and the repository for his potions and poisons. She still had the pot of narcotic extract in her belt pouch, and thought that might be where he was taking her. Surely he would want the mixture back; such potent extracts were exceedingly rare and ruinously expensive. And indeed, they did pass through the sparring room and down the short hall that ended in three doors, but as her hand drifted to her belt pouch, the Grandfather worked a key into the door on the right instead of that on the left. Beyond was a descending stair cut out of the living rock; he started down without a word and she followed. At the bottom was another simple oak door. The Grandfather’s keys rattled as he opened it. She swallowed and followed him through.

  The interrogation room turned her stomach.

  The room was a wide half-sphere, and a maze of machinery and shelving. The implements on the shelves and most of the larger devices were designed for a common purpose. She’d seen many such devices before, and was even trained in the use of some, but she’d never had a taste for torture. She was a hunter, not a butcher.

  The guards were clapping padded manacles around the boy’s wrists, arms, legs and ankles upon a bed of stone padded with supple leather. The restraints and the slab itself were made neither for comfort, nor to cause pain. This was the only device in the room so designed; all of the devices looked well maintained and well used.

  Mya focused upon her master, refusing to let the surroundings unnerve her.

  The guards finished their work and left without a word, but the valet lingered, hovering like a skinny little vulture waiting for something to die. The Grandfather stood at the side of the boy’s pallet, staring down at his prize, silent as a grave, his mien every bit as warm. He stood there until Mya thought he might have forgotten she was there. Her eyelids were beginning to sag as his voice brought her back like the prick of a needle.

  “I must admit that I am at a bit of a loss about what to do with you, Mya.” His tone was even, and his eyes never left his newly acquired weapon. “Over the last few weeks, you have been privy to much that is dear to me, much that could be put to use against me.”

  He paused, and Mya began to wonder if she would ever again see the outside of this room.

  “Usually, when someone possesses such information, someone whom I do not yet fully find worthy of my trust, I neutralize the threat. You, however, have shown remarkable fortitude, considerable intelligence, and an uncanny ability to make decisions under pressure; yet you are young and somewhat untempered.”

  She did not reply, not knowing if she should agree, disagree, or thank him.

  “What would you choose, if given the opportunity to guide your own destiny, Mya?”

  “I would choose to be a hunter,” she said without pause, meeting his eyes as he turned to assess her response, “if Master Targus would take me back.”

  “I do not think Master Targus would be willing to take you back as apprentice, considering your recent promotion. I will send his other apprentice back to him when he returns from Thistledown.” He paused again, and let his attention slip back to his weapon. “But I do see the potential for your skills in the use of my new weapon, if you are interested.”

  “If I may be so bold as to ask exactly how my skills would be put to use?”

  “Very prudent, Mya.” He turned to a nearby table and picked up a glistening pair of shears. He examined them closely, working them open and closed as if he relished the sound of sharpened steel against sharpened steel. He then deftly applied them to the boy’s tunic. “There will be much to do once my weapon is put to work. The first phase of my plan involves a number of specific assassinations of very powerful and influential people. Until now, they have been untouchable. But such a weapon is not to be used carelessly. I will need meticulous reconnaissance of each target.”

  The tunic was removed, slit up the arms, down the chest and teased out from under the restraints. He began on the trousers, the shears flashing in the bright lamplight, slicing through the sturdy cloth easily.

  “The skills of a hunter, specifically one with the ability to think on her feet, would be of much use in that reconnaissance.” He snipped through the last of the cloth and removed it. The boy lay naked before them, his skin flawless, unmarked and unscarred. “Exquisite, is he not, Mya?” he asked, catching her off guard.

  “Yes, Grandfather.” Her answer was automatic, but accurate. The boy was perfect. Lithe and muscular, he was without as much as a birthmark marring his flesh. She averted her eyes when she noticed that the Grandfather was watching her.

  “So, would you like to hunt for me, Mya?” he asked, setting the shears aside and turning to her. “I will pick the targets, you will delve into their protections and vulnerabilities, then we will plan the appropriate action, which will be executed by my weapon here.” He patted the boy’s leg and Mya shivered.

  “How would I be compensated for my services?”

  “I think the standard j
unior journeyman’s rate will do, with a sizable bonus for every target that we eliminate or manipulate through your efforts.” He smiled thinly and motioned for her to follow him as he moved toward the room’s single exit. “You would also get rooms here at the estate, the services of the staff, and whatever equipment you need to perform your duties.” He stopped at the door and turned to her with that same thin smile of warning. “If this is not acceptable...”

  “Your offer is most generous, Grandfather.” She had known from the start of this conversation that she would have no choice in the matter. “I accept. I will retrieve my things from the Golden Cockerel this morning.”

  “Excellent. Just report to my valet. He will have everything ready for you.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” She stepped past the grinning valet, who bowed to her mockingly, and followed the Grandfather up the stairs, wondering with every step what exactly she was getting herself into.

  Chapter XVI

  Lad?” Wiggen entered the barn warily. It was late morning, past milking already, and Lad had not come to the inn.

  “Lad, are you here?” She peeked into the tack room carefully, remembering the time she had interrupted his morning exercises. She’d watched enthralled for more than a minute before she realized that she was intruding and backed away. He had later told her not to worry, that he had known she was there but was too busy to answer. But today there was no one in the tack room, and Lad’s bed didn’t even look slept in.

  “What the—” She entered the room and placed her hand on the cold pillow, felt between the cool sheets. No one had slept in the bed.

  Now she was worried.

  A quick search of the tack room yielded no sign of him, but Lad had no possessions, so there was nothing to go missing if he’d left. Out in the barn proper, there was no sign that anything had happened. All of the horses were in their stalls, albeit hungrily expecting something from her, having missed their morning oats. None of the tools were missing, no blankets or gear were gone. It was as if he’d simply walked away and not come back.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said to herself, adamantly refusing the notion that Lad would simply leave without saying anything, regardless of the circumstances. She quickly fed and watered the horses and returned to the inn, worry growing in her with every step.

  She burst into the kitchen, red faced and panting. “Father, Lad’s gone!”

  “What?” Forbish set down the immense kettle from which he was pouring blackbrew. “Gone where?”

  “I don’t know where!” She clenched her fists and pounded the air. “He’s just gone!”

  “Oh, come now, Wiggen. Maybe he’s just gone for a walk down the market. I said we needed some more barley flour. He’s probably just gone to fetch it.”

  “His chores haven’t been done and his bed hasn’t been slept in. Something’s wrong! He’s left, and it’s my fault!”

  “Your fault? Now, how could it be your fault?” He rounded the table and took her by the shoulders, but even his embrace couldn’t keep the tears from coursing down her cheeks. “Come, now. What could you have done to make Lad want to leave? You two were getting on famously!”

  “It’s not what I did, Father, it’s what I said.” She wiped her nose on the handkerchief he supplied and looked up at him, guilt painting her features with misery. “The other night, after we had dinner together, after those men tried to hurt us, I told him—” She broke down, unable to continue, her shoulders heaving with her sobs.

  “Oh, Wiggen.” Forbish buried the girl in his embrace, squeezing her tightly, his solidity steadying her like an anchor. He held her until her sobs subsided, whispering the comforting things that fathers whisper to crying daughters. Then, when she was still, he asked the question that was the underlying cause of her distress. “When did you fall in love with him?”

  “Huh?” Wiggen stepped back, dabbing her eyes and sniffling, but taken aback by her father’s question. “When did I what?”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be cryin’ your eyes out if he didn’t mean that much to you, now would you, girl?” Forbish crossed his beefy arms and smiled down at her. “Was it before he saved your life, or after?”

  “Uh...” Wiggen wrung her handkerchief, her eyes darting down to her feet then back up. Her father obviously knew more about what she felt toward Lad than she did, and he didn’t look or sound particularly angry about it. “I, uh, don’t really know. Before, I think. He helped me. I’d been having those nightmares again, not sleeping much, and he taught me something of how to clear my thoughts before I went to sleep.” She smiled weakly.

  “And did it work? Did he cure your nightmares?”

  “After a couple of nights, yes. I had to practice some before I could do it without him to help me, but it worked.” She blinked and sniffed again, and with a wrenching pang of remorse, the tears began again. “But now he’s gone, and I’m the one to blame! I told him that killing was bad, Father. I told him that whoever made him the way he was made him to do evil! I told him to run away!”

  “And so you think he did? You think he just up and walked out without a word?”

  “Well, it doesn’t sound much like him, but I thought that he might, if he thought he was becoming evil.”

  “Well, I don’t think it sounds much like the Lad I know.” Forbish’s brow knitted together into a nest of thick wrinkles. “I don’t think he would have just walked out of here. Leastways, not without sayin’ goodbye!”

  “Then what happened to him?” Her voice trembled with more than anguish now, for there was fear in her for what may have happened to Lad.

  “I think his destiny finally found him, Wiggen.”

  Her heart sank in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. “His destiny?”

  “Yep, and I think you were spot on about the men who made Lad the way he was. There’s some powerful people out there that have put a lot of money and time into making Lad the perfect killer.”

  “And you think they came and took him?”

  “Well, I don’t think Lad would have gone without a fight, and we’ve both seen him fight; so since the barn’s not chockablock full of dead bodies, I’m thinkin’ they may have just talked him out of here.” At her skeptical look, he elaborated. “Think how much he wanted to know about his destiny, Wig. If they promised him what he wanted, a purpose to his life, maybe he just went with ’em.”

  “No,” she said adamantly, shaking her head. “No, he wouldn’t have gone with them without saying goodbye. They must have tricked him somehow.”

  “That’s possible.” Forbish rubbed his multiple chins in thought. “He wasn’t the sharpest pitchfork in the barn, you know.”

  “So they took him,” she finished, her voice wavering with suppressed tears. “But where?”

  “I don’t know, girl, but one thing’s for sure: Twailin’s a fair big city to find one person in, and we don’t have much of a chance, just you and me walkin’ the streets yellin’ out ‘Lad! Oh Lad!’ dawn to dusk every day.” He gestured toward the tray that was ready to be taken out to their waiting customers. “Even if we weren’t busy with the inn, we couldn’t find him on our own.”

  “So we just forget him?” she asked, a splinter of accusation edging her tone.

  “No, we don’t just forget him, but we gotta go about this smart like.” Forbish picked up the tray and forcefully handed it to his daughter, pushing her toward the door to the main room. “I got some friends who know a little about how things work around Twailin, Wiggen. I’ll call in a few favors and see what we can find out.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said, sniffing back the last of her tears. At least they weren’t just going to forget about him, not that she thought that she ever could.

  Lad’s mind surfaced within him through the fading fingers of narcotic, and his senses gradually cleared. He did not awaken, since he had not been asleep, but rather unconscious, so as his senses returned, he carefully took stock of his surroundings.

  The air
on his skin elicited the same faint whispers of sensation from his head to his toes, which meant that his clothing had been removed. This didn’t really matter, but it was interesting. He felt a slight pressure on his arms, wrists, legs and ankles, which told him he was restrained. He didn’t strain against his bonds, but rather felt them; the leather against his skin was soft, but there was no give against the gentle pressure he exerted.

  Iron, or steel, he thought, but padded with leather. This was also interesting.

  He listened. There were two low voices, both male and neither familiar. They were discussing something, many of their words strange to his ears, another language perhaps.

  “Corillian’s use of elvish for the phrase of bonding is very ingenious,” one voice said, the tone careful and measured. “There are few enough true elves left in the lowlands, and any who happen by are not likely to use this particular phonetic of the phrase.”

  “Why is that?” The second voice was quiet, but there was power beneath it. It was the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed.

  “The pronunciation makes the phrase nonsense. This character is feminine, while the other is masculine, and neither should be used in the context of the third. It is rather like saying ‘The woman’s beard is having a baby;’ it makes no sense.”

  “So it would never be uttered by mistake, even from one who spoke elvish.”

  “Exactly, and what’s more...”

  Lad listened for a little longer, but their words meant little to him, concerning hidden script, elvish characters, and intonation in the various elvish tongues. He focused on the rest of his surroundings, deciding to keep his eyes closed for now. He did not know if anyone was watching him, but if someone were, opening his eyes would let them know that he was awake. There probably wasn’t much of an advantage to feigning sleep, but there might be, and he had the definite feeling that he needed every advantage he could get.