The air itself was warm, smelling of wood, oil, leather, sweat and the smoke of lamps and torches, which told him that he was probably underground or in a windowless chamber. He also detected a faint metallic tang that was either rusted metal or blood. He heard the flutter of a guttering flame, probably a lamp, and the rustle of cloth, parchment and leather, all to his left. There were also other people about; he could hear the faint breathing of someone farther to his left, and occasionally caught the sound of a heartbeat to his right. He breathed in the air again and thought he caught a familiar scent: something from last night, something warm and spicy.
“He’s awake, Grandfather.”
Lad snapped his eyes open and turned his head to the right to look at Mya, who stood barely within arm’s reach if his arms had been free. She’d been watching him and had detected the change in his breathing.
“You are observant, Mya.”
“Yes, I am.” She looked down at him for a moment, her face carefully expressionless. Then she bowed to the men who approached from his left.
“Excellent!”
Lad turned and watched the two men walk over, his eyes taking them in professionally. One was a tall half-elf in soft leathers and high boots. He walked smoothly and wore a sword like he could use it. His eyes were sharp and snapped about as if memorizing every detail of everything before him, even as his motions were relaxed and fluid. He brought with him the smell of sweat, leather and horse, and there was a slight tremor to his hands that spoke of fatigue.
The other man was cloaked in black, though Lad could see the outlines of several weapons beneath the garment. The hood of the cloak was thrown back to reveal a wizened face with bushy white eyebrows. The lips were curled back from teeth that were slightly yellowed with age, and the man’s head was capped with a wispy mop of snow-white hair. His eyes, however, were sharp and cunning, and never left Lad for an instant. But the most telling feature of the old man was the way he moved; every step was perfectly balanced, every motion fluid and controlled, and not a whisper could Lad hear from either the black cloak or the man’s feet. His gait screamed of training, years of it, decades of control and precision.
This man was a master.
But a master of what, and of whom?
“And how is my weapon feeling after his nice long rest?”
Lad watched him carefully; he knew that the question was directed at him, and he remembered the term that Mya had used the previous night. He also remembered what she’d said. The answer was still the same.
“You are the one Mya calls Grandfather.” It was not a question, but the old man smiled and nodded, nonetheless. “I am not your weapon. I am not anyone’s weapon.”
“Oh, but you are, boy,” the man cooed, soft laughter bubbling up his ancient throat like air escaping a pit of quicksand. “I contracted you to be made, and made you were. Had not Corillian met with an untimely end on the trip here, you would have been delivered and paid for.” He laughed again, this time with what appeared to be genuine mirth. “I must find the robber who put an arrow in that old wizard’s throat and thank him. He saved me an embarrassing amount of money and accomplished what I would have never thought to attempt!”
His mirth continued, and the tall half-elf beside him smiled. Mya’s face, Lad noticed, remained expressionless. He focused his attention on the old man and tried again.
“My name is Lad. I am not your weapon. I will not serve you. If you do not release me, I will kill you.”
“Brave words from one bound on a pallet, boy!” the old man said, his voice transforming in one sentence from mirthful to malicious. “You would be wise to address your new master with more respect.”
“My master is dead,” Lad said, immune to the old man’s threat. “You are not my master.”
“Oh, but I am, you see.” He held up a scroll, waving it as if it bore some mystical power. “Corillian made you for me, and this is the key that will make you my weapon. This will make me your master. This is why you were made.”
“No.” Lad’s voice was flat and dangerous. He could not hate, for that too had been denied him by the magic, but he could still refuse. “I will not kill for you. Killing is evil.”
“Oh, is it now?” The old man’s eyes widened with amazement, his mouth stretching into a rictus grin of malevolence. “Are soldiers evil, then, for the killing they do at the behest of their lords? Are constables evil for the thieves and murderers that they kill in the streets? Surely the Duke’s headsman is more evil than any, for how many have died beneath his axe? Even Duke Mir himself, I daresay, must be evil for all the hundreds he has had put to death by his judgments.”
The old man’s face turned cold after the last, and he leaned over to stare down, his breath warm on Lad’s cheek.
“Strange, isn’t it, how a man who kills one is a murderer, while another who kills hundreds or thousands is a patriot or a vanquisher?” The ancient eyes narrowed slightly and Lad could feel their contempt, though they sent no fear through him. “You will find out very shortly, boy, that evil and good are as meaningless as any two words that men use to describe the souls of other men. What do men know of evil who have never stared death in the face and embraced it?”
“I do not want to kill,” Lad said, knowing his words fell on deaf ears. He began to slowly test his bonds, pulling against the thick iron restraining his wrists. “I will not be your slave.”
“And what gives you the slightest impression that I give a bent copper for what you want?” he asked, straightening and holding the scroll up once again. “You will be my slave, boy, and this is what will make you so.”
As those knobby old hands began to unroll the scroll, Lad suddenly realized what all the talk had been about. The scroll was magic! Whatever was written on it would make him this man’s slave. He could not, would not allow it!
As the old man drew breath to read the words that would make him a slave forever, Lad brought all the strength he bore into one forceful movement to free his left arm. He could not break the iron bands that bound him, that he knew, but the flesh of his wrist was weaker, and pain meant nothing to him. Sinew and bone popped and crackled like dice on a stone bench as he wrenched his hand through the manacle. Skin and muscle tore away, blood wetting his wrist and hand as he ripped free.
The tall half-elf shouted a warning, lunging forward to restrain him, but Lad was not quite loose yet. His wrist was free, but the iron band that had encircled his upper arm still restrained him. He shifted his torso away, popped his shoulder out of joint, and wrenched the torn limb through, leaving more flesh behind.
Then the half-elf was on him, trying to hold him down, his voice harsh as he yelled, “Read the bonding phrase, Grandfather! Read it!”
But the old man did not read. He simply stepped back out of Lad’s bloody flailing reach and grinned in amusement.
The half-elf’s full weight bore down on Lad’s mangled arm as the bones of his shoulder popped back into the socket, but he twisted the blood-slicked limb free. His thumb hung from a tatter of torn flesh, so he had no grip, but his fingers were intact. He evaded the half-elf’s grasp and jabbed him in the throat hard enough to crush the larynx, then brought his hand around to slam his assailant’s head down onto one of the iron manacles. Bone shattered with the impact, and the man went limp, falling away and leaving Lad free to struggle against his bonds.
“Oh, impressive!” the ancient man cooed, laughing at his loyal servant’s demise. “Very impressive indeed! But I’m afraid not enough.” He brought the scroll up and began to read aloud.
Lad wrenched at his other arm even as he felt the magic course through his body. It infused him, filled him and wound around every fiber of his being. The runes that lay beneath his skin flared green-white, and all the muscles of his body twitched with their power. Then the magic was gone, and Lad renewed his struggles.
“Stop trying to free yourself!” the old man snapped.
To his own amazement, Lad obeyed. He lay there strai
ning to make himself wrench free, his eyes wide with wonder at his inaction. He had just done it! It was as if his muscles acted of their own volition. He looked around trying to find something, someone who could help him escape.
The only other person near was Mya, and the horror on her face was plain to see. He reached his mangled hand toward her, but she backed away, aghast either at him or at what he’d done to the half-elf.
“Look at me.” The command was undeniable. Lad turned his head and looked at his new master.
“You will not try to escape from now on,” he commanded, and Lad felt the force of it. All the drive to flee, to escape, suddenly left him. “Do you understand me?”
Lad looked at him, tried not to answer, but said, “Yes,” despite his effort.
“You will address me as ‘Master.’ Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master,” Lad found himself saying, though he clenched his teeth against it. A battle raged within him, his mind versus the magic that bound his body. He knew that he wanted to free himself, to flee this prison, but he could not make himself do it.
“Good!” His new master stepped forward, but stopped just beyond Lad’s reach. His next command was predictable. “You will never harm me, either by action or inaction. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master.” Lad felt lost, alone and helpless. He could not flee and he could not fight. He did not want to obey, but was compelled to do so. He knew from the impotence of his internal struggle against the binding magic that its control was complete; the Grandfather could command him to do anything, and he would do it. He could not disobey.
But his mind was still his own. He might be a slave, but he was an unwilling one, and his voice was still intact.
“I must follow your commands, Master,” he said, leveling a dangerous glare at the old man, “but the magic cannot change who I am. My name is Lad. I am only your slave because the magic makes me so. You cannot make me evil.”
“Evil? Bahh!” The Grandfather waved one gnarled hand in dismissal. “I’ll not bandy words with a witless slave! From this point forth, you will only speak to me when I request it or ask you a question. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” Lad said without thinking. He focused his thoughts inward, trying to slip into meditation as an escape, but the next of the old man’s commands snapped his concentration like a twig.
“Good, now hold out your arm.”
Lad did so, allowing the man to inspect his already healing injuries. The bone and sinew were knitting, the gaping flesh slipping back into place. Blood still smeared the limb from the elbow down, as well as much of his left side and the pallet beneath him, but the damage was very nearly gone.
“Very good.” He tested the strength of Lad’s thumb and nodded in satisfaction. “Mya, bring a towel from that bin and wipe all this blood away. Valet! Send word for someone to come down here and pick up this fool’s corpse. Oh, and come here and get Targus’ ring.” He toed the body at his feet to indicate the half-elf that Lad had killed.
The skinny man by the door obeyed immediately, shouting a few words to the guards stationed outside, then moved quickly toward them. Lad watched, waiting for him to come within reach.
“Grandfather,” Mya said, standing just farther than Lad could lunge and holding a damp towel in her hands. “If you do not order the weapon not to harm us, he will kill us both as soon as we’re within reach.”
Lad looked at her; she was observant indeed, and very careful, not just of him, but of her master. She had not disobeyed his command, just informed him of what would happen if she complied. This woman was very interesting. The valet stopped in his tracks, well out of Lad’s reach, glancing nervously at his master, then Mya.
“Oh, well, I don’t suppose we can have that.” He reached out and took Lad’s chin in his hand, pulling him roughly back to look into those sharp ancient eyes. “You will harm none of my people,” he said, glancing at Mya and smiling thinly, “without my orders. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good.” He nodded to Mya and she moved forward and began wiping the drying blood from Lad’s arm. “Be thorough, Mya,” he said, pulling the iron pins from the other restraints. He worked his way around the table, opening the restraints until Lad was free. “A good weapon must be kept clean and sharp.”
The valet knelt and pulled a black ring from one of the dead half-elf’s fingers, wiped it clean on his tunic and handed it to his master. The Grandfather looked at the ring briefly, then slipped it into a pocket without another word.
When the last restraint clicked open, Lad sat up. Mya took a half-step back, eying him warily, but the Grandfather just smiled. Lad took the towel from her hand and began cleaning himself, stepping off the pallet and scrubbing at the blood that had dried.
“Good,” the Grandfather said with another smile. He gathered his valet with a glance and strode slowly toward the door. “Stay here and see that he is cleaned, clothed and fed, Mya. Then you may come up to my chambers and we will discuss our first task for my new weapon.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” she said, retrieving another towel from the bin and attending to the few flecks of blood that Lad could not reach.
“Oh, and as for you, boy. This is your new home. Don’t damage anything, and stay here until I bid you leave. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good.” The Grandfather and his valet left the room without another word.
Two burly guards came in and lifted the lifeless form of the half-elf. Lad watched them go as he finished with the towel and dropped it on the floor. As Mya picked it up and deposited it in an empty barrel, he took a moment to inspect his prison.
The room was a dome of mortared stone, perhaps a hundred fifty feet across and a third that high at the center. From wall to wall, and suspended from a large portion of the ceiling, the place was crowded with devices, most of which Lad had never seen before. Having just been strapped down to one of them, however, he quickly realized that the purpose of all of this equipment was to restrain and cause pain to people. What reason someone would have to do that was still beyond his ken, but he had a deep knot in the pit of his stomach when he looked at these machines and imagined them in use. He was beginning to understand what Wiggen had meant by evil, and he did not like it at all.
“Here.”
He turned to see that Mya had retrieved some clothing from a shelf next to the bin. He inspected her, his mind sorting through a hundred ways that he could kill her in an instant, none of which the magic that controlled his body would allow. Her eyes flicked over him quickly whenever she could not avoid looking at him, as if he made her nervous.
“Put these on.” She put a dark pair of trousers and a similarly hued tunic on the pallet.
“Why?” Lad stood staring at her, commanding her attention. If making her uncomfortable was his only weapon, he would wield it. “What difference if a slave wears clothing or not. Or if another slave sees one without clothes.”
“I am not a slave,” she said dangerously. Lad watched carefully as her face flushed with color and her nostrils dilated with every breath. His taunt had scored.
“You may not think you are a slave, Mya, but you are as much bound by the Grandfather’s commands as I.” He smiled, letting her see that her discomfort amused him. “At least I know what I am.”
“I am a hunter!” she spat, taking a half-step and glaring into his luminous eyes, her discomfort transforming to rage. “I work for the Grandfather. You are a weapon, one of flesh, but a weapon and nothing more. You were made to be a slave, and that is what you are.”
“What we are made to be is not always what we become.” He let his voice soften with that, wondering what other emotions he could provoke from her.
“You were told to put these on.” She snatched up the clothes and thrust them at him, her eyes hard as flint.
“No, you were told to see that I was dressed.” Lad made no move to take the clothing. “I
must obey my master, but not you.”
“Refusing to obey me will get you nowhere, Lad. If you don’t put the clothing on, I will simply tell the Grandfather that you refused, and he will order you to do so.” She held out the clothing once again. “It would not be wise to antagonize him. He could make you do things that you would not enjoy.”
Lad’s thoughts immediately centered upon Wiggen and Forbish, and he saw in Mya’s eyes that she knew what he was thinking. She could easily tell the Grandfather that he cared for the innkeeper and his daughter. The result would be predictable and, as she had said, something he would not enjoy.
“If you are not his slave, Mya,” Lad asked, taking the clothes and slipping into the dark trousers, “why do you stay here?” He drew the drawstring tight and reached for the tunic. The material of both garments was smooth and slick to the touch; he had never felt its like. “Clearly, you don’t enjoy following his orders.”
“I do my job.” She turned and walked to another cabinet and began putting things onto a tray. “Whether I enjoy it or not doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?” He slipped into the tunic as she turned back with a tray full of food.
“Because I’m bound by my contract.” She placed the tray upon the pallet. It bore two large pieces of dried meat, a bowl of porridge and an apple. “Eat.”
“Then you are a slave.” He picked up one piece of meat and bit off a mouthful.
“No, I’m indentured. There’s a difference.”
“What is indentured?”
“It means that I have an agreement with the Grandfather to serve him until I am fully trained.” She watched him eat for a few bites.
“Who decides when you are fully trained?”
“The Grandfather.”
He watched her face and smiled.
“But that doesn’t mean I’m a slave!”
“You and I are more the same than we are different, Mya.”
“No, we aren’t.” Her eyes had grown hard again and her hand had drifted to her dagger’s hilt. He ignored her threatening posture.
Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy) Page 18
