Dedication
This novel is dedicated to all the fans who would not stop pestering me for a sequel to Weapon of Flesh.
Without your support, this book would never have been written.
Special thanks to Noah Stacey, once again, for the wonderful cover art, and to my wife, Anne, for her editorial input and tolerance of all of my foibles.
Weapon of Blood
Weapon of Flesh Trilogy
Book 2
Chris A. Jackson
Kindle edition
7.1.13
The sequel to the award-winning Weapon of Flesh, Weapon of Blood continues the story of Lad, a man crafted of magic and flesh to be the most lethal assassin the world has ever known.
A weapon becomes a person.
The Grandfather is dead, and Lad is free to live his life as he chooses…as long as he chooses the Assassins Guild, of course.
Lad’s job is to protect Master Hunter Mya, a difficult proposition with a guild war brewing and death waiting around every corner. Envious rivals plot to eliminate Mya, even as the Assassins Guild Grandmaster seeks to promote her.
Lad’s solace is his loving family. But the blessings of love and friendship vie with the despair of fear and doubt. And so much gained means that much more to lose.
Suspicion and betrayal abound as the Assassins Guild factions strive for supremacy. Even Mya harbors secrets so deep that she will kill to prevent them from being revealed. Lad does not know who to trust, but that is not the worst of it.
For, unbeknownst to Lad, he is no longer the only weapon of flesh…
Copyright Notice
Copyright 2013 Chris A. Jackson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in printed reviews—without prior permission from the author.
Cover Image Copyright 2013 Jaxbooks
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Table of Contents
Dedication
Copyright Notice
Prelude
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Epilogue
Thanks for reading!
About the Author
Novels by Chris A. Jackson
Prelude
Murder weighed heavily on the noble’s mind as he strolled through the beautiful gardens. Of course, as Grandmaster of the all the Assassins Guilds in the Empire of Tsing, murder was always on his mind. Death was his business. He took pleasure in his work, but more and more often that pleasure was tainted by unpleasantness.
Today’s unpleasantness took the form of a garden party at the Imperial Palace. Dozens of overdressed courtiers strolled and chatted, strutting like peacocks dressed in plumage of silk and satin, frilled lace and powdered wigs.
More like a flock of carrion crows attending a corpse, cawing and flapping for a piece of the emperor’s attention. He hid his sneer of contempt behind a placid smile and strolled on. They thought themselves superior, clever, truly noble, but he knew their secrets. He knew all their secrets, and their petty intrigues bored him, their blatant pandering a constant ache he could not ease, a rotten tooth he could not pull.
Politics.
Yet, as much as it disgusted him, he had to live the lie. He had to wear a mask of propriety to maintain his image and hide the assassin within.
A flash of darker color among the pastel hues drew the noble’s eye. A man wound his way through the crowd, his simple crimson robe cinched with a silver chain around his waist, incongruous against the courtiers’ finery. The golden feather embroidered on the breast of his robe marked the man as a high priest of Demia, Keeper of the Slain, but he stood out from the gaudy courtiers in more than just his dress and calling. His fluid, purposeful steps and serious bearing gave him the look of a hawk amidst the peacocks. Sidelong glances and whispers followed in his wake. This priest of the death goddess disconcerted the courtiers, as if a shadow walked among them. They turned away, feigning disinterest, and gave him a wide berth.
A thrill of intrigue tickled the Grandmaster’s stomach, heightening his senses and cutting through his boredom, for even though the priestly garb was no disguise, he knew what else this visitor was. He gestured, and the man smoothly shifted his trajectory, matching the noble’s casual stride as he turned and made his way deep into the maze of flowering shrubs and groomed hedges, away from the inane banter and courtly laughter. Two bodyguards followed at a discreet distance, but he wasn’t concerned with them overhearing the conversation. As blademaster monks of Kos Godslayer, they were constrained by spells of obedience, and had their tongues cut out to prevent unintentional slips.
When they were out of earshot, the man in crimson bowed and said, “Grandmaster, I bear news from Twailin.”
He sighed. Twailin again. The subject of Twailin was beginning to irritate him. The news was never good.
“So, what news from our recalcitrant brothers and sisters, Hoseph?” He paused before a delicate topiary of jasmine and bent to inhale the heady aroma.
“The situation worsens, Grandmaster. They still have not appointed a guildmaster, the factions squabble amongst themselves like a gaggle of geese over breadcrumbs, and the Thieves Guild is moving in on their territories. Revenues continue to fall.”
“A pity.” The Grandmaster strolled over to a rose bush. Dew glinted on a spider web strung between two of the stems, and he smiled as he compared its complex architecture with his own situation. He was the spider, his network of Inquisitors the strands, feeding him information from assassins guilds in every city of the empire and beyond. When they told of something tasty, he pulled it in and feasted. Hoseph was his primary intermediary, his conduit to that web of information. The Grandmaster knew the players in this game as well as he knew the court fawners, though he did not know all of their secrets. Assassins were more circumspect.
Drawing a short, hooked knife from a fold of his robes, he snicked a blossom free from the bush with one deft stroke. The glistening petals shone dark and vibrant, the hue of fresh-spilled venous blood, and the aroma filled his head with a cloud of sweet remembrance.
Father’s funeral…roses atop his casket…the satisfaction of putting that pretentious prig deep underground.
He thought about the dilemma as he methodically cut the thorns from the stem with quick twists of the blade, not unlike the motion he would use to sever a selected tendon to access the nerve beneath. Though he had been groomed from a tender age for the ultimate position of authority, as Grandmaster he rarely got the opportunity to practice the assassin’s disciplines. He had a real knack and love for inquisition, however, even if his efforts were more recreational than professional.
“It’s been five years since Saliez’s death, and still we’re feeling the repercussions. I’d hoped their attempts to operate without a guildmaster would not disrupt business, but
that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“Initial financial gains without the expenditures of a guildmaster’s tithe were promising. Saliez was rather extravagant.”
Hoseph’s placating tone narrowed his master’s eyes.
“Don’t patronize!” He sliced the last thorn from the rose and brought the blossom to his nose. A deep breath, a slow exhale, and his ire eased. “Saliez may have been extravagant, and even egomaniacal, but at least he was ambitious and led with purpose. This intra-guild squabbling is detrimental. Tell them that they must appoint a new guildmaster from within their own ranks within two months, or I’ll send them one.”
“It would be best if someone familiar with Twailin filled that post, Grandmaster, but if you place someone of our own choosing in that position, it will work to your advantage.” Hoseph’s tone bespoke volumes, but he danced around the point as if it would burn him, and the Grandmaster fumed.
“People give me obsequious double talk all day long, Hoseph. If you wish to retain your position, speak plainly!” He inhaled the rose’s heady aroma and leveled a stare straight into the man’s eyes. “You obviously have someone in mind.”
“Yes, Grandmaster. But the masters of the other factions may not agree with my choice.”
“You need only concern yourself with my opinion, Hoseph. I don’t give a bent copper for what these masters think! They may be skilled and powerful in their own little worlds, but the Assassins Guild is vast, and I’m the one who makes the decisions that benefit us all. Now, who do you think would best fit our needs in that post?”
Hoseph’s face remained inscrutable, but his stance tensed under his master’s rebuke. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Master Hunter Mya is ambitions and skilled, though young. Her revenues are higher than any of the other factions. She has potential.”
Muscles writhed beneath the skin of the Grandmaster’s jaw. “She was also involved in Saliez’s death, wasn’t she?”
“She did tell her fellow masters that she was there when Saliez died, but she wore a master’s ring, so she couldn’t have killed him.” Hoseph swallowed and shrugged. “If you remember, the Royal Guard invaded Saliez’s estate, so we had no way to find out how Saliez was killed. Mya managed to escape with his weapon.”
“Yes. Saliez’s weapon.” The human weapon had managed to kill targets directly under the protection of the Twailin Royal Guard, an unprecedented feat. “She wields it still, does she not?”
“Yes, Grandmaster. She had been assigned by Saliez to its care, and after his death, she was the only one able to control it. She uses it as her personal bodyguard.” Hoseph’s mouth twisted into a smile. “It’s kept her alive in spite of some serious attempts on her life from her fellow masters.”
“The squabbling has gone that far?”
“Yes, Grandmaster. And she’s returned the favor. You remember the report of the Master Inquisitor’s death two years ago. That was rumored to be Mya’s doing.”
“Hmm…indeed.” He dropped the rose to the groomed turf and crushed the delicate blossom under his boot. “She’s dangerous. That weapon is the only creature in the Assassins Guild capable of harming me, and you think I should promote her to guildmaster?”
Hoseph tilted his head and pursed his mouth before answering. “Saliez promoted her to Master Hunter over many older and more experienced guild members. That suggests great trust. While it’s true that the weapon has signed no blood contract, and is therefore not constrained from killing a wearer of a master’s, guildmaster’s or even the Grandmaster’s ring, I think the key to controlling it is to control Mya. Elevate her to guildmaster and you put her securely in your debt, which might persuade her to wield her weapon at your command.”
The Grandmaster’s eyes narrowed. Yes, the thought had merit. Saliez’s…Mya’s weapon was an asset to be used properly, not wasted as a bodyguard. His trained mind skipped ahead to consider all the possibilities, plans, and plots that could benefit from the use of such a weapon, as well as the risks and opportunities for betrayal. The scales of risk versus potential gain tipped in his favor.
“Very well, make the offer, but make it directly to Mya.”
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
“Also, we must protect our investment. Instruct her to have a new ring forged, but insist that she doesn’t tell the other masters about it until she actually wears the ring. If they learn of my offer before she has that protection, they’ll go after her.”
“Of course, Grandmaster.”
“But we can’t be sure the other masters don’t have spies in her camp. If she dies, the weapon will be without a master. He’ll run. I want Mya protected from the other masters until she wears the guildmaster’s ring.”
“She is protected, Grandmaster. The weapon—”
“Protect him, also.”
“Protect the weapon? By all accounts, it’s virtually invulnerable.”
“He is human, and mortal, and as such, he must have weaknesses. The masters of the Twailin guild might be able to find those weaknesses and exploit them.”
“I…suppose that’s possible.”
“And be subtle. Use resources outside the guild, someone familiar with Twailin. See to it.” He waved dismissively.
“I will, Grandmaster.” Hoseph bowed, took two steps back, and turned to go.
The Grandmaster smiled. He had spun a new strand for his web. His mind whirled with potential uses for the weapon once he had Mya under his thumb.
Chapter I
Sereth stood at his master’s elbow, hands clasped casually behind his back, fingers resting on the hilts of the daggers in his sleeves. Watch nothing, see everything, he thought, letting his vision slip into the attentive blankness that would best observe, even while appearing bored and inattentive.
He had plenty to keep his attention occupied.
The room itself was unremarkable, a wood-paneled office in the back of a brothel. The room’s occupants, however, were among the most dangerous people in all of Twailin, master assassins and their bodyguards, the best of the best, or worst of the worst, depending on one’s point of view.
Four of the five masters of the Twailin Assassins Guild were present for the meeting. Master Alchemist Neera sat stiffly, her rich robes drawn around her like armor. The eldest of the four, she seemed so frail that her ancient bones might shatter in a stiff breeze, her wrinkled skin dissolve to dust and blow away. Sereth knew better than to gauge her by her appearance. The alchemist wielded more magic than any other member of the Twailin guild. Her concoctions could heal, harm, kill or, rumor suggested, revive from the very brink of death. Her bodyguard, a slim fellow Sereth knew only by reputation, preferred envenomed darts, and rarely missed his target.
Master Enforcer Youtrin filled his seat like a side of beef fills a butcher’s case. Huge hands, knuckles scarred by a thousand beatings, lay clasped on the table’s varnished surface. He might not be the sharpest dagger in the arsenal, but in a fight, he could receive and deal more hurt than any other two men in the room. A bodyguard seemed redundant, but he had one nonetheless, a huge brute with arms like tree trunks. His jutting lower jaw and olive-drab skin bespoke of ogre blood, but his eyes were sharp and cunning.
The newest member of the council, Master Inquisitor Patrice, lounged in her seat, clad in a comfortable array of silks and satins. She owned this particular brothel and a half dozen more like it, but Sereth knew that her greatest talents were not in the bedroom. She could flay the secrets from a person’s mind like flesh from bone, and knew more about pain than Sereth ever wanted to learn. In his nightmares, he lay upon her table, his secrets laid bare as his skin peeled away.
Sereth repressed a shiver and focused on the Inquisitor’s bodyguard. She was dressed like a trollop, but Sereth knew her vicious reputation, and did not allow the swell of pale flesh revealed by her loose bodice to distract him.
Sereth’s own master, Horice, was head of the Blades faction, and probably the best swordsman in the city. That skill ha
d served him well, clearing the path to the position he now held. Even so, he was not without adversaries, and not all attacks could be met with a blade, especially in this company.
Adversaries… The notion almost brought an ironic smile to Sereth’s lips.
These three masters were supposed to be Horice’s allies—had been allies not too long ago—but relations between the factions had become more than strained. Knowing an adversary’s strengths and weaknesses kept you alive in this business. And while Sereth didn’t know everything about these people, he knew enough. He supposed that they knew a great deal about him as well, but was certain they did not know everything.
If they did, he would be dead, or worse, strapped to Patrice’s table.
A faint cry of passion drifted down from the rooms above, evidence of the quality services being offered. Everyone pretended not to hear, but like salt in a pot of water nearing a boil, the disruption served as a catalyst to action.
“I’m not waiting any longer!” Horice punctuated his remark with a fist to the tabletop. “That insolent upstart has kept us waiting long enough. I move we convene the meeting without her.”
“Seconded.” Neera’s voice rasped from her withered throat, a consequence of age or a lifetime of inhaling the fumes of her noxious trade. Her fingernails, yellowed from the powders and acids of countless concoctions, tapped the table in an impatient staccato. “Mya must have been delayed with other business.”
“She’s ignoring us!” Horice hammered the table again for emphasis. “She’s the one who suggested this council instead of appointing a new guildmaster, and she doesn’t even attend the meetings! It’s insulting!”
“The insolence of youth.” Patrice flicked one manicured hand in a dismissive gesture. Though the youngest master present, she was near twice the age of the absent Master Hunter Mya.
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