Weapon of Blood

by Chris A. Jackson

  “And they were there? Who was it? All of them?” She cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “I knew they’d be watching me, so we drove slowly on the main streets. It wasn’t hard to figure out where we were headed. And yes, all four of them were there.”

  “That was…very clever, Lad.” Mya reached for her cup again. “I wish you had told me. We could have taken them all right there.” She lifted the cup.

  Lad stepped closer, so their faces were only inches apart, his anger flaring, burning away any sympathy he might have felt for her. “You’d have gotten Lissa killed!”

  “All right.” The cup hovered over the map. “I admit, it would’ve been risky, but—”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you, Mya. They threaten me, and instead of trying to help, you see it as an opportunity to take them out and rid yourself of a problem.” He grasped her wrist, and the cup trembled. “You say family and love are important, but you’ll never change. You always look for the advantage, but the advantage for you, not anyone else.”

  “You’re…” Mya stopped, her eyes fixed on his. He could smell the stale blackbrew on her breath, see the sleepless nights in the tiny blood vessels in her eyes, feel the tremor of fatigue through her wrist. “You’re right, Lad.”

  He released his grip.

  Mya put down her cup and rubbed her eyes wearily.

  Now!

  Although most of Lad’s skills were in direct confrontation, he’d had some training in administering poisons. As he stepped back, he passed his hand over her cup, and the fine white crystals cascaded down to vanish in the steaming brew. Before Mya opened her eyes again, he had capped the vial and slipped it into a pocket.

  “I’m…trying, Lad, but I can’t stop the way I think. I’ve been doing it too long. It’s kept me alive. But you’re right. I need to push my thoughts along the right track. To help you, not myself.” Sighing, she dropped into her chair. “So, what did you learn? Do you know where they’re keeping Lissa?”

  “No, but she’s alive. They showed her to us through a mirror. She recognized Wiggen.”

  “Okay, so what do they want?”

  “They want me to kill you.” Worry flashed over her face. “Don’t worry, Mya. I’m not here to murder you. I told them I couldn’t.”

  “And they believed you?” Her voice was incredulous, and her hand trembled as she reached again for the cup.

  “I’m not very good at lying, so I explained that the Grandfather ordered me to never harm you, which is the truth, and that the magic still binds me to his command, which isn’t. I offered to betray you instead.”

  Mya lifted the cup to her lips, nodding in approval as she sipped and swallowed. “You’re learning to be quite deceptive, Lad. So, you offered to betray me. What do they want you to do?”

  “Bring you to them.” Lad watched her eyes for any sign that the drug might be working. Was one sip going to be enough? He had to keep her talking, keep her suspicions eased until she fell asleep. “They fear you, Mya. They think you wear the guildmaster’s ring.”

  “Ha! There’s a bit of irony.” Mya sipped again and put down the half-empty cup. “So, you bring me to them, supposedly subdued. This could work to our advantage, Lad. Where and when?” She gestured to the map. “Show me.”

  “Here.” Lad put his finger down in the center of the courtyard east of Fiveway Fountain. “Midnight tonight.”

  “Tonight?” She rubbed her eyes again. “Damn, that doesn’t give us much time.” She reached for the cup and downed the rest of it in one swallow, then squinted at the map. “That’s Patrice’s territory. She owns that whole block.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes. Let’s see, they’ll have people in all the surrounding buildings with crossbows, and probably Blades and Enforcers spread out over a few blocks as well, but they’ll focus on the courtyard, bring a bunch of people with them.” She rubbed her eyes again and yawned. “Godsdamnit, I’m tired. Anyway, we should be able to…um…ambush them from…”

  “No, Mya.”

  “What?” Mya looked up at him, and he could see by her dilating pupils that the drug had taken hold.

  “It’s too risky. You can’t bring your Hunters in for an ambush. One mistake and they kill Lissa.”

  “Um…okay. What do you suggest?”

  Lad watched her pupils widen with every word. Now all he had to do was make sure she didn’t raise an alarm before she passed out. He had to distract her for a moment longer. The truth was distracting enough, so he kept it up.

  “I think we should do exactly as they suggested, Mya. I should bring you to them just like they asked.”

  “Wha…what?” Her eyes cleared, then lost focus again. “No…I…” She sagged in her seat, and he caught her before she hit the floor.

  “It’s all right, Mya,” he whispered into her fading consciousness. “It won’t hurt. You’ve already seen to that.”

  Lad took the key from Mya’s pocket before lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the fireplace. Inserting the key into the lock that she thought was her secret, he stood back while the hidden door opened. Quietly closing the door behind them, he carried her down the stairs. Though he’d never been down here, Lad knew she would have another way out. Someone as controlled by fear as Mya was would never allow herself to be cornered with no escape route.

  All he had to do was find it.

  Chapter XXIII

  It’s like the heavens are crying, Wiggen thought as she looked up into the rain. Maybe the gods know what’s going to happen tonight.

  Lad nudged her out of her thoughts as he pulled the wagon to a creaky stop. “We’re here, Wiggen. It’s time.” He vaulted from the seat and went to the back of the wagon.

  “I know.”

  Though it was only the weight of her sodden skirts, Wiggen felt as if some heavy force dragged her down, slowing her motions, delaying the inevitable. By the time she alighted, Lad had lifted the canvas-wrapped bundle from the bed of the wagon and hoisted it over his shoulder. Wiggen heard a muffled curse and recalled the expression on Mya’s face when they’d lowered the canvas hood over her head. She felt a pang of guilt, but pushed it aside. We have to do this to get Lissa back! That’s all that matters.

  Two men emerged from the shadows of a narrow alley between adjacent tenements. Wiggen stiffened in fear. Sidling over to Lad, she clutched his free hand in hers.

  “Remember what I told you,” he whispered.

  “I remember. I’m ready.” She felt the comforting weight of the naked dagger she’d sewn into the folds of her dress, and hoped her words were true. Calm your mind. Focus on Lissa. No fear…no pain…no mercy.

  The tenements joined above the narrow, dark alley to form a tunnel, and as she and Lad passed between the armed men and into the gloom, Wiggen felt as if she was being swallowed by some great beast. Heavy footsteps echoed as their escort fell in behind them, but she refused to look back. No fear…

  They emerged into a lamp-lit courtyard with a central well, two scraggly trees, and a few stone benches. But something was wrong. Though it was late, she would expect at least some lights to be on in the surrounding tenements, but every window was dark.

  The cold hand of fear clutched the back of her neck. They want no witnesses.

  The four masters awaited them in front of the well—Neera, Youtrin, Horice, and Patrice, each flanked by a bodyguard—the four monsters who had taken her baby. Unfortunately, the hatred burning in her for these creatures didn’t make her fear them any less. And they had not come alone, for in the gloom outside the lamplight, around the entire periphery of the courtyard, she perceived a ring of assassins, their hands on sword hilts or holding crossbows, their eyes fixed on Wiggen and Lad. So many…

  Lad squeezed her hand, then released her as they stopped near the middle of that deadly circle. He shrugged the burden off his shoulder, and it landed with a wet thump at his feet, splattering mud in all directions. A muffled curse escaped the hood.

  “Wh
ere’s Lissa?” Lad’s voice sent a chill down Wiggen’s spine. For years she’d associated his voice with love, comfort, and warmth, but now it raked through the rain as hard and cold as steel dragging on slate. Wiggen cringed at how different he was in the company of these assassins, no longer the loving father and husband she knew so well. He was different; like them, he was a killer.

  “Show Mya to us first.” The Master Inquisitor, Patrice, stepped forward, a rouged harlot sporting a smug smile.

  “Fine.” Lad lifted the canvas-bound Mya to her knees and tore away the hood.

  “Bastard! You traitorous piece of shit!” Mya writhed against her bonds, spittle flying from her lips. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”

  Contemptuous laughter clattered through the rain, but Wiggen could hear true fear in it. The assassins thought Mya wore the guildmaster’s ring, and that, if unbound, she could make good her promise of slaughter.

  Mya blinked through the rain, taking in her surroundings, and her struggles ceased. “They’ll betray you, Lad. Once I’m dead, they’ll kill your daughter. You know you can’t trust them!”

  “Oh, and he can trust you?” Patrice took another step forward and sneered at her bound colleague. “A traitor to her own guild?”

  “Enough!” Neera stepped forward. “Let’s finish this business.” She beckoned to someone behind her. “Lakhshim, it’s time to earn your apprenticeship with the Assassins Guild.” One wizened finger crooked toward Mya. “Kill her.”

  “Yes, Mistress Neera!” A swarthy young man of perhaps fifteen years strode to the fore. He pulled a long, keen dagger from his belt, his dark eyes fixed upon Mya.

  “No.” Lad stepped into his path.

  Wiggen drew in a gasp through gritted teeth. She knew her husband’s preternatural abilities. She had seen him in action. But now, standing amongst these men and women with swords and crossbows, all sly-eyed assassins ready to murder on command, Lad seemed no more than a peasant straight from the farm. Unarmed, his clothing simple, his feet bare, he appeared vulnerable to anyone who didn’t know what he was.

  And apparently, the boy did not know. He didn’t stop, but growled at Lad, “Out of my way, you—”

  Wiggen didn’t even see Lad move. One moment, Lakhshim was striding forward, knife in hand, ready to kill, and the next moment, his arm was bent at an impossible angle. The dagger splashed to the muddy ground as the boy’s scream tore through the night. Lad stood exactly where he had, unruffled by his lightning-fast strike.

  “Nobody touches Mya until we see Lissa.”

  The boy collapsed to his knees, cradling his broken arm, his screams echoing off the tenement walls.

  “Oh, shut up!” Horice drew a long rapier, took one step forward, and lunged. The tip of the sword pierced the boy’s skull from back to front as easily as it would a ripe melon. He twisted the blade and the body jerked spasmodically. Yanking the rapier free, Horice wiped it clean and slipped it back into its scabbard in one easy motion.

  Wiggen watched as the boy toppled into a twitching heap, his blood thickening the mud. Her whimper seemed loud in the sudden silence. They’d not been here five minutes, and already someone was dead. Her knees began to shake, and she was thankful they were hidden beneath her skirts. Was she wrong to have come? What could she do among people like this? Did they have any hope of getting Lissa back?

  “Horice! That was…” Neera shook with apoplectic rage. “We needed him!”

  The Master Blade shrugged and scowled, refusing to meet her caustic glare. “We couldn’t have him drawing attention.”

  “You see, Lad?” Venom dripped from Mya’s voice as she struggled against her bonds. “You see what they’ll do to your pretty baby?”

  “Shut up!”

  Every eye in the courtyard turned to Wiggen, and it took her a moment to realize that it had been her voice crying out.

  “Yes, do be quiet, dear Mya. We have no intention of betraying Lad. In fact,” Patrice gestured toward the corner of the courtyard, and the woman they’d seen in the mirror strode forth, “here is your precious little bundle of joy, safe and sound.”

  “Lissa!” Wiggen managed one step before Lad’s grip on her arm restrained her headlong rush into the midst of the assassins.

  “Bring her here,” Lad ordered. “Close enough that we can see she’s safe.”

  “Go ahead, Kellik.” Youtrin motioned the woman forward. “But be ready.”

  To Wiggen’s horror, Kellik drew a long, curved knife. She came to within a few steps and propped the fussy babe up for them to see, then nestled the length of razor-edged steel across Lissa’s chin.

  “Lad…” Wiggen choked on her words.

  “Calm, Wiggen,” Lad said, his steady voice barely loud enough for her to hear.

  For an outraged moment she wanted to tear away from his grasp. How could he be so calm? How could he stand to see their little girl threatened? She felt like screaming, like fainting. Then she felt the hand on her arm trembling like a plucked harp string, and the heat emanating from his body. Lad quivered like a tightly wound spring waiting for violent release. How he kept himself in check, she didn’t know, but she did know that, if they wanted to get out of this alive with their daughter, she couldn’t distract him with imprudent actions. She had to stick to their plan.

  Calm. Wiggen tried to breathe deep to still her pounding heart, to rein in her terror, but the calming techniques Lad had taught her wouldn’t work. Her breath caught in her throat, and she began to shake all over. It had been easier when the blade had been at her own throat, but Lissa…

  “You see? Safe and sound.” Patrice smiled again as she waved a hand toward the baby, but her eyes were cold, and her voice had taken on a steely ring. “But now, Lad, you’ve created a problem for us. Our deal was your child for the delivery of your master, but you knew that our intent was to kill her. By ruining our only available means of completing the task, you’ve extended your obligation.”

  “I didn’t kill him.” Lad pointed to Horice and glared. “He did.”

  “What was I supposed to do, pat the idiot on the shoulder?”

  “Quiet, Horice!” Neera snapped.

  “You don’t order me!” Horice countered, his hand drifting to the hilt of his rapier.

  Youtrin cracked his huge knuckles. “Didn’t I say we needed a backup?”

  “You see? They’ll betray you!” Mya surged and thrashed against her bonds.

  “The baby,” Patrice raised her voice to be heard, “will remain in our possession, and you will stay here until we can—”

  The bickering assaulted Wiggen’s ears like the roar of a storm wind, but her eyes remained fixed upon the gleaming knife at Lissa’s throat. She knew what she had to do, and could delay no longer.

  “Shut up! All of you!” Wiggen wrenched her arm out of Lad’s grasp and wiped the tears and rain from her eyes. “I’ll do it!”

  “You?” Patrice sounded skeptical, and Youtrin actually laughed, but Wiggen had already bent to pick up the dead boy’s fallen dagger.

  “You’ll hand Lissa over when it’s done! Say it!” The blade trembled in her grasp, rain dripping from its tip.

  “Of course. Kill Mya and we’ll hand over the child. That’s all we want.” Patrice’s easy tone and casual smile made her assurance almost believable.

  “Wiggen, I don’t—”

  “Shut up, Lad!” She turned on her husband, the naked blade between them. “I don’t care! It’s for Lissa!”

  He nodded and stepped back, and Wiggen glared down at Mya, bound and kneeling like a lamb ready for slaughter. She stepped forward, her rain-slicked grip on the dagger’s hilt so hard that her knuckles shone white.

  “Wiggen. Don’t.” Mya looked up at her, her eyes no longer hate-filled, no longer blazing with spite. “You don’t have to do this.”

  Wiggen considered all the pain this woman had brought to their family, all the sleepless nights Wiggen had endured waiting for Lad to come home, wondering if he lay dea
d in a gutter. How wonderful their lives would have been if not for Mya. No mercy…

  “Yes, I do.”

  Wiggen grasped a handful of Mya’s hair and slashed with the dagger, surprised at how easily the blade parted flesh. Fear flashed in Mya’s eyes as a waterfall of crimson cascaded from her neck. Then her eyes rolled up and Wiggen released her grip on the assassin’s hair.

  Mya toppled forward into the mud.

  It was over.

  Wiggen dropped the dagger and turned to Kellick. “Now give her to me.” She strode forward with her arms outstretched, ready to take Lissa, but the assassin stepped back, her eyes darting to the masters.

  “Not yet, I’m afraid.” Patrice’s honey-sweet tone couldn’t hide the triumph in her voice. “With Mya’s death, Lad, you become a weapon without a master. A blade without a hand to wield it. We intend to be that hand.”

  Wiggen slumped. She’d hoped against hope that these people would uphold their end of the bargain and hand over Lissa. But, as Mya had aptly predicted, they’d been betrayed.

  “I’m sorry, Wiggen.”

  Her hand drifted toward the dagger sewn into her dress as she turned to face her husband. The pain in his eyes grasped her heart like a vice. But for the first time since Lissa had been kidnapped, Wiggen’s fear ebbed. She had insisted on taking her part in this, and here was where she had to be. A mother belonged with her family.

  She smiled gently at Lad. “It’s not your fault.” Steeling her singing nerves, Wiggen turned to Kellick, looked her straight in the eye, and took a step forward. “Give me my daughter.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Patrice snapped. “Another step and Kellik will slit your baby’s throat!”

  “No. She won’t.” Wiggen ignored the masters and locked eyes with the woman who held Lissa’s life in her hands. One more step forward, and she was nearly within arm’s reach of Lissa. “Kill my baby, and Lad will slaughter everyone here. But you, Kellik,” Wiggen punctuated her words with a thrust of her finger, “you will be the first to die. Give me my baby, and you live. Don’t, and you die. That’s the deal.”