Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  This one is for Anne

  As are they all

  A special thanks to The Elfwooders

  Best damn editorial staff money can’t buy

  Weapon of Flesh

  Weapon of Flesh Trilogy

  Book 1

  Chris A. Jackson

  Kindle edition

  ASIN: B005JS6FW0

  7.1.13

  A weapon is forged from flesh and magic.

  Tattooed with magical runes to enhance his skills and suppress his emotions, Lad is raised from birth to be the most lethal assassin the world has ever known. He is the pinnacle of his master’s magical and martial arts, a true weapon of flesh, all according to plan. Until the plan goes awry…

  The Master is gone and the weapon is free. And in a dangerous world, a weapon does what a weapon is made to do. Or does he?

  Alone for the first time, Lad’s future is now in his own hands. He has a destiny, but knows not what it is. Undeterred, he heads out into the world, and the weapon begins to become a person…

  But a person is not what the Grandfather of Assassins has invested a fortune and nearly two decades to achieve. When his weapon does not arrive as promised, the Grandfather sets loose his hunters.

  The only problem? No one thought a weapon of flesh would fall in love.

  Now only death will release Lad from his servitude and save the woman he loves—the Grandfather’s death…or his own.

  Copyright 2005 Chris A. Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Image Copyright 2005 Jaxbooks

  Find more books by Chris A. Jackson at jaxbooks.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Novels by Chris A. Jackson

  Prelude

  She stirred in the impenetrable darkness. Heavy links of chain clattered with her every movement, awakening her to the misery of the iron collar that chafed her neck, the sodden rag of a dress she wore and the fetid odor of old blood. Torchlight flickered through the cracks beneath the massive door to her cell, the faint rattle of iron keys snapping her attention from the bundle she clutched so tightly.

  Was someone coming?

  They visited twice a day with food and water, but she’d been fed only hours before. Perhaps they came with fresh clothes, or simply to clean her filthy cell. She longed for clean skirts, or even a blanket.

  The clatter of a key in the lock stiffened her like the crack of a whip. Yes, someone was coming!

  Hinges squealed in protest and torchlight blinded her, but the figure silhouetted in the open portal bore no food, no clothes and no water. It bore nothing save an iron-shod staff of crooked and gnarled wood. The shape of that staff struck a chord through the numbness of her suffering. She remembered it clearly. She remembered the one who bore it. And, worst of all, she remembered that day weeks ago when he stole her away from home, husband and family.

  She opened her mouth to scream, to deny, to plead, but even that small act was stolen from her with a mumble of guttural syllables and a wave of his hand. She sat paralyzed, unable to move, speak or even blink as he strode forward and stole from her the only thing she had left. Prying her numb fingers away from the bundle of bloodied skirts she clutched to her breast, he lifted the protesting babe in one careful but unyielding hand. Another flow of words stilled the babe’s cries and the man, if man he was, smiled down at his prize.

  “Perfect!” was the only word he uttered that she understood.

  He turned and walked away, having taken the only thing she had that was of any value to him. As the door closed, and the light faded, never to return, the magic that held her waned, and her piteous wail rent the dank air of her cell. She lay sobbing and empty, forgotten by the creature that had stolen her baby boy.

  Chapter I

  In the forever midnight of a deep cavern the pat-pat of unshod feet echoed as a wiry boy of six sprinted unerringly along. His eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, the magic within him drawing in the surrounding heat that emanated from the very womb of the earth; it allowed him to see, after a fashion, even when those born to utter darkness were blind. He ran tirelessly through the darkness, unfeeling and uncaring, absorbed with the task of navigating the underground and seeking the goal he had been assigned.

  A chasm opened before him, heat billowing from its depths, brightening his vision. Without slowing his pace, he gauged the gap and chose which points of stone he would use to launch himself across. Without pause, for fear was unknown to his mind, he leapt to the sheer wall, bounding off a tiny crag of stone in a spinning flip that brought him to the other side. He landed in a roll that brought him to his feet at a run. The cavern continued on, twisting and turning as if wrought by the passing of a great worm. And though miles had passed under his feet, his pace did not slow.

  Finally the place he had been told to seek loomed out of the darkness. The cavern ended in a steep shaft, the thick, acrid scents of sweat, rotting food and excrement wafting up to assail his sensitive nostrils. Ears that could hear the heartbeat of a mouse picked out the clink of chains, the grinding of bone between teeth, and the restless click-clack of iron-shod feet pacing on stone.

  Briefly, the boy gauged the steep incline of the shaft. It was too wide for his arms to stretch across in any attempt to slow his descent, but a solution clicked into his mind, even as he dived into the blackness. His bounding roll alternated in skidding contact with ceiling and floor, slowing his plummeting descent minutely with each impact. As a result, when he tumbled into the room at the shaft’s end, he had only scrapes and bruises.

  Battered and disoriented from the tumultuous descent, he still rolled to his feet, squinting at the glaring torchlight and taking in his new surroundings at a glance. The room was hewn out of living rock, a perfect half-sphere, the walls set at intervals with iron rings and manacles. Only two of the sets of restraints were occupied, and the two slavering orcs glared at the intrusion into their captivity. Their disgruntlement was only brief, however, for with the boy’s arrival their manacles clicked open, and fell from their chafed wrists.

  The boy stood poised, his breath coming in deep, readying gasps, for he knew his task was not at an end. He knew this type of foe, for he had faced them before. He knew they would attack, and he knew he must kill them. That was his purpose. That was the Master’s wish, and the only reason for his existence.

  True to expectations, the two orcs scooped up their long, curved knives, formerly out of reach, and snarled in preparation. Their curved tusks clacked and gnashed in challenge. They grunted to one another words in their own crude language, words the
boy did not know, yet could interpret readily enough by the obviously aggressive movements of his foes. They were fighting over him, over which would get to kill him.

  He waited, analyzing their movements and attention, until they were paying much more interest to one another than to him. Then he moved.

  The smaller one raised its knife in reflex, as he knew it would. His hands clamped around the thing’s meaty wrist, fingers digging into the nerves near the long bones, as he drove a kick into its throat. The knife dropped away, so he released his grip and let the choking creature fall, lunging for the weapon. But the second orc was already there, its huge hobnailed boot clamping down on the knife before the boy could scoop it up. He rolled out of its reach and regained his feet, then stopped to reassess the situation.

  Everything had changed.

  The two orcs were now talking in tones that suggested cooperation instead of competition. When the larger one finally handed back the other’s lost weapon, the boy knew he was in for the fight of his short life. He had never faced two before, let alone two who fought cooperatively. He readied himself, and lunged.

  The small one was still his target; but until he could get a weapon, the boy would be woefully outmatched. The thing snatched its knife out of reach, but that was predictable enough, so when his tiny foot smashed into its knee with enough force to snap the joint, the boy gained the element of surprise. Its howl of pain shook the air, but ended in a strangled grasp as the boy’s claw-like fingers dug into its neck, collapsing the fragile bones around the trachea. As soon as the damage was dealt, he released the orc’s throat and tumbled away, evading his dying victim’s thrashing limbs.

  Unfortunately, in his attempt to escape the creature’s grasp, he had also left its weapon behind. The other orc scooped it up even before its former ally’s dying throes had fully stilled. As the strangled gasps faded to silence, the boy faced the larger of his two opponents. The orc brandished its two curved knives with a snarl of confidence, stretching its features into a tusky grin of glee.

  The boy stood and waited.

  The attack would come, he knew. Sometimes it is better to react than to act. The words echoed in his mind, a memory of the countless hours he had spent under the Master’s care. Now he heeded those words, and waited.

  Even before the creature attacked, he knew it would be a feint.

  He dropped under the false attack, swept a foot to trip the creature, then twisted over the other knife, which was meant to disembowel him. His hands clenched the huge wrist, thumbs digging in while he pulled it to close enough to bite. His teeth clamped onto the prominent tendons, snapping them like over-taut bowstrings. The dagger fell away and, even before he rolled to his feet, he was lunging for it. He did not see the backstroke of the other dagger as its pommel met firmly with his temple, darkening his vision and knocking him into a sprawling roll.

  As he rolled to his feet, the boy realized he was in trouble. There was no pain; the magic prevented it. But he could not see clearly, and his balance was askew. His hearing and other senses were as acute as ever, and he reverted to them as if by a command of his absent Master’s voice: If your senses flee, or choose to deceive you, do not trust them. Seek that which is true.

  The scrape of an iron-shod boot on stone rang in his ears, and he dodged away from the lunge that he knew it accompanied. Air whisked past his cheek, and he reached out to grasp the arm that bore the knife that would have taken his life. Fingers pressed into the pressure points, and he heard the howl of pain, then the dagger hitting the floor. He let the weapon go, knowing he could not find it with his vision so awry.

  The large artery in the pit of the arm will bleed freely if severed, weakening your opponent quickly.

  He heeded the words in his mind, plunging his teeth into the noisome armpit and clamping them around the pulsing artery and the nerves surrounding it. Claws raked his back, and the beast thrashed to pull its assailant free. Warm saltiness gushed over his face as he was torn free by his own momentum. Once again he rolled to his feet, but this time he knew he had won.

  His vision cleared to reveal his lone opponent, one hand clamped onto the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the pulsing flow of blood that gushed from the pit of its arm. The orc was bleeding to death, unable to stop the red spray that painted its side and the floor at its feet. He had won, all he had to do was wait for the thing to die.

  It collapsed to the floor in its own puddle of gore after trying in vain to staunch the flow of blood. The boy watched patiently, unfeeling, as that crimson pool spread to eventually wet his toes, and the creature finally stopped twitching. His eyes left his victim as the hidden door finally opened.

  “Your first attack was clumsy,” the Master said without preamble, waving the other servants forward to take away the dead orcs. “The first blow should have been a killing stroke, but was ill-timed and weak. Focus is the key when surprise is your ally. Remember!”

  “Yes, Master,” he said, as he committed the phrase to memory.

  “You did not assess your second opponent’s reaction to the failed attack, and gave away the weapon you attempted to attain. Predicting your opponent’s reaction is essential to survival. Remember!”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You spend too much effort in trying to attain your opponents’ weapons. This is dangerous, and can prove distracting from your goal. What is your goal?”

  “My goal is to kill my opponent, before he can kill me, Master.”

  “Yes! So, do not endanger yourself in attempts to get your hands on a weapon. You are a weapon. Remember!”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good.” The Master fished something out of one of the pockets of his robes and handed it to the boy. “Here. Eat.”

  The boy snatched the piece of dried jerky and devoured it instantly, the saltiness of the meat mingling with the pungent tang of the orc blood that smeared his lips.

  “Now, follow me.” The Master’s words were more than a simple command, they wound themselves around the very core of the boy’s will, and forced him to comply. The magic impelled him to obey. Serving the Master was his only purpose; that and to kill when the Master bade him. He followed the Master through the keep’s winding passages until he finally recognized his surroundings. A few moments later he knew their destination, and relaxed. They were going to the needle room.

  “Clean yourself, then lie upon the table and hold still,” the Master commanded, turning to his pots and bowls as the boy complied. After a quick sponge bath from the bucket of cold water, the boy removed the filthy cloth that girded his skinny loins and climbed onto the thick stone table. He lay utterly still as the dyes were mixed, heated, ground, and infused with the magic that would, in turn, infuse him. Then the Master drew out the needles, dipped the first into the glowing dye and began the tattooing, a process the boy had endured every day of his short life. The magic prevented any pain; all he felt was the press of the needle as the ink seeped into his skin and vanished, and the tingle of magic as it flowed into the core of his being.

  It was the magic that made him strong, the magic that made him fast and it was the magic that made him follow the Master’s orders. The Master had never told him all the things the magic did, or why. It was not in the boy to question, but he did wonder what purpose his magic and his life would serve.

  Hours later, when the Master had finished and was near exhaustion, he sent the boy to his room, a tiny nook that adjoined the Master’s laboratory. The boy sat on the narrow straw pallet and listened to the only man he had ever known as the dyes were put away, the mortars and pestles cleaned and stored. He wondered what the Master wanted of him, what his next command would be. He did not sleep, because he had not been ordered to, but sat and listened to all the sounds of his environment, all the clicks and groans of Krakengul Keep that he had listened to every day of his life. He sat and wondered what or whom he would kill next when the morning came.

  Chapter II

  Fingers scrabbled f
or purchase upon the rain-slicked stone, finding none. The boy shifted his stance, moving his feet upon the tiny ledge that supported him a thousand feet above the rocky shore of the Bitter Sea. Rain lashed at his back as the wind tried to peel him away from the cliff face. He clung tightly and stretched his twelve-year-old frame, feeling for his next handhold. His fingers met a narrow crack; he jammed them in and twisted, testing the hold before committing his weight to it. It held, so he lifted his weight easily with the three-fingered purchase and held himself up until his other hand found a similar grip further up the crack.

  Thus he ascended the cliff another thousand feet before he reached the plateau. He heaved himself up, quickly assessing the damage to his hands and feet. One finger was bent unnaturally, so he straightened it with a crunch. The other scrapes, cuts and bruises were already healed. Clearing the rain from his eyes, he could see Krakengul Keep only a mile or so to his left. The Bitter Sea lay behind him, whipped into waves by the storm and stretching beyond the limits of his sight. Before him, the plateau sloped down and, miles into the distance, through the slackening rain, he could see the edge of the forest. Beyond that, faint lights flickered among the trees. He wondered briefly what those lights were—fires perhaps? Orcs? Or elves or men, maybe? A distant horn call touched his ears, and he dashed off immediately for the keep, banishing his curiosity.

  Entering the outer courtyard, the boy was greeted by an unusual sight. Five horses stood there, heads bowed against the rain, their reins looped loosely over the hitching post. All bore harnesses and saddles, and one was garbed in light chain barding with ornate tooling in the leather. They towered above him as he walked past, their plate-sized hooves clack-clacking nervously on the flagstones. A servant exited the keep and approached the horses, glancing at the boy in passing. He took the reins of two of the mounts and led them to the stables. Apparently, whoever owned these horses would be staying for a while. The boy ascended the steps eagerly, curiosity once again tickling at the back of his mind.