Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “No, father, I won’t calm down! They’re making him into a murderer, and it’s not right!”

  “No, it’s not right, but there’s nothing we can do about it.” He saw the blind determination in her eyes, determination driven by love, which was equally blind. “If we get involved, they’ll come after us.”

  “I’d be dead if it weren’t for Lad, Father. Worse than dead! You know what Urik and his goons were planning to do to me. Right here! In this room! They would have raped me and then killed me right in front of you. If they come for me now, after having threatened that, how much worse could they hurt me?”

  “Wiggen, I—”

  “I know. You don’t want to lose me. Well, we didn’t want to lose Tam either, and you didn’t want to lose Mama, but they’re gone. But we didn’t lose them, father. They were taken from us! Taken by the same murdering filth who are making Lad into one of them.”

  The tears were flowing now, but they weren’t tears of fear, sorrow or loss, they were tears of righteous anger. Forbish, to his surprise, was quickly learning that his daughter was no longer a little girl who needed his protection; she was a strong-willed young woman, and maybe...maybe she was right.

  “What do you want to do, Wiggen?”

  “I don’t know.” She bit her lip and wiped the tears away with her sleeve. “I don’t think we can just walk into the constable’s office and say ‘By the way, we know who’s killing all those people,’ but I feel like we should do something.”

  “Telling them we know Lad won’t do anyone any good,” he agreed. “It’d just put us in danger and make the constables think we had something to do with it. What we need to find out is who’s controlling him. Who took him.”

  “Your friend, the one you spoke with the other night. You said he knew, but wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Well, he’s not really a friend, Wiggen. I’ve only met him that one time. He’s a powerful man, and didn’t want any part of it. Too much to lose, probably.”

  “What about that other man, the one who owns the gambling hall?”

  “Toby? I don’t know if he could help us, but I can ask.”

  “And if he can’t help us?”

  “Well, if he can’t help us, maybe he knows someone who can.”

  “Come in, Mya.” The Grandfather finished penning the note and set it aside as she entered his private rooms. She’d been here before, but was still in awe of the expensive appointments—the rug she was standing on had probably cost more gold than she would make in a lifetime. “I’ve got some questions for you, and some more instructions.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” She stood in front of the desk with her hands folded behind her back.

  “My first question is regarding some of the rumors I’ve been hearing about the killings that have been taking place up on the hill.” He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow.

  “I have heard many rumors about the killings, Grandfather.” She didn’t know what game he was playing, but it was a safe bet that this was something serious. “All of them are as inaccurate as they are outrageous.”

  “All of them?” His sharp gaze told her that at least one of the rumors had some validity to it.

  “All of the rumors I have heard, yes, Grandfather. There may be some that I have not heard, but I have not been actively listening.” She paused for a breath, and when he did not interrupt, she said, “I could look into the matter if you wish.”

  “I will tell you the rumor, and you will tell me if there is any truth to it.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “There has been a rumor that the perpetrator of these killings has left a certain message upon his victims.”

  “If you mean the notes, I don’t think that’s what I would call a rumor.” She let a smile crease her lips. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”

  “No. I mean that our young apprentice has been leaving his own calling card.”

  “He has?” Mya was honestly surprised. “He has been specifically told to leave nothing that can implicate you, Grandfather.”

  “Yes, I know.” He smiled thinly at her. “But he has not been told to leave no trace whatsoever, and could not be told such, because he has been told to kill someone and leave a dagger and a note. What he has left behind, seemingly of his own volition, is an apology.”

  “An apology?” Mya’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “I find that very hard to believe, Grandfather. He hasn’t the wit to know what an apology is, let alone that he’s doing something that might require an apology.”

  “Nevertheless,” he continued, with a casual wave of his hand that told her to be quiet as effectively as a finger over pursed lips, “upon the foreheads of five of the six targets, he has left the word ‘Sorry’ written in their own blood.”

  “Sorry?” She endured his glare and clenched her jaw against her next thought. Apologizing now might be seen as being flippant, which could be lethal.

  “My question is, where do you suppose he learned this?”

  “My guess is that he learned it somewhere when he was on his own.” She shrugged, knowing what his next command would be. “Maybe the inn where we found him.”

  “Well, it matters little. We must break him of this behavior. Please see to it.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” She turned on her heel, but he brought her back with a word.

  “Mya?”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “I may also need your specific skills to look into one of our future targets.”

  “Which target, Grandfather?” She suppressed the heat of excitement that surged to her face; this was the first time he was actually asking her to do something she was trained to do. Until now, her title should have been “boy keeper” instead of “hunter.”

  “Count Dovek’s sister Patrice is under heavy guard.” He reached into a drawer of his desk and retrieved a thick roll of parchment. “She is being kept in the Dovek Estate under house arrest. There are at least five guards watching her throughout the day and night, even in her sleep.” He handed the roll over to her. “I need to know where and when we should instruct the boy to kill her. You know the date, but any time during the day or night will do. Please bring your information to me so that we can make an intelligent decision together.”

  “Yes, Grandfather!”

  “Also, there is one last item.”

  “Yes?”

  “We must make sure that the boy understands that no one who sees him commit any of the killings may be allowed to survive.”

  “He has received this instruction, Grandfather, but I will make sure he understands. Has there been some instance that you think he might have broken that order?”

  “There were four guards watching the Viscount Dovek when the boy killed him. By all accounts it happened so fast that no one got a good look at him, but they did see him. I do not understand how he could have known that none of them could identify him. He should have killed them as a precaution, but he did not.”

  “I will word my instructions carefully, Grandfather,” she said, bowing shortly.

  “See that you do. Our young apprentice may be actively seeking to thwart our instructions. Avoiding killing the guards, for instance.”

  “He will understand and obey, Grandfather.”

  “Good. You may go.”

  She turned on her heel and left the chamber, wondering how such a creation as Lad could come up with the notion that he should apologize to the dead.

  Chapter XX

  Lad moved through the dance of death, his mind focused only partially on the intricate series of motions that he had performed and perfected every morning for more than four years. His first martial trainer, Master Xhang, had instructed him in the exercises; they could be modified to accompany many weapons and had been adapted to incorporate many styles of combat. Years of the exercises had honed him into the perfect killing weapon.

  ...step...sweep...strike...twist...kick...step...block...

  He performed the series fla
wlessly, as always, but his heart was not in his work. The exercises no longer served to calm his mind and unify his thoughts with his body’s actions. They only served to remind him of what he was. The dance of death was just that, a means to make him a better killer, a more efficient weapon to be wielded by an evil hand.

  ...step...turn...kick...block...thrust...twist...turn...

  He had grown uncomfortable with this morning ritual, despite its familiarity. Only in meditation could he now find peace, but he had been ordered to perform his exercises. He could not disobey.

  ...lunge...strike...step...sweep...strike...block...turn...

  He heard her coming.

  She was his only hope, his only glimmer of light in the sea of evil that had swept him into its ebb and flow. She did not enjoy this life, that was clear; he could hear the strain in her voice and in the lies that she had repeated so many times that she believed them. He could see under that shell, that armor of bravado and caustic wit; beneath it, she was scared, and her fear was the only real weapon he had.

  ...step...turn...kick...kick...turn...sweep...

  She was descending the steps, but not muttering to herself as she had many other times. Also, there was a swiftness, a power to her gait that was different. She opened the door and stood on the landing, frozen in place.

  ...turn...sweep...strike...block...kick...turn...

  He could feel her watching him, but he continued his exercises. He would not respond to her until she commanded him. This was just one of the ways he provoked her, one of the ways he peeled away the layers of armor to get a glimpse at the small, frightened woman beneath.

  ...sweep...step...kick...turn...

  She descended the steps slowly, trying to be quiet, but he heard her heartbeat quicken. He had noticed that before: when he was exercising or when one of his taunts scored, her face would remain impassive, but her heart would betray her.

  ...kick...kick...turn...strike...block...

  “These exercises. Where did you learn them?”

  Her tone told him she knew he had detected her approach. Why was she still moving like she was trying to be quiet? There were still many things about Mya that Lad didn’t understand.

  ...lunge...strike...twist...kick...

  “Answer me.”

  “My first martial trainer.” ...step...strike...turn... “His name was Xhang.”

  “What style is it? I don’t recognize the form.”

  This conversational manner was unusual. Lad wondered what was going through the woman’s mind as he continued the series. ...turn...sweep...strike... “It is many forms.”

  “How many?” she demanded in her usual tone; her armor was in place now.

  “Six formal styles.” ...kick...turn...sweep...strike... “And some of my own.”

  “You modified one of the formal styles of combat?” Her tone was accusative now. Lad wondered why.

  “No.” ...sweep...strike...step...stand... and ...bow. He turned and regarded her, the series finished. “I modified all six. Master Xhang’s use of the styles together was flawed. I changed them to flow better.”

  “And who told you to do that?”

  “No one. I did it myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was wrong, Mya.” He cocked his head, wondering what she was getting at. “When you find something wrong, something you can change, you change it.”

  “Oh? You do?”

  “Yes.” He examined her more closely and noted a hint of sweat on her upper lip and a slight flush to her face. She was definitely worked up about something, but what? Perhaps some careful sparring would bring it out. “You know, for example, that what the Grandfather is doing is wrong. You could change it, but you do not, so you are wrong.”

  “I told you never to bring that up again, Lad.”

  “No, you told me never to ask you to help me kill the Grandfather again. I have not.”

  “No, you haven’t, but you brought up the subject, which is the same thing without exactly voicing the question.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you do what you’re told to do, and beyond that you can do what you want. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, it is not right, Lad.” She took a step and glared right into his eyes. He could see the pulse pounding at her temples, hear her heart racing and smell the sweet tang of her nervous sweat. “You do what you’re told to do and nothing else. Is that clear?”

  “It is clear, Mya, but it is not possible.”

  “Why not?” She was even more livid now.

  “Because there are many things that you have never told me to do that I am required to do to live.” He shrugged. “Breathing, for example.”

  “Oh, that’s ridiculous! You know what I mean, so just follow my orders.”

  “I do follow your orders, Mya.”

  “Yes, but you do other things that you know perfectly well are against my wishes.”

  “I do?” He knew what she was talking about now, where this conversation was going. He didn’t know how she had discovered it, but she knew. And now she would order him to stop.

  “Yes, you do! The little apologies you write in blood on your victims. It has to stop, Lad. It’s foolish and it could get you caught.”

  “If you order me to stop, I must stop, but I do not see how it could cause me to be caught.”

  “There are things you don’t know about, Lad. Things like sorcery. There are spells of divination that might lead a wizard to you using the messages you wrote.”

  He didn’t respond; there was nothing to say. She may well be telling him the truth, but that didn’t change anything. He would continue leaving the messages unless he was specifically ordered not to. He could see the anger smoldering behind her eyes.

  “Will you stop with these foolish apologies?”

  “If you order me to stop, I must stop.”

  “Then I order you to stop. You will leave no messages, apologies, or other written communication on or near your victims. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now tell me what possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “Nothing possessed me, Mya. I wished to do it, and I did.”

  “But why? What purpose could apologizing to the dead serve?”

  “I was not apologizing to the people I killed. I was apologizing to the ones who are their friends. They will be hurt by the deaths we have caused, and I am sorry for it.”

  “Who told you to be sorry for anything? I know your old master would never have put such a stupid idea in your head.”

  “No, it was not my master.” He didn’t like the direction this was taking.

  “Then who was it?”

  “It was someone I met later.”

  “Yes, I know that. Stop being evasive, Lad. Who told you that you should be sorry for hurting people? Answer me!”

  “Wiggen.”

  “And who is Wiggen? Tell me, and be specific!”

  “She is a young woman who is the daughter of the innkeeper, Forbish, who owns the Tap and Kettle. She is my friend.” The words left his mouth despite his desire to hold them in; he couldn’t even clench his teeth against the facts that could mean Wiggen’s death.

  “Your friend?”

  “Yes, Mya, my friend. My best friend.” He knew what would come next: the order to kill them, the order he had worried would come since the day he’d been taken by the Grandfather. He did not feel true dread or fear, but there as a twisting discomfort within him not unlike the desperate hunger of starvation. Once again, Mya surprised him.

  “Well, she must be pretty pathetic if she chose a witless boy like you for a friend.” She took two scrolls from the case at her belt.

  The discomfort within him fell away, leaving him swimming in a sea of relief, but curiosity soon replaced that. Why would Mya suddenly drop the subject when she knew he was at her mercy? This was not the tactic of a hunter.

  “These are your targets for tonight. The first is Baro
n Volkes’ niece, the second is Count Tirian’s son. Both are well guarded. And this brings up another of your transgressions, Lad. You were told to kill anyone who saw you and might be able to identify you. The guards in the viscount’s coach saw you. You should have killed them.”

  “What is a transgression?”

  “It’s when you do what you want instead of what I want. From now on I want you to kill anyone who witnesses the murder, whether you think they could identify you or not.” She rolled out the first scroll. “Now look at this closely.”

  “So it is you who wants these people dead, Mya?” His eyes were welded to the scroll by her order, but the rest of his mind was free to bait her. “I thought it was the Grandfather.”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” she growled, her features darkening with rage. “You know I could order you to kill your friends, yet you taunt me. Do you think that is wise?”

  He looked at her, unable to speak because of her first order, but compelled to speak by her question. The discomfort within him swelled, prickling his skin into gooseflesh as emotions he could not feel battered against the magical restraints like a butterfly in a glass jar; friendship, anger, resentment, fear and desire all struggled impotently for supremacy over the magic.

  “Answer me. Do you want me to order you to kill Wiggen?”

  “No.” He could feel the heat of the magic restraining his desire to lash out in one lightning blow and end the threat to Wiggen’s life. Mya was less than half a step away; a simple snap kick to the throat would end it. He willed himself to attack, planned it in his mind and told his muscles to do it, but the magic would not let him. He stood there, quivering, unable to move.

  “Then do not bring up the Grandfather again. His orders come through me. That is enough for you to understand.” She reached out and took his chin in her hand, pulling his face close to hers. “Do you understand me?”

  “I understand you, Mya.” The desire to kill her was overwhelming. A simple thrust-twist and it would be over! The heat washed over him in a torrent, and he saw something in Mya’s eyes that he knew was stark fear.

  She stumbled back a step, her eyes wide, and her hand on her weapon.