Weapon of Flesh (Weapon of Flesh Trilogy)

by Jackson, Chris A.

  “What the hell was that?”

  He did not respond. He was not ordered to respond.

  “Answer me!” she raged, drawing her weapon and taking another step back. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” he asked, the heat subsiding. “I don’t know what you are asking, Mya.”

  “That light! Some kind of light though your skin! It was like writing. Like layers and layers of runes etched in green light.”

  “That was the magic.”

  “What magic?”

  “The magic that makes me do as you say. The magic that makes me strong and fast. The magic that makes me not feel anger, or pain, or pity.” He stared at her for a moment, and thought the rest of it was warranted. “The magic that keeps me from killing you.”

  “You must really hate me,” she said, her words a quivering whisper.

  “No, I do not hate you.”

  “But you would kill me. If you don’t hate me, why then?”

  “You are a threat to my friend. Killing you would end that threat.”

  “I have no interest in having you kill anyone, Lad. The people I order you to kill are those the Grandfather wishes dead. They mean nothing to me. Your friend is safe as long as you follow my orders and don’t try any stupid little tricks like leaving messages. Okay?”

  “Yes.” Her statement in no way lessened the threat to Wiggen, but there was no other way to respond. Perhaps provoking Mya’s anger was not the way to get her to help him. Maybe there was something else he could provoke.

  “Good. Now examine those,” she indicated the scrolls with a nod, “and plan the best way to kill the targets. That means the plan that is most likely to succeed without you being identified or killed. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mya.”

  “Good.” She turned to leave, but Lad stopped her with a word.

  “Mya?”

  “If you ask me about the Grandfather again, Lad, you know what my next order will be.” She spoke without turning, her warning smoldering like a coal.

  “I was not going to ask you about the Grandfather.”

  “What then?”

  “Do you have a friend?”

  “Do I what?” She whirled and glared, clearly suspicious of another taunt.

  “I want you to understand about Wiggen, why threatening her made me want to kill you. But I don’t know if you have a friend like that.”

  “I have friends,” she said, but he could hear the lie.

  “Good. Then you understand.” He was quite sure she didn’t understand, but this strategy was safer for Wiggen. “I do not want to see her hurt.”

  “Then follow my orders.” She turned and walked out, but Lad could hear her breathing change as she ascended the stairs beyond the door. Before she passed totally beyond his hearing, he thought that perhaps there was another sound. The other door squeaked open and slammed, and he could no longer hear her. He could have been mistaken about that sound. After all, Mya didn’t have any reason to cry.

  “Come in, Captain.” Duke Mir waved his personal guards forward. “Guards, please wait outside. I’m sure I’m quite safe with the commander of the Royal Guard.”

  The two bodyguards bowed, turned and left. Captain Norwood stood like a statue, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on an invisible point somewhere across the room. He did not doubt that the Duke was safe, but his own safety might be less secure.

  “At your ease, Captain.” He rounded the desk and headed for the cabinet to his left. “I didn’t call you in to chastise you for not finding this assassin. I just want to get a few points across.” He poured himself a drink without offering one to Norwood. “Points that I think you will find interesting.”

  “Yes, milord?” Norwood had relaxed his stance, but still stared at the same invisible point.

  “First of all, these are notes from Master Woefler regarding the samples of blood, the notes and the ribbon binding the notes to the daggers. You may read it at your leisure, but I will tell you the gist of the report.” He scooped up the scrolls and handed them to the captain. “The blood on the victims was from the victims. The blood on the hinges of Count Dovek’s bedchamber window was from a young man whose name Master Woefler could not discern. The same hand penned all of the notes, and the same parchment and ink was used for each note. The person who wrote the apologies on five of the six victims was not the same person who wrote the notes.”

  “Master Woefler can divine a name from a spot of dried blood, milord?”

  “In most instances, yes, if that person’s name is reasonably well known. In this instance he could say only that the blood came from a lad of about seventeen years of age.”

  “Seventeen?” Norwood’s eyes snapped from his invisible point to his lord’s in a blink. “Just a boy?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “And you trust the wizard’s accuracy in this, milord?” The captain’s tone stated blatantly that he did not.

  “I do, Captain Norwood, and so should you.” He took the drink he had poured himself in one shaky hand and downed it at a gulp. “Master Woefler is many things, but incompetent is not one of them.”

  “Yes, milord!” Norwood fixed his gaze once more upon infinity.

  “The other point of which I wish you to be aware is this.” Duke Mir scooped a scroll off his desk and flung it at the captain of his Royal Guard as if the piece of parchment offended him. “This is a copy of the letter that is, as we speak, on its way to the hand of the emperor.”

  The duke strode over to his cupboard and poured himself another brandy while Norwood read the letter. That it was drafted by a politically minded noble was obvious; it was full of half truths, rhetoric and gushing praise concerning Duke Mir’s handling of the current crisis. What wasn’t stated in plain language, but was evident to anyone with any experience at court, was that the duke’s court was dissatisfied with the performance of their lord and wanted imperial aid or a replacement.

  “With all due respect to the duke’s court, milord,” Norwood said, rolling the scroll and placing it deftly upon his lord’s desk, “they’re full of horseshit.”

  His tone was flatly neutral, his eyes once again fixed upon infinity.

  “Really.” Duke Mir sipped his brandy and regarded the man whose foremost job was to protect his life. He knew Norwood, had known him for years, and he trusted his judgment in most things political and all things military more than any member of his court. Which was exactly why he had called him in. “How do you come to this conclusion?”

  “First, milord, His Majesty the Emperor won’t even see this note for a week. Then, if he makes a decision on how to handle it in less than three days, I’ll eat my socks with mustard and call them smoked oysters.” That, at least, earned a smirk from the duke, which was a good sign. “Third, if he decides to send aid, who will he send? It’ll take another week to find someone competent, then another week or more to get them here.”

  “Almost a month.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And when that aid arrives?”

  “Well, at the current rate, we ought to be nearly out of nobility by then, milord, so—”

  “Including ME!”

  The Duke slammed his glass down on the desk, spilling brandy over the papers. His eyes burned holes in the captain while Norwood silently cursed himself for his glib tongue.

  “I do NOT take this situation lightly, Captain! One of the dead is my own nephew, a man I watched grow from a lad to a fine man with a family! Now he’s dead, his wife a widow, and you’re unable to catch the murdering filth that buried a dagger in his eye!”

  A fine man with a family–killed right after he finished busily boffing his mistress, Norwood thought silently, eyes fixed, face impassive.

  “I want a suspect, Captain,” the duke growled through clenched teeth.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “And I want some arrests! Even if they’re trumped up!” He sat down stiffly, scowling at the mess the alcohol had
made of his neatly stacked notes. “You must have some informants who know someone who might be involved in this mess. Maybe some action, productive or not, will get these jackals off my back.”

  “Yes, milord.” Norwood remained standing, staring into nothing. He had not been dismissed, and he’d stretched his insubordination just about as far as it would go today.

  The duke glared at him for a while longer, then finally said, “That’s all. Now get out.”

  “Milord.” Norwood bowed and left, running through a mental list of people he could put pressure on to produce some likely suspects, real or not.

  The tiny barstool was as uncomfortable as Forbish remembered, but he sat down anyway. He even ordered an ale, knowing it wouldn’t be to his taste. The ale arrived just ahead of the proprietor, who he’d come to see in the first place.

  “Forbish! What are you doing here?” Toby finished polishing a mug and stacked it on the shelf behind the bar. “Master Hensen told you he couldn’t help you, as plain as day. He won’t change his mind on it.”

  “Don’t expect him to,” he said with a mighty shrug, sipping at the bitter ale. He didn’t make a face, though it took some restraint. “Came to talk to you, my friend.”

  “When you say ‘my friend’ like that, I know you want something.” The barkeep picked up another mug and began polishing with the same dirty rag. Forbish stopped wondering why the ale tasted funny.

  “No, really. I just want to talk.” He forced himself to sip again, just to help put Toby at ease. “I want to get some ideas about how to find my friend. Hensen won’t do it for me, so maybe I’ll hire someone else who will, but I can’t just ask someone without having any ideas at all, can I?”

  “No, I don’t suppose you can.” He finished and picked up another mug, eying its tarnish dubiously. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Well, it struck me strange that a man like Hensen would refuse to help me in the first place. I offered to pay him, I mean.” Forbish pushed two gold coins across the bar. The price of the ale was two coppers. “Why would a man like that turn down good coin?”

  “He needs coin like I need another mortgage,” Toby said with a smirk, eying the gold. “But he’s got good reason for not wanting to cross these people, reasons that you’re a lot safer not knowing, my friend.”

  Forbish nodded, knowing that Toby was trying to save him trouble. But trouble had already found them. Now he was trying to get out of trouble.

  “Oh, he can keep his reasons to himself, for all I care. I just need a name, a starting point, you might say. If I was going to hire someone to start looking, where would I have them look?”

  “You’re asking me?” Toby stopped polishing and leaned on the bar, lowering his voice. “I don’t know these people, Forbish, and I don’t really want to know them. I’ve got nothing against earning a little extra coin, but,” he pushed the money back across the bar, “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  “Just think of that as a tip, Toby.” Forbish pushed the money back. “I don’t expect you to go digging into something that’s going to put you in trouble. I just need some direction. A name will do.”

  “Well, I don’t know any off the top of my head, but I can ask around. There are plenty of people who will think it worth taking a risk for a little money.” He scooped up the two coins and pocketed them. “It may take a day or two.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Forbish pushed his tankard across the bar and stood, wincing at the punishment the stool had done to his backside. “Just send word, or drop by the inn. I’ll treat you to a nice lunch.” Toby opened his mouth to protest, but Forbish cut him off with a raised hand. “No, I won’t hear it. Even if you find nothing, I’ll have you over for lunch. We can talk about old times, if nothing else.”

  “Sure. I’ll come by either tomorrow or the day after.”

  “See you then.” Forbish waved and left, working the stiffness out of his backside as he climbed the stairs to the street.

  “It’s a wonder the stool didn’t give way,” Hensen said at Toby’s elbow, even before the door closed behind Forbish’s considerable bulk. “I knew he’d be back. Good that I had him followed, otherwise I wouldn’t have been here to hear that little chat. He’s persistent, isn’t he?”

  “Yep,” Toby said, returning to his polishing.

  “Well, I can’t have him poking around.” Hensen tugged at his waistcoat and sniffed noisily. “Sorry, Toby, but your friend has earned some gentle discouragement.”

  “Do you have to hurt him?” The barkeep’s voice was guarded; he knew Hensen could put the same kind of pressure on him as he could on Forbish.

  “Oh, I’m not going to hurt him, Toby. Don’t worry. We’re not a bunch of muscle-bound thugs, unlike some other organizations in Twailin.” He sniffed again and produced a tiny silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. He took a pinch and inhaled it with a snort. “In fact, I think I’ll defer this to the authorities.”

  “The authorities? But what are you going to—”

  Hensen forestalled his question with a raised finger and an explosive sneeze. He produced an expensive handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed his nose, smiling with satisfaction.

  “Oh, don’t worry so much, Toby. I’ll just spread a little rumor and let Duke Mir’s own capable guardsmen handle the rest.” He tucked the handkerchief away and turned to leave. “After all, there’s a killer on the loose. They’re bound to be interested in someone who is inquiring as to the whereabouts of said assassin, don’t you think?”

  Toby kept his mouth shut and went back to his polishing as the owner of his club swaggered out of the bar. After the man was gone, he fished the two gold coins from his pocket and dropped them in the tip jar. The coins had grown far too heavy to keep.

  Chapter XXI

  The hallway was straight and narrow, sixty feet from the corner where he stood to the two men guarding the door. Each guard held a cocked crossbow at the ready. Flames flickered in the six oil lamps set along the length of the hall, banishing all shadows; there would be no sneaking past these guards as he had the others. He knew there would be more guards in the room. Mya’s reconnaissance was flawless, as always.

  This was the approach most likely to succeed without his being identified or killed. It was not the approach he would have chosen, for it was not the one most likely to achieve the goal without killing people unnecessarily. The only difference between the tactic Mya had instructed him to take and the one he would have taken on his own was risk. Lad was willing to risk his own safety to save even one unnecessary killing; Mya was not. The guards were just men doing their jobs, men like Forbish, trying to earn a living and feed their families. They probably had daughters and sons, wives and friends who would be hurt by what Lad was about to do.

  But the magic would not allow him to disobey.

  Lad stepped out into the corridor and walked toward the guards at an easy, relaxed pace. He made it much farther than he thought he would before one of them raised a weapon. He watched as the man’s fingers tightened on the trigger.

  “Stop right there!”

  The man’s shout sent Lad into action. The guard fired without hesitation, and his aim was excellent, but his target was no longer where he had aimed. Lad careened off of first one wall, then the other, as the second guard fired. This one’s aim was even better, and Lad felt the bolt’s fletching brush his cheek in passing.

  They both cleared short swords from their sheaths before he fell upon them, but the blades were useless against him. He dodged one stroke and caught the other between his palms as his foot smashed through ribs, killing one guard instantly. The other man released his trapped weapon and reached for a dagger, but the stolen sword slipped between his ribs before the dagger was in his grasp.

  Lad stopped and listened.

  Three men were moving within the room; he heard the clicks of crossbows being cocked. No one spoke a word, which meant they were ready for him. Their reactions would be swift and well
rehearsed.

  He stood to the side of the door and jiggled the handle. Two heavy crossbow bolts smashed through the door and clattered down the hall, and he was moving even before they came to rest. He took one step back and kicked the door into splinters.

  The room was well lit, which was no surprise, and the three guards were ready for him. The one who had not fired at his ruse did so now, but Lad was already moving, and the bolt missed by a safe margin. He was on the guard before the man could reach another weapon, and his kick sent the man flying; either the kick or the wall that interrupted his trajectory killed him, which one, was unimportant. The young woman in the bed screamed, but Lad ignored the noise, for the other two guards were attacking with short swords and daggers. They fought well, and one even managed to score a gash in Lad’s arm before they both fell.

  Lad turned to the girl.

  “P...please,” the girl stammered, backed up to the ornate headboard, clutching the covers up to her neck. “Don’t...”

  Lad had to do as he was ordered, and what was more, he could not hesitate. He could hear more guards coming, the ones he’d evaded earlier. The longer he waited, the more would die. He moved to the bedside and drew the stiletto. If he struck quickly, she would feel no pain. That was the best he could offer. But as he neared her, the blankets jerked and Lad stumbled back.

  He looked down.

  The fletching of a crossbow bolt barely protruded from his stomach.

  He felt a wave of weakness, and knew the damage was dire. The shaft had hit something vital, and he was bleeding inside. He would heal, but not until the shaft was removed. He reached behind and snapped off the four inches of bolt that protruded from his back, then drew out the shaft from his stomach and dropped it.

  The weakness lessened, but he had lost a good amount of blood. The wound in the great vessel that supplied blood to his legs had closed, and his stance steadied. He looked to the horror-struck woman in the bed. She sat trembling, eyes flung wide open, her gaze locked on his bloody hands. Her hands shook on the small crossbow, making its outline through the blanket evident.