Weapon of Fear Read online

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated Anne’s mother, Marge McMillen, and Chris’ father, Robert Jackson, both of whom passed away during the writing of this story.

  Acknowledgment

  We would once again like to thank Noah Stacey for agreeing to do the cover art for this second trilogy in the Weapon of Flesh series.

  We owe Noah more than we can ever repay.

  Weapon of Fear

  Weapon of Flesh Trilogy II

  Book 1

  Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson

  Kindle edition

  8.15.15

  Continuing the award-winning Weapon of Flesh series.

  This is Mya’s story.

  One thrust of a dagger changed an empire.

  Mya discovers that donning the Grandmaster’s ring does not make her master of the Assassins Guild, and won’t keep her safe from the machinations of those whose power she has curtailed.

  The Tsing guildmaster refuses to pledge allegiance. The power-crazed priest, Hoseph, vows to see the Grandmaster’s ring on the finger of a new emperor of his own choosing. Meanwhile, the true heir to the throne ignites class warfare with his new policies, earning the enmity of his own nobility.

  Alone in Tsing, a city simmering in intrigue and injustice, Mya struggles to overcome her ingrained fear and shattered heart to wrest control of the guild from those who view her as a usurper. But what chance does one woman have against an entire guild of assassins, much less a madman who can dissolve into shadow and kill with a touch?

  The Hunter has become the hunted…

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright 2014 Chris A. Jackson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Image Copyright 2014 Jaxbooks

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

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  Prelude

  The assassin’s kick splintered Hoseph’s ribs like kindling, knocking the breath from his lungs. The room spun around him as he tumbled back over something cold and hard. He landed in a heap, pain lancing through his chest. A gasp for breath brought the tasted of blood.

  A growled curse and the clash of metal from beyond the stone slab caught his ear. Hoseph blinked away the darkness edging into his vision, forcing his mind to focus on the here and now, on the fight, on the unbelievable mayhem these assassins from Twailin had unleashed.

  The guildmaster and his Master Hunter had turned out to be more than anyone bargained for, daring to challenge the Grandmaster of the entire Assassins Guild, the very emperor of Tsing. They had even managed to kill two of his bodyguards, blademasters of Koss Godslayer, a feat unheard of…until now. The Grandmaster was immune to their attacks, protected by his ring from any guild assassin, but Hoseph couldn’t rely on the three remaining blademasters to contain the situation. His own attempt to kill Guildmaster Lad had proven disastrous. He needed help.

  Clutching the tiny silver skull that dangled from his wrist on a thin silver chain, Hoseph called upon his patron goddess: Demia, Keeper of The Slain. Dark tendrils curled about him, her chill power infusing his flesh. The stone walls of the interrogation chamber faded away into shifting veils of gray—the Sphere of Shadows. At once, the pain of his injuries vanished. Here, in this place without physical substance, his incorporeal body could feel nothing, hear nothing, taste nothing. Grateful for the release, Hoseph was tempted to linger, but he dared not. He pictured his desired destination in his mind and invoked the skull talisman once again.

  Hoseph staggered upon the uneven footing, gritting his teeth against the renewed pain. A long, torch-lit stairway rose before him and descended behind. This was as far as Demia’s magic would take him, for magical wards of immense power shielded the rest of the palace from any kind of magical transport. The imperial guards stationed at the top would rally aid. They were sworn to protect the emperor. Of course, they had no idea that Emperor Tynean Tsing II was also the Grandmaster of the Assassins Guild. Only five people in the city of Tsing were privy to that truth.

  And soon, two of those five will be dead.

  Hoseph smiled grimly. As a high priest of Demia, his role was to usher souls from the realm of the living to the afterlife. He would take great pleasure in doing so for Lad and Mya. He pushed himself up the steps, gasping for breath as his splintered ribs ground against one another. Blood dripped from the wound in his upper chest where Mya’s dagger had pierced him during her surprise attack, though how she had survived the Grandmasters dagger thrust, he couldn’t fathom. No matter. Demia’s grace would heal his injuries, but not quickly. In the meantime, he had a long flight of stairs to climb.

  With one arm clutching his chest to stabilize his shattered ribs, Hoseph lurched forward. Lightheaded, he leaned against wall until his dizziness eased. Hurry…I’ve got to hurry. If the traitors escaped, the Grandmaster’s wrath would be terrible. He started up the stairs.

  Though his legs were uninjured, his progress was slow; each breath felt as if he were being stabbed with a ragged blade. His foot missed one step and he nearly tripped. As he caught himself, the torchlight danced in his vision, then dimmed. No…don’t pass out! Forcing the darkness aside by sheer force of will, he climbed on.

  How could he have underestimated the assassins so badly? He knew that Lad had been created for Saliez, the former Twailin guildmaster, as a magically enhanced weapon. But Mya… Hoseph wondered if Saliez had commissioned more than one weapon, conveniently neglecting to inform them. It would explain her uncanny speed and battle skills, but didn’t make sense. Mya was an incredibly competent young Master Hunter; her record in the guild was clearly documented.

  It doesn’t matter. They can’t touch the Grandmaster, he reminded himself with cold certainty. His only worry was the Grandmaster’s reaction. Hoseph’s proposal of Mya as the perfect choice as Twailin guildmaster had precipitated this whole situation, and Tynean Tsing was not a forgiving master.

  The priest stumbled against the thick, iron-bound door at the top of the stairs. Reaching for the handle, he bit back a curse as he realized that he had no key. Only the emperor and the jailor had keys to this door. As usual, the jailor had been dismissed once the preparations for the meeting were completed, retreating to a dark corner of the dungeon with a bottle of rum until summoned to dispose of the bodies and clean up. Hoseph had no time to go back down and find him.

  He pounded on the door with his fist, shouting as loudly as he could, though each word cost him pain and blood. “Guards! Guards! The emperor is under attack! Assassins!”

  “What?” came the voice from beyond the door. “Who is this?”

  “High Priest Hoseph! Listen to me! Assassins in the dungeon! Summon the guard and break down the door!”

  Hoseph fell back against the wall, his chest afire from his efforts. “Thank Demia”, he murmured as shouts rang out beyond the door.

  Pounding feet and clanking armor soon announced the arrival of troops. Moments later, a heavy blow struck the door. Hoseph stumbled back as a second blow shook the door in its frame. The pounding continued, heavy implements cracking against the wood, with an occasional clang against the iron bands and hinges. The door, however, was too well built to submit to mere brute strength.

  Hurry… Covering his ears to ease the racket, Hoseph tried to gauge how long it had been since he had left the torture chamber.

  The pounding stopped.

  Have they given up? Surely they wouldn’t—

  A screech of tortured metal and the crack of crumbling stone shivered the air. Hoseph backed down another step, staring as the door’s iron bands, hinges, lock, and handle all g
lowed eerily, then crumpled inward. Wood splintered and rivets popped. Hoseph flung up his arms to defend against the shrapnel as the stout door collapsed in on itself, as if a giant’s hand had wadded it up in a ball.

  Beyond the heap of twisted iron and shattered oak stood a slim man in silver robes—Archmage Duveau. The phalanx of imperial guards and knights hung back, fearful of getting caught up in the fierce enchantment.

  “Archmage Duveau! Thank Demia! The emperor’s in danger!” Hoseph gestured down the long stair. “Hurry!”

  “Where?” Guards surged forward.

  “The interrogation chamber.” Hoseph was about to choke out directions when he saw several of the senior guards and knights exchange knowing, unsettled glances. They knew where to go. Commander Ithross led dozens of his imperial guards past him down the steps, followed by several knights and their squires. Hoseph pressed himself against the wall to avoid being overrun. As their clatter passed into the distance, he concentrated on trying to breath without fainting.

  “You’re injured.” Archmage Duveau stood before him, his robes shimmering like quicksilver in the torchlight.

  “Yes. I tried to intervene. One assassin kicked me in the ribs, and the other stabbed me with a dagger.” Hoseph wiped blood from his lips and tried unsuccessfully to straighten without wincing.

  “Here.” Duveau pulled from a pocket in his robe a small dark sphere about the size of an olive. He held it out to Hoseph between his finger and thumb. “Swallow this.”

  “What is it?” Working with assassins for years had bred in Hoseph an unshakable habit of distrust. Though he couldn’t imagine why Duveau might want to harm him, he accepted nothing at face value.

  The archmage sneered in derision. “It’s called a fleshforge. It will cure your injuries, since your death goddess apparently has little regard for the health of her priests. Now swallow it. We haven’t time for reticence. We must aid the emperor.”

  “Of course.” Steaming at the offhand insult, but reluctant to anger the archmage, Hoseph popped the sphere into his mouth. It was cold and tasted of iron. He swallowed forcefully, and the sphere slid down his throat. He tensed as heat pulsed outward from his belly, but then his pain began to ebb. The ends of his broken ribs shifted, not grinding now, but moving together and knitting. The knife wound closed and the split skin sealed. Even the ache in his thighs from the long climb vanished. Before Hoseph drew another breath, he was healed.

  “That was—” A sudden wave of nausea gripped him. He retched, bending forward with the force of the convulsion. The small sphere surged up his throat and out his gaping mouth.

  Duveau caught the fleshforge, wiped it on Hoseph’s robe, and tucked it away. “There. Now, we must hurry.”

  The two men hastened down the stairs. About halfway down, Duveau stopped and seemed to sniff the air, then grasped Hoseph’s arm as if to steady him.

  “I can walk. You needn’t—”

  “No time for walking.” Duveau murmured arcane phrases and pressed a hand to the wall…into the wall. The stone swallowed his hand as readily as Hoseph had swallowed the fleshforge. But the archmage didn’t stop there. He strode forward, dragging Hoseph along with him.

  With no time to panic, Hoseph found himself pulled into the wall and utter darkness. Though he knew it was solid stone, he felt like he’d stepped through a gentle waterfall. A moment later, they emerged just down the corridor from the interrogation chamber.

  Hoseph tore his arm from the archmage’s grasp. He was unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of a spell, and didn’t like it in the least. A clatter from down the hall drew his attention as the crowd of guards and knights arrived, clearly astonished to see Duveau and Hoseph there ahead of them. But they didn’t stop, continuing their headlong dash down the corridor.

  Hoseph wanted to rush right behind them, eager to see the two assassins laid out in pools of blood. Duveau strode after them at a slower pace than Hoseph would have preferred, but he refused to cede his own dignity to the archmage. The collective gasps and cries from the warriors spurred them forward into the chamber. They found no fighting, no clash of arms, only a closely packed crowd of guards and knights around the spot where he’d left the emperor.

  “Your Majesty!” Hoseph shouted as he hurried forward.

  A young squire stumbled back from the crowd of guards, fell to his knees, and vomited. With a cringe of disgust, Hoseph side-stepped him and shoved his way through the strangely quiet assembly of warriors. “Your Majesty! I’ve brought—”

  Hoseph stopped, blinking in shock, for a moment disbelieving his own eyes. Instead of Lad and Mya, the emperor’s five blademasters lay pale and dead in a veritable lake of blood. One was missing a head and a hand. A steel spike protruded from the head of another.

  A middle-aged knight, Sir Fineal, knelt beside yet another body stretched out on the floor. Blue and gold robes streaked with blood, silver hair, a golden circlet inlaid with blood-red rubies. But all Hoseph could stare at was the emperor’s own hand clutching the hilt of the kris that had been thrust up into his brain.

  No… Demia’s high priest stared in shock, unable—unwilling—to accept what his eyes were showing him. How can he be dead? They couldn’t touch him! He wears the ring! Hoseph suddenly realized that the gold and obsidian band of the Grandmaster of Assassins no longer glinted upon Tynean Tsing’s finger. The ring—the Grandmaster’s last protection from his own guild—was gone.

  “Our emperor has been slain.” Sir Fineal reached down to close the dead sovereign’s eyes.

  A disbelieving voice broke the silence. “He…he killed himself?”

  Idiot! thought Hoseph. “But how…” Lad and Mya couldn’t have killed him. Hoseph only realized that he had spoken aloud when he felt every eye in the room upon him.

  With narrowed eyes, Sir Fineal stared at the priest as he rose. “How this could have happened is indeed the question, High Priest Hoseph. You say that you were with His Majesty. What occurred here?”

  “I…” Hoseph glanced about the room. Everyone stared back, expecting answers. He caught sight of the open iron maiden near the emperor’s corpse. It had, only moments ago, held the captain of the Twailin Royal Guard. Empty? Hoseph caught his breath. Where is Norwood? The captain had signed his own death warrant when he begged an audience with Tynean Tsing, believing that a spy posed a lethal threat to the emperor. The man had discovered that the emperor himself was the threat. But now he had vanished.

  “Pardon, Sir Fineal.” Commander Ithross stepped from the crowd. “First squad, search the entire dungeon. Whoever did this didn’t pass us on the steps. They must still be down here. Find these assassins!”

  The order sent a jolt of urgency through Hoseph. There were prisoners down here who had seen him in the company of Lad and Mya with the emperor. Allowing them to be interrogated would be disastrous.

  As the squad of imperial guards hastened off, Ithross took up position next to Fineal. “High Priest Hoseph, please continue.”

  Hoseph’s mind spun, parsing the facts into things he could tell them and things he most certainly could not. His eyes fell on the six slabs of stone arrayed around a heavy iron drain. Only one was occupied. Kiesha had been a beautiful woman once, an excellent thief, and a competent operative. Unfortunately, she had decided to think for herself instead of obeying orders. Though she had been alive—barely—when he left the room, her chest no longer rose and fell. A story clicked into his mind. He pointed toward Kiesha’s corpse.

  “I was summoned by His Majesty to aid in the passing of that prisoner’s soul to the afterlife.”

  “You did that to her?” Fineal interrupted.

  “I did not. As you undoubtedly know, His Majesty preferred to conduct his own interrogations.” Hoseph suppressed a smile as the man shifted uncomfortably. A knight doesn’t like to be told that his master was a sadist, even if he might suspect it. “As I did my duty, two assassins appeared from nowhere.” He couldn’t very well tell them that Lad and Mya had come a
t the invitation of the emperor himself.

  “They just appeared?” Ithross asked. “The way you and Archmage Duveau just appeared down the corridor?”

  Hoseph shrugged. “I don’t know. My attention was on my task. His Majesty’s blademasters defended him, but the two were preternaturally skilled.”

  “Skilled?” The knight loomed over Hoseph, staring down at him with flinty eyes. “Two assassins kill five blademasters, and all you can say it that they were skilled?”

  “Sir Fineal, please,” Ithross protested. “We need answers, not accusations, and this investigation falls under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Guard, not the knighthood.”

  The knight clenched his jaw, muscles writhing under his close-cropped beard. “Of course, Commander. Please. Ask.”

  Ithross turned to Hoseph. “Can you describe these two assassins?”

  “Yes. A young man and woman, both slim and light-skinned. His hair was sandy colored, and hers was red and short.” He didn’t see a problem with giving accurate descriptions. If they had escaped the palace, he could have the entire city looking for them in no time. “That’s about as much as I could tell in the furor. I tried to intervene, but I was badly injured, as you saw.”

  “So you ran.” Sir Fineal sneered.

  “Of course, I ran.” Hoseph stared at the knight without quailing. “If I hadn’t, I, too, would be dead, and none would know what had transpired here.” Hoseph longed to sneer back, but maintained his equanimity.

  “An amazing story, High Priest Hoseph.” Ithross turned to the archmage. “Archmage Duveau, we have seen by your own example that the dungeons can be accessed by magical means. How is that possible, considering the palace wards prevent magical travel?”

  Duveau glanced sidelong at Hoseph, obviously disgruntled at having questions directed his way. “The dungeons are not protected by the wards, Commander.”