Weapon of Flesh Read online

  The series of attacks came in a flurry so quick and precise that the boy barely evaded the killing strokes, and received two shallow cuts on his shoulder and stomach. He had not been able to penetrate the man’s guard in the slightest, his grasping fingers and lashing feet meeting only air. The two paused for a moment, assessing one another anew. The man’s features showed slight surprise at the boy’s quickness, and his narrow eyes widened as the shallow cuts he’d inflicted closed and vanished without a trace. The boy showed nothing, but his mind was working full speed. This was no orc or bandit that he could easily outwit and outfight; this was a trained warrior, and all he could hope for was to stay alive, and exploit any openings that presented themselves.

  The next flurry of attacks was longer and even more furious. The boy’s hands and feet slapped aside killing strokes more than a dozen times before one cut finally passed his guard, slicing deeply into the muscle of his chest.

  “Stop!”

  Both combatants froze at the Master’s command, the boy because it was ingrained in his soul to do so and the warrior because he was simply trained to obey. Both stood poised as the Master and the other warriors approached; the steady pat-pat of blood dripping from the boy’s heaving chest was loud to his ears. The wound was closing, but he had lost a good amount of blood and felt its loss in the slight weakness in his limbs.

  “Master Xhang, your assessment.”

  “The boy is quick, and trained well for his age, but lacks focus and knowledge of combat. He missed several opportunities to grasp Cho Thang’s sword and exploit the opportunities that this would have presented.” His eyes raked the boy from head to foot, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his long moustache. “I believe he was holding back, constrained by the order not to kill, and your additional order to defend himself. His tactics were primarily those of survival, not aggression. We must break him of this flaw.”

  “I give you one year to do so, minus one hour per day during which I require his presence in my laboratory. At the end of that year, you will receive your payment.”

  “Very well,” Master Xhang agreed with a bow, then a sidelong glance at his apprentice Cho Thang. “But may I suggest that you rescind your order for the boy not to use lethal force. He will learn nothing by holding back.”

  “Your men will be at risk, Master Xhang. I will not be responsible for their welfare if I rescind that order.”

  “I will not hold you responsible for their welfare. We are warriors after all. Risk is our life, and I would not have my men become soft with a year of sitting on their backsides risking nothing worse than a bruise or two.” He snapped a short phrase to Cho Thang, who cleaned his sword on a cloth from his belt and sheathed it, bowing low to his master and then to the boy.

  “Rescind the order,” Xhang said with a nod and another thin smile.

  “Very well,” said the Master, facing the boy. “You will be training with Master Xhang and his men for one year, beginning today. You will fight each of them many times. You will fight as you are taught to fight, and will kill if the opportunity presents itself, but only when the order to fight has been given by Master Xhang or myself.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good.” The Master turned to Xhang and said, “He is yours for one year. At the end of that year I will assess his training. If any of you survive, you will receive the agreed upon sum.”

  “Very well.” He spoke to his men at length, received nods of obedience from each, then bowed to the Master. “It is agreed.” His narrow eyes snapped to the boy. “Go and clean yourself, eat your fill and return here in one hour.”

  The boy simply looked at the Master questioningly; having never received an order from anyone else, he did not know if he should obey.

  “You will follow Master Xhang’s orders. Go.”

  He sprinted out of the room, heading for the baths. He had never had a whole hour to eat and bathe before and intended to make the most of it!

  One year later, six figures stood in the great hall of Krakengul Keep; four warriors stood at rigid attention, the boy stood also at attention, a stance he had learned from his trainer. The Master stood at ease, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Cho Thang was missing the last joint of the two smallest fingers of his left hand, and bore a wide scar from his left ear to the nape of his neck. The other warriors also bore marks and scars; even Master Xhang had felt steel part his flesh under the boy’s hand. One of the warriors was dead. The Master looked upon the boy with a scrutinous eye. He’d spent an hour every day reinforcing the magic that had forged the boy into a weapon, but until now he had not noticed the added height, broader frame and surer stance. His pupil had learned the use of every weapon the warriors bore, and how to defend against each, both with weapons and without, just as Xhang had promised.

  “You have performed admirably, Master Xhang, and your payment awaits you.” He nodded to two servants who entered the room bearing a heavy coffer.

  “You have kept your end of the bargain, and my men have also learned a great deal in this last year.” Xhang bowed deeply to the Master, and then again to the boy. “Your pupil is skilled. He will serve you well.”

  With that the four surviving warriors turned and left, taking their well-earned pay with them. The Master simply watched them go, a faint smile on his lips. The boy stood stock still before him, awaiting his next order, firm and confident in his newly acquired skills. When the outer door boomed closed, and the sound of hoof beats dwindled to silence, the Master finally turned to his pupil.

  “Your next instructor will train you in the skills of stealth and intrusion. You will not kill him, for his expertise is in evasion and the art of silence, not combat.” He nodded once, a gesture that the boy found strange, until the light tap on his shoulder from behind.

  The boy leapt like a cat standing on hot coals, clearing the Master’s head by a foot and landing in a dodging roll. He had heard nothing, smelled nothing and felt nothing until the finger tapped his shoulder! It could have easily been a knife, and could have severed his spine! The last year had taught him skills with weapons, and to be confident in his abilities. The last two seconds had taught him that all his skills were useless if he were not aware of an enemy.

  The diminutive man who had been standing behind him was chuckling with amusement, twirling a dagger in his left hand and smoothing his immaculate goatee with the other. He wore dark leathers, supple with use; many pockets and pouches dangled from his belt. A number of tools rode in specialized sheaths sewn into the thighs of his trousers. When the man’s mirth subsided, the Master continued.

  “This is Master Votris. You will learn from him all that he can teach you of stealth and intrusion. Follow his instructions.”

  “Yes, Master.” The boy regained his composure and approached his new instructor.

  “He’s as clumsy as a three-legged ox,” the man said flatly, shaking his head. “But he’s quick, and agile enough. We will see what he can learn.”

  “You have one year. He will report to my laboratory for one hour every day at sunset. The rest of his time belongs to you.” The Master turned his back and walked away.

  “Humph,” Votris scoffed, eying the boy critically. “Well, the first thing, I suppose, is to teach you how to stand without fidgeting like a stallion with a mare in his sights.”

  He moved to the boy’s side, and it was like watching a ghost. He walked with such grace and fluidity that the boy thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Not a scuff of leather on stone, no squeak of buckle, nor brush of cloth could be heard, even by the boy’s enhanced ears. He realized that he had much to learn in the next year.

  Chapter III

  The boy’s feet padded through the patch of loose shale without disturbing a single stone. Rain pelted him, slicking every surface, but each time his foot landed, his step was sure and silent. When the shale gave way to sandy soil he ran on, just as he had for the last ten miles, as he had for every morning of the last year. Each da
y he ran a new course, and nowhere on the plateau was there a single footprint to mark his passage. His trainers had taught him well.

  His age was now somewhere in the middle of his sixteenth year, though he would not have known it if asked. He was still slim, but muscle rippled under his well-tanned skin, and his height was that of most men, though he would not have been called tall by anyone but a dwarf. The last two years had added discipline and focus to the previous training. One instructor had been a defrocked monk of some distant and obscure order, and had taught him the value of focusing his body’s energy. His last instructor had taught mental discipline, and the importance of a still and ordered mind. But all of his trainers, however varied in their abilities and strengths, taught him to apply their teachings for only one purpose: To kill.

  He had learned his lessons well.

  The boy now knew more techniques of killing than he knew names to describe them. Yet every day, for one hour after sunset, he lay on the Master’s table in the needle room and the ink vanished into his skin. The magic was part of him now; it would never fade, would never diminish. He was one with it. He could not always feel the power within him, but power there was, he knew, for he saw in the eyes of his trainers their astonishment at the feats he could accomplish.

  But today was different.

  Yesterday, his last trainer had departed, so today he was expecting a new one. He was not particularly surprised when he entered the courtyard of the keep to find a stout, two-wheeled cart attached to a pair of sturdy horses. What puzzled him was that the servants were putting baggage into the cart, not taking it out. Bedrolls, food and equipment were being piled in carefully and lashed down. He had never been in the stables, so he did not know that this cart belonged to the Master.

  He stilled his curiosity as he’d been taught and entered the keep, prepared for anything, or so he thought.

  “There you are!” The Master snatched him aside as soon as he entered the great hall, now in much disarray with scurrying servants. “Here,” he snapped, handing the boy an armful of soft clothing. “Clean yourself, then put these on. Return as quickly as you are able. Go.”

  “Yes Master,” he said, scurrying off to the baths, unsure of the command, yet forced to comply by the magic that coursed through his veins. He placed the strange cloth on a chair in the bathing room and quickly stripped out of his loincloth. Soap and water was applied judiciously, though he was again unsure why he would need to bathe after only a ten-mile run in the rain. But bathe he did, and thoroughly; he could not disobey.

  The real dilemma was the Master’s order to put on the clothing he’d been given. He’d seen others wearing such things, and these were not any different than what the servants wore, but he’d never worn pants or a tunic, and he’d never watched anyone dress. It took him a while. He put the pants on back-to-front once and struggled briefly with the tunic, unsure of the lacings, which he eventually decided to leave hanging loose. The cloth belt he wrapped double around his waist and cinched tightly in a knot he knew would not slip. The last he did as he sprinted back to the great hall, which was now slightly less chaotic, thought still strange.

  Every servant he had ever seen in the keep stood in a straight row, all facing the hall’s entrance, and all fidgeting nervously. Something was definitely amiss!

  The boy stilled his mind and took his place, exactly where the Master bade him return to, for he could do naught else. He stood and waited, enduring the itching clothing, calming his hammering heart and stilling his tumultuous thoughts.

  “Good!” The Master’s bellow echoed through the hall, surprising everyone except the boy. Now the Master approached him and his face changed. It stretched into a smile, something the boy had never seen. His eyes raked the boy from toe to brow, and his staff rapped the floor smartly. “Very good! We are ready to leave.”

  “Leave, Master?” The boy did not understand; leaving was something other people did. The trainers, the people who brought food and other things, they left. How could the Master leave? How could he leave? He had been here in the keep, on the plateau, his entire life. Where else was there? His agile mind briefly flashed with memories of lights in the distant forest. Maybe they would go there.

  “Yes, boy, it is time to leave. Your training is complete, as are the spells I have woven into your flesh. It is time to fulfill your destiny.”

  “Destiny? My destiny, Master?”

  “Yes. Now, go stand by the cart and wait for me.”

  “Yes, Master.” The boy sprinted out of the great hall and stood by the sturdy two-wheeled cart, questions whirling around his mind like leaves on the wind. What was a destiny? He’d heard the word before, of course, but never really understood its meaning. If they had to leave for him to fulfill his, perhaps it meant something people did when they left. If the Master was leaving with him, would they find the Master’s destiny as well? He forced the questions down, knowing that he would not get answers to them until the answers presented themselves. Two cleansing breaths brought calm, and shifted his mind into the enforced quiescence of a light meditation.

  He took in his surroundings -- the keep, the courtyard, the sights, sounds and smells that he had known throughout his short life. The thought that he would not ever see any of it again came to him, and he mulled it over, finding the concept difficult to grasp. He could find no remorse in leaving his lifelong home, though he may not have been capable of such an emotion. He had no desire to leave, and he had no desire to stay. His desires had never been a significant issue in his creation, so he did not consider them. All he considered was what lay beyond the plateau, what they might encounter and what his destiny would hold. For curiosity was an emotion inseparable from every human psyche. The Master had deemed it necessary for survival, and it had not been suppressed by the magic like many of his other emotions. The magic had not taken everything human away from him; not quite.

  The groan of bronze hinges stirred the boy from his calming meditation; the Master stood at the great doors of the keep, drawing them closed with a dull boom of finality. Then his hands moved in graceful arcs, and words that the boy could not understand pulsed through the air with power. When the words ended, a subsonic tremor shook the castle to its very foundations, and a fine spiderweb of white light traced every seam in wood, metal, glass and stone. The Master turned and descended the steps to the courtyard, dusting his spotless hands upon his robes.

  “There we are, safe and sound.”

  This did not make sense to the boy, but his comprehension was not required, only his obedience. The Master climbed into the seat of the wagon and released the creaky brake, and then turned to his silent minion.

  “We are going on a journey. At the end of that journey your destiny awaits. You will walk beside the wagon and remain wary, for the world beyond the plateau is dangerous. If there is trouble upon our path, you will use all the skills you have been taught to combat it. Is that clear?”

  “Yes Master,” the boy said, tensing and relaxing muscles in the rhythmic patterns that brought him to a state of calm preparedness.

  “Good.”

  The whip cracked over the backs of the two stout horses, and the wagon lurched forward. The boy followed without a word, too many unanswered questions whirling in his mind as he walked away from the only home he had ever known.

  In the city of Twailin a tower rose in the midst of a grand estate. It loomed above the tile roofs and ornate balconies of the homes of the richest nobles and merchants that populated Barleycorn Heights. But the master of that estate, while more wealthy than the vast majority of his neighbors, was not a highborn noble or a merchant, as many thought; at least not in any commodity that anyone wanted for their own.

  The master of the estate stood upon his tower this evening, looking down on his wealthy neighbors, disdainfully. His name was Saliez, though none of his associates used that name. They called him only “Grandfather,” though he had sired no children, nor taken any under his care. He was the Grandfather o
f Assassins, the headmaster of their guild, a merchant in death. Terror and killing were the only commodities in which he dealt.

  Business was good.

  Business was so good, in fact, that not a facet of commerce, government or graft within the city of Twailin was beyond his grasp. He wielded more power than that sniveling Duke Mir, sitting so smugly in his walled keep, high on the bluff that overlooked the city, and surely garnered more respect from his guild members. Why, not even the city constabulary, half of whom were on the Grandfather’s payroll, respected that doddering old fool. Only the Royal Guard remained steadfastly loyal to Duke Mir, but he had spies aplenty among them. They were no threat.

  The Grandfather’s minions, the entire Guild of Assassins, respected him utterly. They had learned to respect him. They had learned that disrespect resulted in death, or worse. And there was worse. They had all witnessed worse first hand. They had witnessed it from the Grandfather’s own hand, for he was not only their guildmaster, he was their foremost practitioner.

  But this night, despite the distain he expressed toward his highborn neighbors, the Grandfather of Assassins was elated. He had come to this, the highest point in all the city save for the spires of the Duke’s Palace, not to gaze down at those who were nothing but contracts or clients to him, but to take delivery of a message that his eyrie-master had just received. He held that message now in his triumphantly clenched fist, for his life was soon to become much easier, and his business tenfold as lucrative. The message he clenched so tightly bore only two lines, lines that only his eye would ever read and understand. He flattened the crumpled parchment once again, though he had read it many times already.