Weapon of Flesh (53 page)

He heard their approach long before they entered the interrogation chamber.  The Grandfather’s voice continued a light banter, almost casually discussing the future murders Lad would commit once the magical bonds were reestablished.  Such calm and calculated cruelty disgusted him.  He slowed his fluttering heart and eased his breathing; if he appeared agitated, the Grandfather might suspect something.

He lay there, enduring the pain of the wizard’s needle as he readied himself.  All the years of training, all the countless hours of instruction and preparation would come to play in this one moment.  His destiny.  Not exactly the destiny his creators had planned, but the one he had chosen for himself.  His single purpose in life now was to kill one man, to end the evil that had caused so many so much anguish.  Whatever else happened, however he was injured, whoever else died, that was his only goal.

No pain,

No fear,

No mercy
...

“I think your suggestion to slow the pace of the assassinations is wise, Mya,” the Grandfather said as they entered the room and approached the table where Lad lay prone.  “The prior incident when the weapon was injured during the first, then nearly killed during the second assassination the same night, demonstrates his vulnerability.  The inflexibility of his obedience puts much more focus upon the care we must exert when giving him his orders.”

“Such was my thought, Grandfather,” Mya agreed, following a step behind and to the Grandfather’s right, wisely out of the line Lad’s attack would take.  “Your original time table is ruined, so changing it now should not incur additional cost.”

“True, though modifying it has cost me a small fortune in bribes.”  He was close now, just steps away.

No pain
...

“Well, the investment will yield tenfold in time.  We will sit down today and analyze the schedule, you and I.”  He stopped a step away from the table.  Still too far.

No fear
...

“Come to my chambers at highsun.  I’ll have a meal prepared on the balcony and we will discuss it.”

“I would be honored, Grandfather,” she said.  Lad heard her move to his side, felt the movement of air of her robes fluttering as she waved her arm, gesturing her master forward.  “Now, Master Vonlith...”

“Ah, yes, the good Master Vonlith.”  He took one step forward.  “What exactly seems to be the --”

No mercy
...

Lad exploded from the table, flinging off the iron bindings that were held in place by false black-wax pins.  He vaulted into a rolling spin, two lightning kicks crashing into the Grandfather before the other could even raise a hand in defense.  He felt bone break under his first blow—a collarbone.  The second snapped the Grandfather’s head to the side.  Blood and broken teeth sprayed as the man spun with the blow, but it had not been hard enough to break his neck.  The third kick missed as the ancient assassin twisted and flipped backward in a swirl of black cloaks.  He landed in a protective crouch, guarding his injured side, eyes wide with surprise and shock.

Lad barely touched the floor before he leapt after his target, three snap kicks pounding the Grandfather’s blocking arm.  The hand on his opponent’s guarded side flicked, and Lad caught the glitter of flying metal in time to turn his head.  Sharpened steel cut a furrow from the corner of his right eye to his ear.  The dagger lopped the top off of his ear and clattered to the floor behind him.

Lad pressed the attack, pounding kicks, sweeping trips and triphammer punches into his opponent faster than the eye could follow.  The Grandfather blocked and dodged, rolled and spun, a swirl of black and steel, for two daggers now filled his hands, and Lad’s punches and kicks were often met with the edge or point of a blade.  Cuts grazed his knuckles and shins where he had narrowly averted disaster.  He heard a scuffle and some hissed words from behind him, but could spare no moment to glance.

Then came his opening; a fold of the Grandfather’s billowing cloak snagged on a sharpened bit of metal protruding from one of his machines of torture.  The master of assassins missed a critical block, and Lad’s foot smashed into his ribs.  Lad felt the bones shatter under the sole of his foot; breath left the Grandfather’s lungs in a bloody spray.  The Grandfather was knocked cleanly off of his feet, his daggers flung away into the tangle of twisted machinery.  It was a telling blow; the shattered ribs had ruptured lungs.  He would be unable to breathe and his lungs would fill with blood.  Lad’s opponent would be dead in moments.

As he watched the elder assassin crash into a heavy rack and rebound, a wave of relief swept through Lad that almost brought him to his knees.  So much pain suffered, so much heartache and loss, all caused by one man, all now ended.  He thought it unfair that such evil should meet such a relatively easy end, but he was not one to cause pain unnecessarily, even to one such as the Grandfather.  The reign of torture, murder and brutality was ended; that was enough.  He was no longer a murderer.  He was the master of his
own
destiny now.

And yet, The Grandfather remained standing.

Hate radiated from the ancient assassin’s eyes in a palpable wave, his broken teeth clenched in a rictus grimace of rage.  He wrenched himself upright and stood there, glaring at Lad, blood dripping from his chin.  He turned his head and spat, then flexed his shoulders, which should have been impossible with as many broken bones and other injuries as Lad had inflicted.  The man shouldn’t even be alive!

“Oh, come now.  You can’t think I could have lived so long if I was
that
easy to kill,” the master assassin asked venomously, reaching up to the clasp of his dark robes.  The dark garment fell to the floor.

And Lad understood.

Above the hem of his dark silk pants the Grandfather’s blood-streaked torso was covered with a tapestry of tattooed runes.  They were identical to the ones that Lad bore on his own chest, and as the bones beneath that parchment skin writhed and knitted back together, the runes shimmered with power.  The Grandfather of Assassins flexed his shoulders again, and took a step forward, drawing two more daggers from the leather sheathes strapped to his forearms.

“Now, Boy,” the ancient assassin hissed, “do you see how truly akin we are, you and I?  We share the same magic, the same sweet curse.”  He drew one of his blades across his own chest, leaving a line of blood that vanished as he laughed. 

Lad understood, finally, what he was up against.  He understood his origin, the impetus for his creation.  And he also understood that he would die before he became a shadow of the once-human thing who had created him.  This would be the fight of his life, the focal point of all his training, all his preparation.  Lad took the stance of the first form in his daily ritual dance of death, and waited for the Grandfather of Assassins to try to take his life.  It would not be given freely.

The wizard stood like a block of wood in Mya’s hands, so stiff she thought he might keel over from fright.  She couldn’t blame him.  After watching the Grandfather heal a mortal wound, then seeing the tattoos that had been hidden under his robes, she understood that they would all die here.

At Lad’s first blurred tumble from the table Mya had lunged away, her first concern being to stay as far out of the fight as possible.  Her second concern had been the wizard.  She didn’t know what magic Vonlith could conjure to aid the Grandfather, but she knew how to prevent it.  The blade tucked under his beard and her threatening whispers in his ear kept him utterly silent.  And if the Grandfather chose to send sharpened steel flying her way, his plump body would offer formidable protection.

As the rune tattoos on the Grandfather’s chest glowed in the wake of his own dagger’s bloody trail, the peal of his evil laughter turned May’s grip on the wizard to water.  Lad took the stance that began his morning exercises, and she realized that he was overmatched.  Lad was as quick and agile as ever, perhaps even a touch quicker than his opponent, but his ability to heal and his imperviousness to pain had been burned away—every nick, every cut and bruise, would sap his strength.  The Grandfather need only defend himself against lethal attacks to win.

Her plans for power were foiled; her death lay before her, cold and hard, utterly barren.  Pointless.  Her mind whirled with unanswered questions.

 “And you, my traitorous apprentice.”  The Grandfather’s voice snapped her wandering attention into focus as he strutted back and forth, brandishing his daggers.  “Do you see what immortality is, Mya; what you could have become?”  He twirled the daggers defiantly.  “Do you see the power you gave up by betraying me?   We could have ruled this city together, the three of us.  With your ambition, Mya, and my gift, and the perfect weapon to share between us.  No one could have touched us.”

“I would
never
become like you!” she said between clenched teeth, pleased that her voice did not quaver with her fear.  She gripped her dagger more tightly.

The Grandfather strode around Lad in a broad circle, daggers flashing in his hands, totally confident of the outcome of this confrontation.

What had she done with this life?  If living defined her, who was she?

Lad stood perfectly still, waiting, even when the Grandfather walked directly behind him.  He would wait for the attack and use it, Mya knew, but she also knew his response would be futile.

Her whole life she’d wanted only power—now she had it, and it was useless.  What power was there in killing?  The power of fear, only.
 

The Grandfather cursed and spat as he moved, showing his contempt for her and her would-be accomplice, but his barbs and insults slipped away without stinging.  He promised a thousand deaths, each a thousand times more painful than the torment she had already felt under his touch, but his threats were impotent.  The dagger in her hand would pierce her own heart before she would allow him to touch her again.

What victory was there for her after all the horrors she’d lived through as a child?

The Grandfather struck. 

His attack came in the middle of one of his tirades, cursing her deceitful ways.  Lad responded before the attack was even fully launched, moving through the first forms of his dance...
block, twist, sweep, strike....
  His movements, the dance she’d learned, fit perfectly into the interplay of steel and flesh.  It was happening a hundred times faster than she’d learned it, but his dance was flawless.  Maybe...

Living... That was the victory, and that was about to be taken from her.

Each of the Grandfather’s attacks met a perfect parry, each thrust a block, each block a counter thrust, each step a sweep...   It was all so fast she could barely follow the movements.   But she could see the frustration on the Grandfather’s face.  And with each failed attack, with each blocked thrust or thwarted parry, his temper swelled to rage.  His daggers cut only air, and she could see their tiny weight dragging at his lightning movements.  And with his hands filled, he could not block, grasp and strike as freely as Lad.

The Grandfather’s weapons were a hindrance; Lad
was
a weapon.  But the pace of the fight was unrelenting, and both of them were beginning to tire.

Unless...

“If that boy dies, I die,” she whispered harshly into Vonlith’s ear, pressing the blade against his neck until it threatened to cut, “but not before I kill you first!”

“What?  I don’t --”

“Help him or die!  The choice is that simple, Wizard!  Do it!”

“Do what?” the man gasped, straining against her grip as the two assassins battled before them.  In the span of a single sentence dozens of blows and kicks were blocked, parried or avoided.  “How could I intervene in that?”

“With magic, for the Gods’ sake!  Cast a damned spell or something!  Blast that sadistic bastard to cinders!”  Her dagger twitched with her demands, drawing a line of blood at his throat.

“I don’t
do
spells like that!” he complained.  “The only spells I know are runes.  My magic is cast with pen and ink, not by wiggling my Gods-damned fingers!”

Lad slipped past the Grandfather’s guard, his fist smashing into the older man’s jaw, shattering the joint, but he paid for the strike with a deep gash to his forearm.  The Grandfather spat broken teeth in Lad’s face and grinned, his jaw crackling and knitting as he did.  The exchange had been a net loss for Lad, for his arm bled freely, and with each drop of blood he weakened minutely.

“Then you better figure out a way to make your pen and ink mightier than a sword very quickly,” Mya hissed in the wizard’s ear.  “Now!”  She turned and pushed him toward his workbench of inks, needles and quills.  She took a step and placed the point of her dagger at his back.

Vonlith cast about the littered table, eyes wide with panic.  There was no way out for him but to help Lad and Mya defeat the Grandfather, but if he tried and failed, he would be killed for his betrayal.  He snapped a glance at Mya, then another at the two combatants, biting his knuckles in frustration.  He was trapped and he knew it; Mya could see it in his eyes.

Then an idea struck his features as plainly as if it were written there for all to read.

“Maybe...”

He snatched up a bottle of ink and a quill.  He dipped the quill in the bottle and scrawled several magical letters on the side of the vessel itself, murmuring under his breath as he did so.  The bottle suddenly flared to light in his hand, and he turned to Mya and grinned in wide-eyed triumph.

“This may work!”  He looked at the glowing bottle, then at the embattled pair of men.  “Or it may kill us all.  But even if it does work, it will last only moments.”

“What is it?”

“A negation.  It will arrest the magic of all runes in this room, but only for a very short while.”

Her agile mind clicked to the effect the spell would have:  Without the magic, Lad would still be a healthy young man in peak condition; the Grandfather would be a healthy
old
man in peak condition.  It was a slim difference, but it was an advantage.