Weapon of Flesh (8 page)

He evaluated the noisy room with one long, sweeping stare, cataloging the exits, the layout of the tables, and the array of potential weaponry that littered the serving table and the kitchen behind.

“You alright, Lad?  You look like --”

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and was slapped away before Lad could even think of his reaction to the unexpected physical contact.  He was in a fighting stance before Flindle’s yelp of astonishment told him that he had overreacted.  By that time, the rumble of conversation had stilled, and the eyes of every man at the nearest table were on him.

“Ayee!  Damn it, Lad!”  Flindle gripped his wrist in pained shock, his eyes staring in wonder at the diminutive boy.  “Sorry I startled ya!  Holy Horatio, you’re quick!”

“I did not intend to hurt you, Flindle” Lad said, relaxing his stance.  “I was not aware that you were going to touch me, and reacted without thinking.”

“Oh, you didn’t hurt me none!” Flindle said with a smile, raising his injured hand and flexing his tingling fingers easily.  “Just surprised me is all, ain’t it?”  He stepped up to Lad and slowly placed his hand once again on the boy’s shoulder, turning him toward the table of staring lumberjacks.

“This here’s Lad,” he told them all, patting the boy’s shoulder carefully.  “He’s workin’ for me, and doin’ a fine job, he is.  He’s been on the road for a while, and he’s a bit jumpy is all.  Ain’t it, Lad?”

“Yes,” Lad responded, uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the men as well as Flindle’s hand on his shoulder.  He had never in his life been touched in a capacity other than combat by anyone other than the Master.  He was grateful when the smith’s hand finally lifted and swept in an arc, indicating the table of staring men.

“These louts are Jacks, Lad.  And if any of ’em gives you trouble, you just tell me!”

This brought a rout of laughter from the room and several derisive comments regarding what Flindle could do with his threats
and
his new laborer.  Several of the suggestions made little sense to Lad, but he decided to stand mute rather than respond.

“Just you ignore that bunch, Lad, and come on over here.”  Flindle led the way to the serving table, where a few men and women were dishing out huge slabs of braised beef, mounds of potatoes, steaming biscuits and greens onto large wooden platters, then dousing it all with heavy brown gravy.

“You eat hearty, Lad,” Flindle instructed, pointing out where to retrieve a fork and knife.  “Seconds, thirds, whatever you want!  You put in a man’s work today, and you should eat like one!”

This, at least, was one task at which Lad needed no instruction.  When he placed his laden tray down and took his seat beside Flindle, the noise and motion surrounding him faded into the background of mouthful after mouthful of wonderful, delicious and life-giving food.

“Well, the way you eat, we’ll be puttin’ some weight on you right enough, that’s for sure, ain’t it, Lad?”

“Yes.”  Lad walked slowly from the mess hall back toward the forge, both to match Flindle’s pace, and to ease the discomfort of an overfull stomach.  The heavy-set blacksmith was strong as an ox, but walked at the pace of one, as well.  Lad was growing accustomed to the man’s ceaseless questions, realizing that most of them were rhetorical.

“I gotta say, you’re a right good worker, I do.”  The blacksmith snorted in laughter and fished a small flask from his apron pocket.  He tilted it back to his lips and swallowed.  Lad didn’t know what was in the flask, but Flindle sipped from it constantly.  “You did more work in half a day than anyone else I’ve hired could have done from sunrise to sunset, didn’t ya?”

Lad just walked along, not knowing what to say, which was often the case with Flindle’s questions.  He had discovered that staying mute was often an answer in and of itself.

“Ah, here we are now.”  Flindle stepped into his forge and sat on one of the low stools.  He propped his feet up on the edge of the banked coal fire and let out a sigh of contentment, his eyes squinting up at the deepening night sky.  “Aye, this is the life, ain’t it?  Why, look at all them stars, would ya!”  He took another swallow from his flask and held it out to Lad.  “You want a snort?”

“What is a snort?” Lad asked, looking dubiously at the flask.  He’d been curious about its contents; now was his chance to find out.  He took it from the blacksmith’s wavering grasp.

“A drink!  You know, a li’l bit of the dragon’s breath!”

Lad sniffed the open container carefully, his nose wrinkling at the astringent odor.  He had been schooled in the use and detection of more than a hundred different poisons and potions, but had never smelled anything like this!

“What is dragon’s breath, Flindle?” he asked, deciding that he would rather not taste something so foul-smelling.  He held the flask back out to his employer.

“Why, it’s whiskey, ain’t it?”   The flask tilted to the man’s lips again, a stream of the liquid escaping to trickle into his bushy beard.  “Good stuff, too!  None of that rot-gut potato squeezin’s that the dwarves make.  Good corn whiskey!”  He sipped again.  “Sure you don’t want some?”

“Yes, I am sure.”  Flindle seemed to be acting strangely since he’d eaten, and Lad was beginning to think that it had something to do with this whiskey he was drinking.  Perhaps it was poison after all.

“Well, that’s okay.”  Flindle tilted his stool back on two legs until his back thudded against the anvil; then stretched his broad frame in an expansive yawn.  “So, what’s your story, Lad?  Here you come, walkin’ in out of nowhere, no shoes, not a penny to your name and skinny as a half-starved rat.  On top of that, you’re jumpy as an unshod colt!  Gotta be somethin’ to that, ain’t there?”

“My story?”  Lad was once again unsure of what to say.  Flindle wanted something from him, but Lad had no idea what a ‘story’ was.  He was curious again, however, and forged ahead.  “What is a story?”

“Boy, you’re an odd one, ain’t ya?  You know!  Where are you from?  Where’s your family?  How come you’re on the road all alone?”  Flindle tilted the flask again then leveled a bleary-eyed stare into Lad’s eyes.  He squinted slightly as if he were seeing something he didn’t understand, and then shook his head.  He glared at the flask in his hand, jammed in the cork, and stuffed it into his pocket.

“Damned cheep booze got me seein’ things.  Oh, to hell with it, Lad!  You don’t have to tell me nothin’ about yourself, do ya?  I’m just tryin’ to make conversation is all, ain’t I?”  Flindle levered himself up to a slightly wobbly stance and nodded to Lad once more.

“It’s late, and I’m fer bed.”  He glanced again at the boy and shook his head in confusion.  “You put more coal on the fire if you get cold, now, hear?  I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lad said, his curiosity blazing like a forest fire in his mind.  What was Flindle talking about?  Was the whiskey really making him see things, or had the man seen something in him that he did not understand?  The thought worried him slightly, but not overly so.  He was safe here, at least for the time being.  He had food and a warm place to sleep, and would get money for the work he had done this day.  He wrapped himself in the moldy old blanket Flindle had given him and sat down with his back to the fire box.  The bricks were pleasantly warm from the banked fire, and the night was cool and alive with the sounds of the forest.

Not really tired, Lad sat up for some time, staring out at the quiet logging camp, listening and thinking about the decisions he’d made, the paths he’d traveled, and, of course, his destiny.  The night dwindled on, and the moon settled behind the lofty pines, deepening the darkness and heightening the faint magical glow from Lad’s eyes.

 Chapter
VI

“D
on’t stir up trouble, Targus,” the Grandfather of Assassins ordered his Master Hunter.  The half-elfin chap had been hunting people for the guild for decades and could follow a ten-day-old trail over rock, snow, sand or even ice.  Whatever he hunted, he brought back, be it animal, man or elf, dead or alive.  “It’s two days past the appointed time of their arrival.  Corillian would not be late for this; he knows what is at stake.  Something has happened to them and kept him from sending word.  There may be rumor of it somewhere on the road, and more can be learned from a wagging tongue than a slit throat.”

“Of course, Grandfather.”  The slim man leapt into the saddle, snapping his fingers at his two apprentices, who followed suit.  He squinted up at the faint blush of the early morning sky.  “The weather has been good and will remain so.  The tracks will be easy to read.  I’ll find the weapon and bring it back to you.”

“Remember, Corillian could look like anyone if he so wished, old or young, man or woman, but the weapon should be about the age of your younger apprentice.  He should look like a normal boy, but he may act strangely.  He’s dangerous.  If he’s run away, don’t try to capture him.  Just track him.”  He handed up a heavy pouch.  “If you do not find them on the road from here to Krakengul Keep, send word, but keep looking.  Spend whatever you must to loosen tongues, but find me that weapon.”

“Consider it done!”

Targus lashed the money to his saddle and dug one spur into his mount’s wither, spinning the gelding on its hocks.  He and his apprentices clattered out of the courtyard and through the streets of Twailin.  The hunt had begun.

“Leavin’?”  Flindle turned from the forge to face Lad with a scowl that would have curdled milk.  “Why, you only been here three days, haven’t ya?  Six pennies ain’t gonna buy you enough food to get you anywhere, Lad.”

“Six pennies will buy four loaves of hard tack and one measure of jerky, Flindle.”  He inclined his head quizzically at the blacksmith.  “I have eaten much more than I usually do for the past three days.  This should be enough.”

“But, I…  Well, dammit Lad, I was just gettin’ used to seein’ your face around, wasn’t I?”  He scowled again and spat into the forge fire.  “I’ll double your pay if you stay another two days.”

“I cannot stay longer, Flindle.”

“You got someone chasin’ you?” the smith asked, his eyes narrowing.  “If you’re runnin’ from somethin’, Lad, this is a far safer place than the road.”

“I am not running from something,” he assured the man with a quizzical look.  “I am
walking to
something, but I am not sure what it is.”

“Ha, well, you keep that sense of humor, Lad.  And, here.”  Flindle went to the back of the forge and dug into a pile of junk that littered the bench.  He returned with a short knife in a moldy leather sheath.  “A man oughtn’t to be without some kind of weapon, even if it’s just an old belt knife.”  He held the sheathed blade out to Lad hilt first.

“I do not need a weapon, Flindle,” he said, his mind clicking onto a magically reinforced memory.  “I am a --”

“Nonsense!  Take it!”  Flindle grasped Lad’s hand and pressed the hilt into it.  “The world’s not a safe place, is it?”

“No, Flindle.  It is not a safe place.”  Lad looked at the knife and drew the short blade, which was sharp and clean despite the bedraggled sheath.  It was not balanced for throwing, but would part flesh readily enough.  He sheathed it and tucked it into his rope belt.