Weapon of Fear: Weapon of Flesh Series, #4

Weapon of Fear

Weapon of Flesh Series, Volume 4

Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson

Published by Jaxbooks, 2015.

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

ePub edition

ISBN 978-1939837110

7.16

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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 2015 Chris A. Jackson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in printed reviews—without prior permission from the author.

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Cover Image Copyright 2015 Jaxbooks

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Copyright Notice

Prelude

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Epilogue

Thanks for reading!

About the Authors

Novels by Chris A. Jackson and Anne L. McMillen-Jackson

Prelude

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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 glowed 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 at 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.

Ithross looked skeptical.  "I was told that the wards extend around the entire palace."

"And His Majesty explicitly instructed me to maintain only those wards already in place, which does not include these lower reaches.  There have been no wards on the dungeon for longer than I have been archmage."

For one day longer...  Hoseph remembered the day Tynean Tsing ordered a reluctant Archmage Venron to remove the dungeon wards.  Hoseph had made it look like a natural death, of course, and the following day the emperor appointed an oblivious Duveau.

"Why would he do that?"  Ithross sounded incredulous.

"I have no idea, Commander.  I didn’t question my orders, I merely followed them.  The archmage raised an eyebrow.  Were you in the habit of asking an explanation from His Majesty?"

Ithross ignored Duveau’s sarcasm.  Can you use magic to find the assassins?

Perhaps.  It would require something personal of theirs.  Hair, a nail clipping, or even some token that they held dear for some time.

What about the blood on this blademaster’s sword?  A knight lifted a stained katana.  The assassins apparently didn’t get away without injury.

Alas, no.  Blood is a fleeting thing in the human body.  I would require something more substantial.

We’ll have to search.  Ithross waved over his lieutenant.  Rhondont, send a runner for the emperor’s healer.  Master Corvecosi may be able find something in this mess that didn’t belong to one of the blademasters, and help us piece together just what happened here.  And Prince Arbuckle must be informed of his father’s death.

I’ll inform the prince personally.  Sir Fineal gathered his two squires and they tramped out of the room.

Hoseph bowed to Ithross.  If it please you, Commander, I’ll be off to clean up and rest.  Archmage Duveau has healed my injuries, but I am weary and heartsick at the emperor’s demise.

"No, High Priest Hoseph, it does not please me. Ithross looked stern. The emperor is dead, and all we have to go on is a vague description of two assassins who apparently can pop in and out at will.  You may not remember much, but Master Duveau’s magic can compel you to supply us with details you may not readily recall.  He’d stopped just short of calling Hoseph a liar.  I know you won’t mind."

Hoseph’s mind spun.  Under Duveau’s spells, Hoseph’s mind would be laid bare.  They could ask him anything, and he would be compelled to answer truthfully.  That he could not allow, not if he hoped to get out of here alive.

High Priest Hoseph?  Ithross’ expression shifted to suspicion, and his hand drifted toward his sword.

Hoseph smiled wearily.  Of course, I’ll do whatever I can do to help in the investigation, Commander.  However, as the late emperor’s spiritual advisor, I have been entrusted with certain...personal confidences.  It would be disrespectful to inadvertently reveal anything in—Hoseph glanced around at the lingering guards and knights—"this company.  Perhaps I could answer your questions someplace else?  Someplace private?"

Very well.  One moment.  Ithross turned to his lieutenant.  Rhondont, secure this room.  No one should be touching anything until Master Corvecosi examines the scene.

Hoseph strode for the door without waiting for Ithross or Duveau.  He had no time to waste, not with so many loose ends to tie up before he left the dungeon.  Lengthening his stride, he flicked his talisman into his hand as he turned the corner, and invoked Demia’s divine power.  All Archmage Duveau and Commander Ithross would find when they stepped into the corridor would be a few dissipating tendrils of black mist.

Chapter I

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The tap on the door snapped Prince Arbuckle’s eyes from the book he was reading.  He glanced at the ornate clock on his mantle.  It was late.  While it wasn’t unusual for him to read in bed until the small hours of the morning, a knock on the door at this hour was unheard of.

Yes?

The door opened and his valet, Baris, stepped in, shutting the sturdy oak portal firmly behind him.  The man’s glazed eyes and slightly askew jacket roused Arbuckle’s curiosity.  In all the years that Baris had attended him, he had never seen the valet less than sharp-eyed and impeccably attired, much less knocking on his door in the middle of the night.

I’m sorry to disturb you, milord, but there is a knight here who insists on speaking to you.

A knight?  This was getting interesting.

Arbuckle didn’t know many of the knights beyond the few younger ones who sparred with him as part of his martial training.  The older, more experienced knights were often away keeping order in the provinces or commanding troops in the field.  Perhaps one of these had arrived with an urgent question of military convention, an issue requiring historical precedent.  Arbuckle warmed to the prospect.  Though he’d never studied at a formal university, he’d had tutors aplenty, and the palace boasted one of the best libraries in the empire.  He was a true scholar of history, though few ever sought his knowledge or opinion.

Which knight?

Sir Fineal, milord.

Fineal?  Though Arbuckle had met Sir Fineal, he didn’t know him well.  Very well.

By the time Arbuckle had put his book aside and slipped his feet into a pair of slippers, Baris held his robe ready.  Shrugging into the sumptuous garment, Arbuckle tied the sash tight and ran his fingers through his unruly hair.  Good enough.  Let’s go.

As you wish, milord.  Baris bowed and opened the door.

Arbuckle stepped into the sitting room, the two blademasters stationed at the door slipping quietly into position behind and to either side of him.  Bright lamp light reflected off Sir Fineal’s armor.  Two squires hovered behind the knight, and all three bowed low as the crown prince entered.

Milord Prince, Fineal said as he rose, I bear tragic news.

For the first time since the knock on his door, apprehension trumped Arbuckle’s curiosity.  He noted a red stain on the knight’s knee and boot—blood.  Dread knotted Arbuckle’s stomach.

There’s been violence.  What’s happened?

I regret to announce, Milord Prince, that your father, the emperor, is dead.

Dead?  The news was so far from what Arbuckle expected that the word didn’t register at first.  Dead?  How?

We were told there were assassins, Milord Prince, in the...dungeon.

For a long moment, Arbuckle felt nothing.  He remembered being grief-stricken by his mother’s death when he was only ten years old, so why didn’t he feel anything now?  He welcomed the wave of emotion when it finally washed over him, but instead of grief he felt...what?  Relief?  Liberation?  The second wave was guilt for his lack of sorrow.  But then, he and his father had never been close, the chasm between them widening year by year.  A son’s love can withstand only so much derision and ridicule.  Arbuckle had long ago realized that he didn’t even like his father, let alone love him.  Duty, however, he understood.

Take me to him.

Sir Fineal’s mouth tightened and he seemed reluctant when he said, Milord, it’s dangerous.  In addition to your father, these assassins killed five of his blademasters, and they’ve not yet been apprehended.

Arbuckle felt a trickle of fear down his spine like a cold finger or a drop of icy water. Five blademasters... The notion seemed ludicrous.  Impossible.

The two blademasters at Arbuckle’s sides stirred.  Glancing back at one of them, he was amazed to see a flash of disbelief in the man’s eyes before it was secreted beneath the customary blank expression.  The flash of humanity there surprised him as much as the notion of regicide in the palace.

Has the Imperial Guard been mobilized, Sir Fineal?

Of course, Milord Prince, and the entire knighthood and Order of Paladin as well.

"Then I daresay my safety is not at risk.  I will go to see my father.  He turned to his valet.  Baris, some clothing, quickly now!"

Yes, Milord Prince.  Baris dashed into Arbuckle’s bedchamber.

Milord Prince, I would feel better if your other bodyguards also accompanied you.  May I summon them?

Of course.

Fineal flicked a hand toward his eldest squire.  The young woman bowed and quickly exited, her footfalls echoing as she ran down the corridor.

Arbuckle retired to his bedroom to dress, his mind spinning.  Who could kill five blademasters?  The entire situation seemed surreal.  The dungeons... He suddenly remembered one day when he was quite young, his father insisting that he accompany him down to the dungeons on the pretense of playing some sort of game.  The faces of the prisoners and the stench of human confinement had sent Arbuckle running.  That had been the first of many occasions when he had resisted his father’s attempts to educate him.  What the education entailed, Arbuckle never knew.  Finally—thank the gods—Tynean Tsing had stopped trying and left Arbuckle to his books.

What if this is just a ruse to get me down there?  He wouldn’t put anything past his father.

Arbuckle emerged from his bedroom into a sitting room crowded with agitated warriors.  Three more knights and their squires shifted impatiently.  In contrast, the additional blademasters stood absolutely still save for the flicking of fingers as they conversed amongst themselves in their indecipherable sign language.  Arbuckle swallowed.  He’d known since his youth that blademasters didn’t speak, but had not learned until later that their tongues were cut out as part of their training.  In a corner stood the imperial scribe, apparently summoned from his bed, surveying the scene and scribbling notes in his big book.  All snapped to attention and bowed.

Arbuckle jerked his surcoat straight and twisted his neck to relieve a persistent kink.  Take me to the emperor.

Yes, Milord Prince!

The entourage strode swiftly through the palace corridors and down myriad stairs, the knights’ armor clattering, and the blademasters as quiet as death.  The sumptuous tapestries and rugs of the residential wing gave way to the ostentation of the public galleries, then an isolated corridor as bleak as Arbuckle’s memory of it.  Instead of the impressively stout door he remembered, however, a heap of splintered timber and twisted iron lay aside.

What happened here?

Archmage Duveau breeched the door with magic, Milord Prince, Sir Fineal explained.  Only the jailor has a key, and he couldn’t be found.

I see.  The thought of such power made Arbuckle’s skin crawl.  He had read about the havoc wreaked by magic in battles, but the most extravagant description of destruction paled beside first-hand observation.  All the blademasters in the palace couldn’t protect against something like that.  Thank the gods that Archmage Duveau is on my side.  Lead on.

The long, dimly lit stair led to a dungeon worthy of nightmares.  The thick air reeked of refuse and excrement.  As Arbuckle followed the knights down a corridor, he spied within several of the barred cells forlorn figures huddled upon straw-strewn floors without so much as a blanket for comfort.  His gut roiled.  He understood that the empire had enemies, and that those arrested for crimes must be punished, but such squalor was inhuman.

They turned a corner.  A crowd of knights and squires stood before a doorway, facing a line of imperial guards who blocked the entrance.  Though the heavy double doors were open, Arbuckle couldn’t see through the mass of people to the room beyond.

Milord Prince.  Sir Fineal held up a forestalling hand.  I must warn you that the scene is...not pleasant to view.  The...interrogation chamber is a grim sight.

Very well.  I’ve been warned.  Arbuckle clenched his jaw, resolving to be stoic, though the sickly scent of blood now permeated the air as well.  Proceed.

Yes, Milord Prince.  The smell grew stronger as they approached the line of imperial guards.

One turned to call into the room.  Commander!

The knights and squires moved aside, but the imperial guards held their ground.

Move aside for your lord prince, Fineal said.

Arbuckle peered past the guards, the light of a dozen torches gleaming on the burnished metal racks, spikes, chains, and other implements that furnished the room.  Good Gods of Light!

Sir Fineal, I told you that—  Commander Ithross stopped as he caught sight of Arbuckle, and his eyebrows shot up, then he bowed low.  Milord Prince!  I didn’t expect you to come down here.

"Sir Fineal has told me that my father is dead, Commander.  I must see him.  The guards stepped aside at Ithross’ wave.  Arbuckle entered, looked with revulsion at the burnished machines of torture, then turned his gaze to the imperial guard commander.  What is this place?"

Ithross swallowed forcefully.  The emperor called this his interrogation chamber, milord.

"You mean torture chamber, don’t you?"

Ithross lifted his chin and gazed steadily back at the prince.  His Majesty always referred to it as the interrogation chamber, milord.

And who conducted the interrogations?  Arbuckle forced the words out, afraid that he already knew the answer.

I don’t know for certain, Milord Prince, but it’s rumored among the guards and knights that... Ithross glanced questioningly at Sir Fineal and received a nod of acknowledgement in return. ...that the emperor took a...special interest in the practice.

Arbuckle felt ill.  He’d known for years that his father was a heartless tyrant.  That Emperor Tynean Tsing had actually participated in the torture of prisoners, however, turned his stomach.  Arbuckle fought to maintain his composure, speaking through clenched teeth.

Show me my father, Commander.

Yes, milord. Ithross led them around the room’s thick central pillar, and a cordon of guards parted. 

Blood...  It was everywhere, the scent so thick that he could taste it.  Arbuckle stopped at the shore of a congealing crimson lake strewn with carnage.  He had watched the blademasters spar many times, always amazed at their skill and stamina.  Trained to be the best, inured to pain, blessed by their god, and pledged to defend their charges or die.  These five had died.

Good gods...

A figure to his left stood from a crouch—Master Corvecosi, the imperial healer—and Arbuckle saw rich blue robes at the man’s feet.  He knew instantly who lay there.

Father...  Arbuckle skirted the thick pool of blood, compelled by an unnerving yet unrelenting need to see this man whom he had thought he knew.  Closer, he couldn’t avoid the blood, and his shoes squelched in the spattered gore underfoot.

The healer stepped aside, bowing low.  Milord Prince.

What are you doing here, Master Corvecosi? Arbuckle couldn’t take his eyes from his father’s body, the bony hand clutching the dagger that had been thrust up beneath his chin into his brain.  He tried to feel pity or sorrow, but all he could think was that the old man’s cold eyes would never again stare disdainfully, his lips wouldn’t twist into a sneer, his harsh voice wouldn’t chide and berate, the hands would never again torture...  He realized with a start that Corvecosi was speaking.

...summoned to examine the scene and lend my expertise, perhaps to determine exactly what occurred here.

What have you determined so far?

I can unequivocally say that your father did not, as it may appear, take his own life.  His hand gripping the dagger was very nearly crushed.  Something very strong grasped His Majesty’s hand and thrust the blade that ended his life.

I see.

I have just begun examining the scene, Milord Prince, but I have already noted a few peculiarities.

More peculiar than five dead blademasters?  Arbuckle stared at the carnage again.  "How many assassins does it take to kill five blademasters?"

Ithross mistook the rhetorical question for an inquiry.  Milord Prince, we’ve been told that there were two assassins.

Two?  Arbuckle couldn’t imagine anyone capable of such a feat.  How in the Nine Hells could two assassins overcome five blademasters?

We don’t know, milord.  The only person who saw the fight has...vanished.

Arbuckle stared at Ithross.  "Vanished?  What do you mean?  Who saw this happen?"

Master Hoseph was apparently here when the attack started.  He escaped to summon help, though he bore injuries of his own.  I was about to question him further, with Archmage Duveau’s aid, when he...— Ithross looked uncomfortable—vanished.

"Vanished.  You mean he actually, magically vanished?  I thought the palace was warded to prevent that."

According to Archmage Duveau, the dungeons are not included in the wards.

Why not?

We don’t know, Milord Prince.

Arbuckle shook his head in stunned silence.  Mysterious assassins, dead blademasters, vanishing priests...what next?  What else is peculiar, Master Corvecosi?

The dark man gestured to the blood pooled beneath the hanging cage.  I at first assumed that this blood was from the emperor, being so close to his body.  Upon closer examination, however, it appears that someone was recently restrained in this device.  He touched one of the gruesome screws. This blood is fresh, yet there is no corpse here bearing wounds so inflicted.

A rescue?  Arbuckle’s mind whirled.  What prisoner would precipitate such a rescue?

The healer shrugged.  That is an interesting theory.  He strode to one of the corpses, apparently unfazed by all the blood.  And here, this man, unlike all the others, has barely a mark on him.  Kneeling, he pressed a plump hand to the blademaster’s brow and muttered under his breath.  Yes, as I suspected, he was killed with a lethal toxin.

Toxin?  Arbuckle knew from his reading that poisoned weapons were commonly used in some cultures.  You’re sure?

I’m quite sure, milord.  He rose and nodded his head absently.  Quite sure.

Arbuckle had no reason to doubt him.  He had always liked Corvecosi, one of the few imperial attendants not stifled by formality or unduly cowed by the late emperor’s imperious attitude.  As a boy, the prince had appreciated the man’s quiet bedside manner, his cool hand on a fevered forehead, gentle words, and the sense of peace that followed his visits.  Evidently, there was more to the healer’s art than mere knowledge of illness.

Continue your examinations, Master Corvecosi.  I want to know how everyone here died.  Use whatever resources you—  Turning, ready to be away from all this death, he spied one more victim, and choked on his words.

What lay on the stone slab didn’t look human—at least, not anymore.  Arbuckle stared at the corpse, willing himself to believe that the person had been dead when the skin had been peeled away in strips, the joints twisted, the bones exposed, the pearly nerves bared by careful dissection.  But deep in his soul, he knew that she had been alive.  This was his father’s depravity flayed and displayed for all to see.

Good Gods of Light...  Arbuckle strode to the side of the table, heedless for the first time of the blood.  There however, with the scent of death in his nostrils, staring down at her tortured body, bile burned the back of his throat.  Oh...  Arbuckle turned away and fell to his knees, heaving painfully, as if expelling any hope that his father had been a decent man.  A hand touched his shoulder.

Milord Prince, you must go.  Ithross waved, and blademasters came forward.

No!  Arbuckle wished with all his might that he could retreat to his room and his books—his sanctuary—but he had already disgraced himself enough.  This was the emperor’s doing.  Only a son could atone for a father’s sins.

Wiping his chin with his sleeve, Arbuckle lurched up to stand over the slab where the poor woman lay.  Had she been beautiful?  Had someone loved her?  Were they waiting for her to come home?  He welcomed the rage that burned away the last thread of feeling that he had for his father.  It straightened his back and stiffened his