Weapon of Flesh Read Online Free Page A

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 of 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