Terry Brooks - The Weapons Master's Choice

Reach the warlock before he could escape and kill him.

Already Kronswiff was off the platform and lumbering toward the door through which his victims had been led, howling for the Het, his hands turned into claws that ripped the air. He might have more powers still, Garet Jax realized, and must not be given a chance to use them.

He was close now, the Het ranks thinning, some among them already falling back. He was cut and slashed in a dozen places and felt none of it. His mind blocked out the pain and the distraction of the wounds. His attention was focused solely on the attackers who came at him. His throwing stars were already gone; only two of his knives remained.

He pressed on, but the numbers were too great. He could feel the Het closing in on him. But miraculously, he stayed on his feet. Arrows and darts flew, yet none of them struck him. Blades whipped past, but never touched him. Any number of blows the Het struck at him should have been enough to bring him down, but none did so.

He glanced upward to the balcony where he had left Lyriana and found her with her arms outstretched, her fingers weaving, her lips moving, her face intense with concentration.

Magic! Lyriana is skilled at using magic, and she is deflecting their blows!

He made the most of the opportunity she was giving him. Reaching for the short sword he wore strapped across his back, he whipped it out in a single fluid motion. Using it as a harvester of crops might use a scythe to cut wheat, he slashed at the men surrounding him. The room had descended into chaos, the Het howling and screaming in pain and fury, the warlock struggling to reach the door and an imagined safety that lay beyond.

He caught up to Kronswiff there, hacking through the last of the Het that sought to stop him. Wheeling back in desperation, the warlock fixed his black eyes on his solitary attacker, employing his magic, attempting to form a link that would drain his life. For an instant, it was there, a dark ribbon hanging in the air, joining them.

But Garet Jax was moving too quickly to allow the bonding to harden. Leaping onto the edge of the wooden bin and springing into the air, he rose above the warlock, twisting his body so that he led with his sword, descending like a bird of prey. He watched as Kronswiff stiffened, arms extended in an effort to save himself. But the warlock was already too late. The short sword whipped around with a strange whistling sound, severing both of his upraised hands at the wrists and continuing on to his exposed neck. Kronswiff’s head flew from his shoulders and disappeared into the shadows. His body remained upright for a moment longer and then sagged to the floor.

Garet Jax landed on his feet, his sword streaked with blood. In a crouch, he faced the remaining Het, sweeping his blade in a slow arc from one adversary to the next in unspoken challenge. Then he howled like an animal–an impulsive earsplitting cry born of bloodlust and rage, his black–cloaked form spinning toward the Het as if heedless of the danger they offered.

He was too much for them. He broke the last of their resistance, and they turned and fled into the gloom.

When he had recovered enough to call to Lyriana, she came at once. Amid the dead, a solitary pair in the blood–soaked chambers they had claimed, she would not let him move from where they stood until she had examined his wounds and determined none was serious enough to require immediate treatment.

“You were a reaper’s wind,” she said to him, and he could read the wonder in her eyes. “You were death itself.”

Her words made him uncomfortable. “And what of you? A magic wielder all along. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“My magic is small and of limited use. Mostly, I use it for healing. It would never have been sufficient to overcome Kronswiff.”

“It worked against his Het.”

Her eyes lowered. “I was afraid for you. I had to act. I’m sorry for my deception. I should have said something.”

Yet she hadn’t. Again, that twinge of suspicion tugged at him. “We should see to your people,” he reminded her.

She led him through the door to where dozens of them had been held prisoner, waiting to sate the dracul’s thirst. They clustered in small groups, cringing when he appeared, afraid he was another demon to be faced, another threat. But Lyriana was quick to reassure them they were safe now, that this black–clad man was a friend and their rescuer.

As she said these things, chasing the fear from their eyes, he noticed something strange. All of those who occupied the antechamber were suffering from grievous wounds. Their flesh was blackened and raw. Pieces of their faces and bodies were missing. Some walked with the aid of crutches and staffs. Some were cloaked entirely, and he could smell the sickness that had claimed them.

“What’s happened to these people?” he whispered when she turned back to him, unable to keep the anger and disgust from his voice. “What has the warlock done to them?”

He saw at once that he had said the wrong thing. Her face tightened, then collapsed. Tears came to her eyes.

“Kronswiff did not cause this,” she said. “He took advantage of them because they were already t his way.”

He stared at her. “I don’t understand. How could they already be like this?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply. “They are lepers, Garet Jax. They suffer from a disease that ravages their bodies. They are people who have been shunned by the world and have come to Tajarin to be with their own kind. They take refuge in a place to which no others have any wish to come. There were left alone until Kronswiff found them and decided to feed on men and women who could not stop him from doing so.”

Lepers. Just the word was enough to send a shiver through him. Victims of a flesh–eating disease out of the Old World that had disappeared for a time, but resurfaced as these things often do. He had heard of it–heard of colonies formed of those unfortunates who had contracted it and were forced to flee from the larger world to places like this one so they could live out their days in relative peace.

Though that had not happened here, because a creature who cared nothing for what they had become and only for the purposes they might serve had preyed upon them. Incapacitated by their illness, they could not fight back. They could only hide and hope they would not be found.

He looked around the room, his eyes shifting from face to face. Only a few managed to meet his gaze. Most turned away at once, hiding themselves as best they could, anxious that no one should ever look on them again. He understood this. His own revulsion was uncomfortably revealing. He could not help himself, even knowing it was wrong.

“I promised I would pay you for your services,” she said, turning away. “Come with me.”

She led him from the room into a maze of hallways beyond, producing the crystal once more to light their way. They proceeded through the darkness, following various corridors past closed doors and shuttered windows. They climbed a set of stairs until they were several stories higher and then walked from there until they arrived at a tiny bedroom. “This one is mine,” she told him as they entered.

Still holding the crystal to provide them with light, she crossed to an ancient cupboard and brought out a leather pouch. Then she came back again and handed it to him. When he opened it, he saw it was filled with gold coins.

“Is this payment enough?” she asked him.

“I don’t want any money.” He hesitated, searching for the words. “What I want is for you–”

“No!” she interrupted quickly. “Don’t ask it of me. I can’t do what you want.” She took a deep breath. “It isn’t only that I care for these people. I am one of them.”

He felt all the air drain from him, her words leaving him emptied out. Had he heard her right? One of them? A leper? No, he told himself quickly, he must be mistaken. There was nothing wrong with her. He could see there was nothing wrong just by looking at her.

But then he remembered how she had flinched when he reached for her that first night, how she had told him not to touch her. He remembered how she had been so careful to keep herself covered up while they traveled, always making sure to keep some distance between them.

He felt his heart sink.

“I came to Tajarin to help my parents and my brother, all of whom had the disease. While I lived among them, I contracted it, too. But I don’t regret it. I did what I felt was right. When Kronswiff and his Het appeared, I went in search of you–a man whose reputation reached even so remote a place as Tajarin–because I was mostly sound still, mostly able, and the only one who had any use of magic. I was the one on whom the marks of sickness were least visible and who could use magic to help heal myself should I get worse. But it doesn’t change the truth of my condition.”

She pulled open her cloak and lifted her blouse. Large sections of her torso were blotchy and raw where the disease had settled in. Her eyes lifted to meet his. “I am too sick already to leave.”

She dropped her blouse and closed her cloak. “I hid my condition from you so that you would come. I was afraid you wouldn’t, if you knew. I kept my use of magic secret, as well. When the crossbow bolt was fired at me, I used magic to deflect the blow. I used it again to help you against Kronswiff. I had not intended to do so, but I felt I had to. No one else could have killed him, if you had failed.”

Her voice gathered strength. “Kronswiff had learned of a leprous people living on the Tiderace, a population possessed of gold and silver kept concealed within the walls of their remote city. He came to rob us and to feed on us. It did not bother him that we were lepers. He was immune to our disease and hungry for our bodies and wealth. He took both. There was no one to stop him; no one cares about lepers. What did it matter what became of us? We were already the walking dead. We were at his mercy, and he had none to spare us.”

“You could still come with me,” he said. “Back down to the Southland. Your people are safe now. The Het won’t return if there is no one to pay for their services. There are Healers at Storlock who could help you. There are medicines …”

He spoke the words in a rush, as much to convince himself as to persuade her. He couldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t. Not when there might be a chance, however slim, that she could be saved.

But she shook her head. “No, Weapons Master. I have to stay here. This is where I belong. Take the gold and go and know you did something important by helping us. We had no one, and we were being destroyed. Even lepers have a right to the life that is given them, no matter their condition, no matter their fate. Others would have passed us by. You were not one of those, and we will never forget you.”

She paused. “ I w ill never forget you.”

Her eyes held him, and what he felt for her was so strong–even knowing how sick she was–that he could barely stand it. He had never felt like this about anyone before, and he was stricken at the thought of simply walking away.

She pointed to the doorway. “Go left down the hall, then take the stairs. From there, go straight through to the door at the end. It will lead you outside. You can find your way from there.”

He nodded, knowing there was no other choice. He couldn’t stay here. He didn’t belong here. His life was outside these walls, but hers was not.

“Lyriana.”

He spoke her name once and stepped close, bending his face to hers. This time she didn’t move away, didn’t flinch, didn’t tell him not to touch her. Instead she lifted her mouth to accept his kiss and kissed him back.