Weapon of Flesh Read Online Free PDF

bowman, and then bounded past their dying leader, his foot snapping the bow of another before his fist smashed the astonished man’s throat.
    A bow twanged, the hornbow from the sound, but the Master had erected a shield of shimmering energy, and the arrow glanced off.  The boy snatched a dagger from the man choking at his feet, and flung it into the chest of the bandit who had not yet fired his weapon.  As he turned to the other crossbowman, he saw that the man had dropped his weapon and drawn a long saber.  The bandit’s sturdy mount bore down on the boy, the curved sword cocked back to take his head.  The boy simply ducked under the blow, grabbed the saddle and swung up behind his attacker.  His hands grasped the man’s head and twisted sharply.  Hoofbeats rang in his ears as he stared into the man’s dying eyes and thrust him out of the saddle.  The woman was fleeing.
    He was untrained in horsemanship, so chasing her was out of the question.  He hopped out of the saddle beside the dead man, pulled a bolt from his quiver, and retrieved the discarded crossbow.  There was a crank for cocking the thing, but the boy simply placed the stock against his chest and pulled the string back until it clicked.  He placed the quarrel in the notch, took aim, adjusted for windage and fired at his fleeing foe.
    She toppled from the saddle, the bolt lodged squarely between her shoulder blades.
    “Well done!”  He turned to the Master’s voice, but stopped in shocked surprise.
    “Mast --”
    He leapt, but it was too late.
    Another crossbow cracked, and the thick shaft plunged through the back of the Master’s neck before the boy’s fingers could intercept it.  The last bandit, who had been hiding behind them in the trees, spurred his mount into the deep forest.  The boy wrenched the heavy bolt free and considered his chances of knocking the fleeing bandit from the saddle; they were miniscule, so he dropped the bloody shaft and surveyed the scene.
    Seven bandits lay dead, their mounts scattered, some still running.  The Master lay slumped over his knees in the seat of the wagon.  One bandit had escaped.
    He had failed.
    “Master,” he said, doubting that he would receive an answer.  The bolt had severed the spine.  The Master was dead.
    The boy’s head cocked to the side as his eyes took in the details that his mind was ill-prepared to handle.  He had seen death.  But this was the Master . 
    The boy stood on the wagon for some time, wondering what he should do.  He had failed to do as he had been instructed, which troubled him.  But the Master was dead, which made him feel strange.  There would be no repercussions for his failure, but there would also be no instruction from the Master as to what to do next.  Should he dispose of the bodies, as he’d seen the servants do?  He didn’t know how.  Should he stay here?  He doubted that anything would change if he did.  The Master would stay dead, and he would be no closer to his destiny.
    “Destiny,” he muttered, wondering why he said the word aloud.  He looked down the road in the direction that they had been traveling.  The dead brigand still lay there; her mount had returned and was nosing the corpse.
    Midday arrived, so the boy ate an apple and a piece of jerky from the cart’s stores, thinking only that this had been his instructions at midday the previous two days, so he should do the same today.  When the shreds of core and stem dropped from his fingers, he had made a decision.
    “Destiny,” he said clearly, dropping from the wagon to the road.
    How far?
    There was only one way to find out.
    What is my destiny?
    The answer was the same.
    For the first time in his life, the boy initiated an act of his own volition: He placed one foot in front of the other in the direction that he knew his destiny lay.  He then repeated that act, then again, until he was walking.  He did not look back, did not regret and did not mourn the loss of the only