Weapon of Blood by Chris A. Jackson Page B

his feet, and launched himself in a twisting
leap into open air.  Across the wide avenue, a balcony’s iron rail arrested his
fall, but only for a moment.  He released in a flip, and his feet touched the
cobbles of the street.
    Dunworthy Avenue, just past Tony the baker’s
shop.
    He knew every street, alley, nook and
cranny of Twailin like he knew the scars on his own hands.  The bakery’s
colorful awning was drawn down over the door for the night, and Lad melted into
the darkness of the tiny space beside it.
    Another pause to listen.
    A faint patter, then the hiss of
soft-soled boots sliding on slate shingles.  Then…nothing.  If it hadn’t been
raining, Lad might have heard the stalker’s labored breathing or pounding
heart, but not tonight.  Slowly, he lifted his face and looked up.  Across the
avenue, a slim figure stood on the eaves high above: his stalker.
    “Very good, indeed.”  Lad watched the
figure’s head sweep side to side, eyes scanning for movement.  A minute passed,
two—a stalemate of stealth against vigilance.  Lad shifted his stance,
considering his options.  He had to leave his hiding place eventually, and his
stalker knew it.  When he did, the chase would resume.
    A rat skittered beside his foot, and he
shifted to avoid its teeth.
    The slight movement must have caught his
stalker’s eye, and the figure acted without hesitation.  Stepping back from the
three-story drop, he ran and leapt for the balcony, but at the last instant,
the sole of his leather boot slipped on a slick shingle.
    He’s not going to make it!
    Even as the thought flashed through Lad’s
mind, he burst into motion, his lifetime of training—a thousand-thousand
tumbling falls, desperate grasps, and twisting plummets—impelling him into
action in the span of half a heartbeat.  The stalker’s trajectory was off by
several inches; his fingertips would miss the balcony’s railing.  The fall
might not kill him, but Lad couldn’t take that chance.  Lad vaulted to the
awning bracket above Tony’s shop and launched himself at the balcony.
    Midair, he saw the stalker’s wide-eyed
horror as he realized that he wasn’t going to make his leap.  His eyes snapped
to Lad’s and he twisted minutely, reaching not for the balcony rail, but
instead toward his quarry’s outstretched hand.
    Lad snatched the stalker’s hand and the
balcony railing at the same moment, gripping both with fingers like an iron
vise.  Pain lanced through his shoulders as the weight of the falling body
jerked hard on the tendons that held his arms in their sockets.  The stalker’s
momentum swung him in a wide arc, but Lad kicked his legs and brought the two
of them to a standstill, hanging there like an odd holiday ornament.
    He pulled the stalker up—the weight was
barely enough to challenge his magically enhanced strength—releasing the hand
when the boy had a firm hold on the iron railing.  For a boy he was, lanky and
wiry, with barely a whisper of hair on his chin.  Only inches separated their
faces, the boy’s panting breath hot on Lad’s cheek.
    “You’re good,” Lad told him, “but bare
feet are always a better grip than leather.  Remember!”
    “I will.”  The boy gave him a startled
grin.  “You’re bloody amazing!”
    Lad released his grip on the railing and
vanished before his stalker could move to follow.  The boy’s face, the eager
grin and eyes full of wonder, haunted him all the way home.  Lad had always
thought of evading these stalkers as a valuable and entertaining means of maintaining
his skills; never had he considered it a life-or-death struggle.  One boy’s
clumsiness had changed all that.  Imagining the boy’s broken body on the
cobbles beneath the balcony, he wondered how many corpses he had unknowingly
left in his wake, how many mourners.
    Friends, mothers, fathers,
sisters…family.
    The streets of Twailin flashed beneath
his feet in a wet blur.  His senses remained vigilant, but his mind