The Shadowed Path (15 page)

“Do something,” Trent urged Linton.

Anger stirred in Linton’s eyes, but he shook his head. “If he’s got a warrant from the local lord, there’s naught I can do. I’m sorry.”

Corbin wrapped his cloak around Lissa. She shimmered, and stood in human form. Her face was streaked with tears. She watched Vakkis and Chessis retrieve Conall’s body, and her hands clenched at her side in rage, but she would not give his murderers the satisfaction of seeing her surrender to her grief. Vakkis removed the still glowing knife and returned it to Tarren.

Brietta cried out for her father, and Lissa took her from Jonmarc, holding her possessively while Brietta sobbed. Jonmarc looked at the faces of the caravan crew, and he did not doubt that they all longed to avenge Conall.

Tarren turned to Lissa with a smirk and held up the knife. “Still plenty of magic left. I’ll get a warrant for you, and the brat. I’ll find you.”

Lissa stood tall and met his gaze. “Go to the Crone.”

“Soldiers, with me!” the captain called. The troop began to move off, Vakkis and Chessis with them, and Tarren joined them, but not without a backward scowl at Lissa and the others.

Trent and Linton spoke in low tones to Zane and the archers. Ada and Kegan moved to where Lissa stood with Brietta in her arms. Ada put an arm around Lissa, and together, the four of them moved back toward the caravan camp. Corbin walked over to Jonmarc, who found himself torn between grief and rage.

“We’re going to keep a watch in teams of two all night and through the day on Lissa’s wagon, until she can meet up with Conall’s family,” he said. “I figured you’d want to be part of that.”

Jonmarc nodded. Lissa’s loss opened up his own wounds over the loss of his wife and child, engulfing him in sorrow. “I’m in.”

Jonmarc saw Linton and Trent moving from group to group around the fires. “What’s going on?” Jonmarc asked.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Corbin said. “Linton wants to be gone before Tarren manages to come back with another warrant.”

Jonmarc looked toward the bloodstained grass where Conall had died, and then toward the camp. Without a word, he walked over to a large rock and carried it back, setting it down in the middle of the blood. Corbin watched him for a moment, then lent a hand, working together until a small cairn was raised over the site.

“I know they took the body,” Jonmarc said, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm and pushing back a lock of hair. “But it seemed wrong not to leave something behind.” Corbin nodded, and they stood in silence for a moment, then made their way back to the camp.

Fires were burning outside many of the tents and wagons, but not next to Conall’s wagon. Jonmarc swallowed hard, knowing first-hand the grief Lissa was dealing with, and knowing also that there was nothing he could do to help.

“Let’s get out of this goddess-cursed place,” Jonmarc muttered. “The further we get from here, the better.”

The next day, the caravan moved out, in spite of the fact that the crowds might have made it profitable to stay another week. They avoided the roads that led close to Lord Guarov’s manor, making an effort to avoid the bounty hunters and the lord’s soldiers. Jonmarc and the others kept a constant watch day and night, fearful that Tarren might return to snatch Lissa and Brietta with or without a warrant, but to Jonmarc’s relief, there was no further sign of the bounty hunters.

A
WEEK LATER
, Linton brought the caravan to a halt. They had reached a crossroads, where the main highway intersected with a smaller road that looked like it saw few travelers. Trees bordered the road on both sides. Jonmarc had watched the forest, unable to shake the feeling that they were being observed, but he had seen no one. Part of him feared that the bounty hunters might have followed them. Or perhaps Conall’s family was watching them from the cover of the trees, deciding whether they were friend or foe. While he had not feared Conall or Lissa, the idea that an entire pack of
vyrkin
were stalking them made a chill run down his spine.

Linton rode back to where Jonmarc, Corbin, and Trent were riding behind Lissa’s wagon. Linton dismounted, and knocked on the wagon door. “Lissa,” he called gently. “We’re here.”

Lissa opened the wagon door, with Brietta on her hip. She had been thin before Conall’s death, but her grief made her gaunt despite the healers’ best efforts. “So soon?”

Linton nodded. “We’ll wait until you’ve made contact,” he said. “We can’t just leave you here to wait for Conall’s family.”

Lissa took a deep breath. “Thank you.” She climbed down from the wagon and walked around to the front, where Zane had been handling the reins. “I’ll take the horse from here,” she said.

Zane glanced from Lissa to Linton, but Linton nodded. “Do as she says,” the caravan master instructed.

“Has she ever met Conall’s family? Does she know these people?” Jonmarc asked Trent in a quiet aside.

Trent shook his head. “I don’t think so, although she said they would know her by her scent, that they could tell that she was Conall’s mate, and that she was part of their pack because of it.”

Pack. Family. Something Jonmarc no longer had. A stab of loneliness made it difficult for Jonmarc to breathe for a moment. Lissa was talking to Corbin, Trent, and Zane, thanking them for guarding her, and thanking Linton for sheltering them on their journey. She came finally to Jonmarc, and Brietta reached out to him for a hug. Jonmarc took the child in his arms for a moment and kissed her dark hair, giving her a gentle squeeze before handing her back to Lissa.

“I never had a chance to thank you for going after her in the forest that night,” Lissa said.

“I’m glad I was able to get her back for you,” Jonmarc replied.

Lissa nodded. “I can barely stand it, having lost Conall. I couldn’t have borne it if—” She could not finish the sentence. It was a grief Jonmarc knew all too well.

“I think Conall’s pack is here,” Jonmarc said, nodding toward the trees. A few moments ago, the woods had seemed deserted. Now, he could see at least ten men standing at the forest’s edge, and he wondered if there were more hidden in the shadows.

One man stepped forward. Though he was a good bit older than Conall, the resemblance was unmistakable. Lissa drew a deep breath and stood straight, squaring her shoulders.

“Let’s go meet daddy’s family,” she whispered to Brietta. She walked toward the edge of the road, then turned again to look at Linton and the others. “Thank you, for everything.”

The man walked closer, and even the way he carried himself reminded Jonmarc of Conall. When the man was just a few paces away from Lissa he stopped, and seemed to sniff the air. Then he nodded.

“My son’s mate, and his child,” the man said. “You smell of tears. The shaman saw in a vision that Conall is dead. Is that true?”

Lissa nodded. “He is dead,” she replied. “Am I still welcome among your people?”

Conall’s father was watching Brietta, cradled in Lissa’s arms, playing with the ties to the cloak her mother wore, and a sad half-smile reached his lips. “You are blood. You are pack. You are welcome.” He paused, and looked behind Lissa to where Linton and the others stood.

“These people fought for Conall. They saved Brietta’s life, and protected me. Please, assure them that the pack will cause them no harm as they travel through its lands,” Lissa said.

Conall’s father nodded. He looked toward Linton, recognizing him as the leader. “Thank you for bringing me my new daughter, and my son’s child. Be assured that they are welcome with my people. You will be safe traveling through our territory. We will not harm you, and insofar as it is in our power to do so, we will protect you. Go in peace.”

Lissa gave one final look backward with a sad smile of farewell. Conall’s father took the reins of the wagon horse, and led him along the side road. No one said anything for a moment, until the two had disappeared into the forest.

“Mount up,” Linton said, turning back to the others. “There’s an audience waiting for us on the other side of the woods. Let’s get going. We’ve got a show to do.”

“I
F YOU WANT
something done right, get a dead man to do it.” Trent said as he and Jonmarc loaded a heavy box into the wagon.

“Does Renden make all of the items you’re going to buy tonight?” Jonmarc asked.

Trent shrugged. “No, but he or his brother make most of what we’re after. They’re both
vayash moru
. Which means they’ve each had a couple of hundred years to get very good at what they do.”

Trent secured the heavy box while Jonmarc went around to untie the cart horse from where he was tethered. Shifting the box to ride better might have posed a problem for other men, but Trent was strong from years spent as the head blacksmith for Maynard Linton’s traveling caravan, and he was used to moving heavy loads.

Jonmarc calmed the wary horse, speaking in low, reassuring tones. At nearly eighteen years old, he had not put as many years in working the forge as Trent, who was almost ten years older. Yet Jonmarc was strong for his age, having worked in his father’s forge from the time he could carry the tools. Going out on an errand late at night normally would not have worried Jonmarc. He and Trent could handle just about anything that came their way. But tonight, he was nervous. This was different.

Tonight, they were going to meet a man who had been dead for two hundred years.

Trent swung up into the driver’s seat and Jonmarc climbed into the seat next to him. They set off, moving slowly through the dark caravan camp to avoid attracting attention. Most of the camp was asleep: the performers, tent riggers, cooks, artisans, healers, wild animal trainers, farriers, laborers, and acrobats who made up Linton’s marvelous caravan. Part traveling fair, part merchant road show, the caravan meandered its way across the kingdom of Margolan, into a few friendly neighboring kingdoms, and back again under the watchful eye of its owner and impresario, Maynard Linton.

At this hour, only a few of the caravan’s company were still awake. Some were guards, patrolling the camp to ward away robbers, vagabonds, and wild animals. Others were bakers and cooks, preparing for the next day’s task of feeding the caravan’s crew and preparing treats to sell to their customers. Most of those working the night shift were regular folks doing a hard job. A couple of them, to Jonmarc’s knowledge, were also
vayash moru
. Until now, he had done a good job avoiding the caravan’s few undead members. But tonight, there was no getting around spending time in the company of
vayash moru
. That had Jonmarc worried.

Trent and Jonmarc did not speak until they were on the road beyond the outskirts of the camp. The box in the back, filled with bars of pig iron, made the cart heavy. Trent kept the horse at a steady pace. The load on the return trip would be lighter, allowing the horse to rest. For a candlemark neither man said anything, though both watched the road and the hedgerows for signs of highwaymen. Nothing stirred.

“You ever meet a
vayash moru
?” Trent finally asked.

Jonmarc nodded. “I’ve avoided the ones with the caravan, but I did once. On the road in Ebbetshire, back when I used to sell tools and herbs to Linton.”

Trent raised an eyebrow. “Alone on the road? And you’re still alive?”

Again, Jonmarc nodded. He had expected this conversation, and dreaded it. “I only saw him the once. I guess he wasn’t hungry.”

The pale, robed man he had met on that dark road had not made any attempt to drain Jonmarc of his blood. Instead, he had offered a bargain Jonmarc could not refuse, one that had cost him everything he held dear. Somewhere in the night that
vayash moru
was still out there, likely to be unhappy because Jonmarc had not kept his part of their deal. The thought made him shudder.

“They’re not all monsters,” Trent replied. “I know most people are afraid of them, and there’s cause to be, but some of them, like Renden and his brother, just want to be left alone to go about their business.”

“If you say so,” Jonmarc replied. “I try to keep my distance.”

Trent gave the reins a snap to move the horse along a little faster. “Not a bad idea, though the couple of
vayash moru
who work for the caravan have never given me any cause to fear them.”

It seemed that everyone in the caravan’s company was running away from something, pretending to be someone else, or trying desperately to avoid being found. For Jonmarc, it was a desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and his memories. From what little Jonmarc knew of Trent, his friend was trying to outrun some bad debts. In the six months Jonmarc had been with the caravan, he had heard stories about what nearly everyone in the company was trying to leave behind: jilted lovers, cuckolded husbands, vengeful masters, broken promises. Linton didn’t tell tales, but that didn’t stop others from speculating.

“Why would a
vayash moru
want a job with the caravan— or work as a smith, like Renden?” Jonmarc asked, curiosity overcoming his reluctance to discuss the subject.

Trent never took his eyes off the road ahead of them. “Immortality lasts a long time, I guess,” he said. “Gotta do something to fill the nights. For Renden and his brother, it’s the love of their craft. Wait until you see the swords Renden forges, and his brother Eli’s silver work. They might have been master craftsmen before they were turned, but a few hundred years of practice have made their work more beautiful than anything you’ve seen before.”

“The other people—mortals—don’t bother them?” Jonmarc asked, frowning.

Trent chuckled. “For one thing, Renden and Eli aren’t the only
vayash moru
in the farm country where we’re heading. They’re a little off the main road, and folks out here mind their own business. Plus, family counts for a lot in farming areas like these. Renden and his brother have been the neighbors of these farmers, and their fathers, and their grandfathers and so on. It wouldn’t be neighborly for Renden and Eli to drain them, and it wouldn’t be right for the neighbors to try to kill the brothers.”

Jonmarc came from a small village where the eccentricities of long-time neighbors were overlooked so long as no one got hurt, so Trent’s comment made sense in a strange sort of way. “You said that Renden and Eli aren’t the only
vayash moru
. Are the others smiths, too?”

Trent shook his head. “You’ll see. We’re expecting a few of them to bring goods to trade.” he said. “Several are farmers, working the land they lived on back before they were turned. They lend a hand during the night to help out their great- great-grandchildren, who are old men themselves now.”

“What about the ones who work with the caravan?” Jonmarc had wondered about their
vayash moru
workers, and he had heard plenty of rumors, but Trent seemed to know what he was talking about, and Jonmarc found curiosity getting the best of him. That, and the fact that carrying on a conversation kept him from wondering whether any wolves were lurking in the shadows along the roadside.

“Linton likes them because they’re stronger and faster than the rest of us,” Trent replied. “A
vayash moru
can do more work in one night than a mortal man can do in two days, and he’s not going to miss work like mortals who get drunk and sick and injured.” Trent shrugged. “They’re dead—I guess undead is more the truth of it—and so they don’t take fever from the night air. If they get hurt, short of being stabbed in the heart or having their head cut off, they heal up quick, practically fast enough to see. Makes them good workers to have around.”

“How does Linton know one of them won’t get hungry one night and kill one of us?”

Trent gave him a sideways glance. “How does Linton know that any of us won’t up and kill someone? More than a few of the folks in the caravan have killed in the past, I wager, self-defense or not, you and me included.”

Jonmarc grimaced. He and Trent had been in a few tight spots when raiders and bandits had attacked the caravan, and both of them had defended themselves and the company to the death. “All right. But does it work the same way for
vayash moru
? After all, we didn’t want to kill anyone. We don’t kill because we’re hungry.”

Trent’s expression grew somber. “No? We didn’t kill because we wanted anyone’s blood for food, but I’ve known men who’ve stolen food they couldn’t pay for and killed the guards who caught them.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jonmarc said. “If
vayash moru
like Renden and the ones at the caravan don’t drink human blood, how do they survive?”

Trent shrugged again. “Cows, sheep, goats, horses, even rats, I hear. They don’t have to kill when they drink. Linton lets our
vayash moru
workers keep a flock of goats to feed on.”

That was a relief. Although Jonmarc had not wanted to back out of helping Trent on his errand, he had also not been comfortable with the thought of meeting several
vayash moru
who might decide he looked like a good meal. “People talk about them,” he said quietly. “The
vayash moru
with the caravan, I mean.”

Trent nodded. “Aye. Just like they talk about everyone. Talk is cheap. But Linton runs a tight camp, and you know he won’t stand for anyone making the caravan unfriendly for good workers.” He chuckled. “Truth be told, I think most folks in the caravan are more afraid of Linton than any
vayash moru
.”

Jonmarc was silent for a few moments. “Is there anything I need to know before I meet them?” he asked. “Anything that will keep them from eating me?”

Trent frowned. “You don’t have to worry about being eaten, but there are some courtesies, and a few safety measures. Renden and the others will make sure they feed before we arrive, which decreases the risk to us. Still, it’s best to avoid anything that makes your heart pound.” He gave a wry chuckle. “I’m told it’s a bit like waving food in front of a dog. They can’t really read your mind, no matter what the rumors say, but they are very good at reading your expression and body, so don’t do anything that might look... aggressive.” He paused. “Oh, and try not to meet their gaze.”

“Why?”

Trent shrugged. “One of their abilities is compulsion. If they capture your gaze, they can compel you to do what they want. Most
vayash moru
won’t use their ability except to protect themselves, but it’s best to avoid the situation.”

Trent turned the cart up a dirt path, and not long after, a couple of modest wooden houses came into view. Behind the houses was a barn and a fenced yard for sheep and goats, along with a large plowed field. Off to one side was a blacksmith’s forge. The smell of charcoal wafted on the night air, and the glow from the furnace made Jonmarc think of home. He swallowed hard, and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“We’re here,” Trent said.

The night was quiet as Trent stopped the wagon. They were in a clearing in the center of a small group of homes. The windows in several of the homes were dark, while a few glowed with lamplight, and the forge’s glow kept the area from being too dark to navigate. No one was in sight. Yet Jonmarc knew they were not alone. The hair on the back of his neck stood up with the clear sense that they were being watched, and on a primal level, he knew the watchers were predators.

Trent seemed to sense his nervousness. “Do what I do,” he murmured. Trent swung down from the driver’s seat and walked around to the front of the cart, holding the reins loosely in one hand, his other hand open and slightly away from the sword at his side. Jonmarc did the same.

“It’s Trent,” he told the darkness. “I’ve brought a helper. We’re here to see Renden and Eli.”

For a moment, nothing stirred. There was a movement of air, a rustling noise, and suddenly a man stood in front of them. Jonmarc jumped, and the man smiled, showing just the tips of his elongated eye teeth.

“Good to see you, Trent,” the man said. He was lanky and loose-limbed like a farm boy, with dark, short-cropped hair that stood out in a cowlick on top. In face and manner, Jonmarc guessed his age to be early twenties, but then he met the man’s eyes and revised that number to be significantly higher. The man was very pale, making his dark eyes even more prominent. He wore a leather shirt with sleeves that fell to below the elbow, and had leather riding chaps over his trews and high boots. The stranger returned his gaze directly, with an intent look as if he meant to ask a question. Jonmarc felt his skin prickle, and looked away.

“Interesting,” the man murmured. He turned his attention back to Trent. “Who did you bring us?”

His phrasing sent a chill down Jonmarc’s spine, but Trent did not react as if the comment posed a threat. “This is Jonmarc,” he said. “He came to help me load.” Trent turned back to Jonmarc. “This is Renden. You’ve never met a blacksmith who can do the kinds of forging he can.”

Renden chuckled. “Comes with lots of practice,” he said. “Follow me. My men will unload the wagon.”

They headed toward the forge. Jonmarc still had the sense that they were being watched, though no one else stepped out of the night. But he thought the tension had lifted, feeling on a gut level that he and Trent had passed some kind of test.

They stepped inside the forge building and Jonmarc let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Just being near the furnace and anvil, smelling the charcoal smoke, hearing the rustle of the flames soothed him and made him think of his own lost home. The forge was a three-sided building, protected by the roof and walls from wind and rain, but open on one side to vent the heat. And though every blacksmith arranged the tools and set up to his own liking, Jonmarc knew that he could walk into a forge anywhere in the kingdom and it would feel familiar.

“Take a look at these swords, Jonmarc.” Trent’s voice called him back to the present. He walked over to where Trent and Renden stood next to a table. A dozen swords lay displayed, and Jonmarc caught his breath. He had seen well-crafted blades before. His father had been a skilled blacksmith who made swords for prosperous men near their village. Jonmarc’s two swords were the last his father had made, and were nicely forged and balanced perfectly.

Yet as he looked at the swords Renden set out, he could not help feeling sheer awe at the man’s craftsmanship. From the design of the grip to the perfectly forged edge, to the runes etched along the flat of the blade, each sword was a deadly work of art. One of the blades in particular caught Jonmarc’s eye. The steel looked as if it had been folded many times upon itself, forming a pattern of swirling lines.