The Shadowed Path (2 page)

On the wall hung an impressive variety of knives. He selected a large butcher knife with a wicked blade as well as a smaller boning knife, and made his way around to the back door, hiding the knives among his mother’s herbs before going in for supper. Tonight, when everyone was in bed, he would come back for them—one for him, and one for Neil. Just in case the men were wrong.

“Father said to save him a bowl of stew and some bread,” Jonmarc answered his mother’s unspoken question as he let the door close behind him. The others were already seated at the table, and his mother was ladling hot stew into bowls.

“I can’t promise it’ll be warm,” his mother replied, but a smile tempered the crispness of her words. “I guess it can stay in the pot until he comes in.”

“Did you see the people from the caravan?” Neil asked excitedly. “I heard they stopped in town to buy provisions.”

“Were they dressed fancy? Did any of them sing?” Piers questioned.

Dalia laughed. “Yes, yes and no. Yes, there were caravan people in town, and yes, they were dressed fancier than anyone in these parts. But no, no one sang. Or danced, or juggled or paraded strange wild animals down the street.” She smiled. “At least, not today.”

“Tomorrow?” Piers asked, eyes wide. “Or the day after?”

Dalia chuckled and towseled his hair. “Perhaps. Today they came to trade for dried herbs, brined vegetables and some of my nice warm woolen cloaks,” she said with a grin.

“Did they pay gold for the cloaks?” Neil asked.

“Not gold,” their mother replied, “but silver. Look!” She put her hand into the pouch that hung at her waist and withdrew four silver pieces, each stamped with the likeness of King Bricen. “And I think I overheard one of the strangers saying that the caravan would set up out in the clearing beyond Dewson’s farm. That’s halfway between here and Ebbetshire, on the main road, so they probably figure on a good audience. No doubt they’ll send a crier to let both towns and every tavern in the area know.”

“Can we go?” Neil, Piers, and Marty begged in unison. “Please?”

“Sounds like smart business,” Jonmarc said over a mouthful of stew. “Spend their coin in town, then get all the townspeople to give them the money back to come see the show.”

Dalia shook her head and muttered, “Tsk, tsk. You have a head for business, just like your father and me. And you’re right, of course, but where’s the fun in that? The last time a caravan came by, it was quite an adventure, as I recall.”

Jonmarc snorted. “Piers almost blundered into the knifethrower’s act, a stray goat ate Neil’s lunch while he was watching the jugglers, and Marty wandered off and tried to tell people he was a prince.”

“I was named for a prince!” Marty piped up. “Mama said so.” Excitement over the birth of King Bricen’s youngest son five years ago had reached even the far-off Borderlands, and the young prince’s name, Martris, had instantly become so popular that it seemed to Jonmarc that it was impossible to meet a group of small boys without half of them being named for the prince.

“You and every other boy your age,” Neil muttered. Dalia cuffed him gently.

“Hush,” She commanded, and turned to Marty. “Yes, you were, sweetie.” Marty stuck out his tongue at his older brother.

Dalia sighed and ate a few bites of her dinner before responding. “It depends on what your father gets for those swords he forged for the constable. If they fetch what they should, there might be a few coppers to go see the caravan.” Piers and Marty cheered, but Jonmarc dug into his food, still thinking about the rumors of raiders. As the others talked about the curiosities that might be seen if they went out to the caravan, he finished his stew and then pushed away from the table.

“I’d better go help father,” Jonmarc said.

Dalia gave him a questioning look. “It’s not like you to skip seconds,” she observed with an appraising glance Jonmarc knew was usually the precursor to her putting a hand to his forehead to check for fever or dosing him with one of her many medicinal teas to ward off ill humours.

“I’m fine,” Jonmarc replied, ducking out of reach. “Father just looked like he could use a hand, and maybe if I go help out, he can eat before the pot boils dry.”

Dalia nodded, though he saw skepticism in her eyes. “That’s good of you,” she replied. She turned to the others. “Neil, go fetch some firewood from what you cut, we’re running low. Piers and Marty, I need you to card the rest of that wool. Be quick about it, all of you, and I could be persuaded to give you some of the sugared nuts I made,” she added with a crafty smile. The three boys sprang to their chores as Jonmarc let himself out the kitchen door.

Outside, the air was crisp as late summer gave way to autumn. There was no moon to light his way, but he knew the path well enough. The night was filled with the chirps of crickets and the moans of frogs singing their final choruses. Soon the cold would silence them as the year wound toward winter. Jonmarc tried to bump himself out of his melancholy by thinking about the festivals to come in the fall, of bonfires and harvest feasts and the merrymaking that accompanied the solstice at Winterstide. Yet as he reached the warm, firelit haven of the forge, he was only partly successful.

Anselm looked up. “Done with dinner already?”

Jonmarc shrugged. “I ate. Figured you could use some help.”

If Anselm could guess the cause of Jonmarc’s moodiness, he said nothing about it. “That I can,” he said. He plunged the hot bar of metal he had been working into a bucket of water, and a cloud of steam rose in a hiss. “I’m almost ready to put this by for the night. Give me a hand bringing in some coal for the morning and putting the tools on the table, and we can go up.”

Jonmarc hurried to do as he was bid as Anselm banked the fire. The two swords caught Jonmarc’s eye as he was setting tools back in their proper place, and he ran a finger down the smooth, cold flat of one of the blades.

“They’re both beauties, if I say so myself,” Anselm murmured, standing behind him. “Some of my best work, I think.”

“I want to learn to forge swords like these,” Jonmarc said.

“Keep at it, and you will,” Anselm replied. “Go on, pick one up, but mind you don’t swing it around. It’s been sharpened.”

Jonmarc grasped one of the broadswords and let his hand close around the grip. He lifted it, marveling at how wellbalanced it felt. He turned it so that the firelight glinted off the blade, and he caught a glimpse of his own distorted reflection in the polished steel. He extended his arm, pointing the blade.

“No, no. Not like that.” Anselm stepped closer. “Put your feet so,” he said, kicking at Jonmarc’s heels until he adjusted his stance, “and hold your arm thus,” he added, reaching around Jonmarc’s shoulder to position his arm. “There. That’s how to hold a sword.”

Jonmarc stared at the glittering steel. “You learned in the army, didn’t you?”

Anselm gave a heavy sigh. “Aye. And I like forging swords more than fighting with them, to be damn sure. War’s a business for fools and madmen.”

Jonmarc let his arm fall and returned the sword to the table. “All I get to make are barrel hoops, shovels and bridles.”

“They’re good, honest pieces,” Anselm said, and his large, heavy bear-paw of a hand clapped Jonmarc on the shoulder. “No shame in that. If we didn’t need the money, I’d just as soon turn down orders for swords.”

“Why?”

Anselm did not answer right away. His left hand rested on the grip of the nearest sword and his expression grew distant. There was a haunted look in his father’s eyes that Jonmarc had rarely glimpsed before. “I wonder, sometimes, how the Lady sees it,” he murmured. “All the blood that sword will spill, and mine the hand that forged it. Will it count against me, I wonder, when the Crone reckons my fate?” He shook himself, as if to change his mood.

“No more of that,” he huffed, turning away. “We’re done here for tonight. Let’s go eat.” He headed for the path, but Jonmarc cast a last glance at the swords, still thinking about his father’s words.

L
ATE THAT NIGHT
, screams broke the midnight silence. Jonmarc roused from his uneasy sleep to see Neil sitting up in bed, his hand closed around the boning knife.

“What was that?” Neil asked in a tight voice. “Please say it’s cats fighting.”

More screams, along with thumping and banging that echoed in the room. Piers and Marty woke with a start, and Marty began to sniffle. “Hush,” Piers cautioned, handing a blanket to his brother to hold. “Get under the covers and don’t come out until we say so.”

By now, Jonmarc and Neil were on their feet, knives in hand. Piers looked from one to the other. “I heard you talking earlier, when you thought I wasn’t listening,” he said. He reached below his bed and brought out the axe Neil used to cut wood. He was pale and his eyes were wide with fear. He gripped the oversized axe with both hands, and Jonmarc could see that the blade was trembling.

“Put that down before you cut off your own leg,” Jonmarc said. “You and Neil need to stay here, protect Marty and mother. Maybe you can hide down in the dugout where mother keeps the vegetables. I’ll go help father.”

He heard the door open and slam as more cries echoed on the night air. Jonmarc bounded for the door and took the steps at a run.

“Jonmarc! Where are you going! Oh goddess, why do you have a knife?” Dalia stood near the doorway clutching a woolen shawl around her, and Jonmarc thought his mother looked as if she had aged a decade just since supper.

Piers and Neil followed cautiously down the stairs, with Marty edging behind them, still holding tight to the blanket. Dalia gasped as she saw that the two older boys were armed. “By the Crone! Have you all gone mad? Put those knives down right now!”

Jonmarc stepped to the door and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “If it’s raiders, it’s wise to be able to protect ourselves,” he said, marveling that his voice held steady when he was trembling. “Please, mama. Go to the vegetable cellar. Stay safe.”

A fierce glint came into Dalia’s eyes. “And let those sons of the Whore burn my house down around me? Your father and I worked too hard to build what we’ve got. They won’t take it from me while I cower in a hole in the ground.” She snatched up a butcher’s knife from the kitchen.

“Go to your father, Jonmarc. He’s often got more courage than good sense. See to it that he comes home safely, both of you.” Delia gave a sidelong look at the other boys. “The rest of you, stay with me.” She pulled Jonmarc close enough to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll pray to the Dark Lady for your safety.”

The door slammed behind Jonmarc, and he strode off before his fear could stop him. After a few steps, he veered off toward the forge, only to find it deserted. One of the swords Anselm had forged was gone. Jonmarc shoved the knife he carried through his belt and grabbed the remaining sword, then took off at a run toward the commotion in the village center.

The shrill screams of women had woken him from sleep, but men’s curses carried on the wind now, along with the clang of steel. Long after the night’s fires should have been banked, the village glowed with firelight, and as Jonmarc grew closer, he realized that many of the buildings were ablaze.

He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. The main street in the village of Lunsbetter held two taverns, an open market where farmers, butchers and traders gathered, and shops of tradesmen: cooper, chandler, and tailor. Flames rose from the thatched roofs of the shops, but no bucket brigades ran to fight the fires. Down the muddy main street, rough strangers fought an unequal battle against townsmen armed with kitchen knives and garden tools.

Jonmarc edged forward, and his boot kicked something solid. He looked down to see the body of the sheriff lying splayed on the ground, his gut split open from crotch to ribs, so freshly dead that his blood and spilled innards still steamed in the cold.

Jonmarc collapsed against the wall, heaving for breath, willing himself not to retch.
Pretend it’s a just a goat,
he told himself as he gulped air.
Pretend you’re butchering.
He found the cold place inside himself, the place he had learned to go when he helped his father slaughter livestock, where he did not feel and where the death shrieks did not make him tremble.

After a moment, he gathered his courage and moved forward again, avoiding the sheriff’s corpse, until he could see the fighting in the street. He searched for any sign of his father. Bodies littered the rutted road.
Please don’t let him be among the dead
.

“Looking for a fight, laddie?” A large man with a wild, dark beard lurched in front of him. The man’s hard-used, mismatched clothing was splattered with blood and the long, wicked blade of his sword was crimson. His arms were covered in crude inked images, and around his neck on a piece of leather swung small talismans and charms. One of them was a star of bones, the symbol of the Formless One, the most feared of all the Aspects of the Lady.

Jonmarc backed up a pace, but he held his sword in front of him with both hands. “I’m looking for my father.”

The raider’s smile revealed broken, mottled teeth. “Then you’d best look among the dead. The men here are soft. Not a one of them knows how to fight.”

The raider dove forward and on instinct, Jonmarc brought his blade up to block the blow. The force of it reverberated down his arm, jarring him to the bone, but he held onto the grip with all his strength. The man chuckled, then swung once more, and his time, the point of his sword opened a deep gash on Jonmarc’s shoulder.

“I’m going to split you open like a pig, boy,” the man said, chuckling. “Spill your guts out onto your shoes and let you drag them home with you,” he laughed.

Once more, the raider swung at him. Jonmarc could smell whiskey on the man’s breath, but it did not blunt the raider’s aim. The sword slashed for his throat, but Jonmarc managed to get his blade up and parry the swing to the side so that it sliced open his other shoulder, but the force of the blow knocked the weapon from his hand.

All trace of humor was gone from the raider’s face. “Next time, I won’t miss, laddie.”

Jonmarc saw the sword glint in the firelight. He ducked and dove, rolling. As the large man began to lumber around, Jonmarc yanked the butcher knife free from his belt and slashed it across the back of the raider’s knees. The man gave a hoarse cry of pain, then screamed curses as his useless legs buckled under him. Jonmarc darted forward and slammed his foot down on the man’s hand, kicking his sword out of reach.