Authors: Gail Z. Martin
The Shadowed Path (5 page)
Jonmarc nodded, and forced down a lump in his throat. “We can hope.”
T
HE RAIDERS CAME
by the dark of the moon. The sentries in the boat raised the alarm before the raiders’ ship angled their sails to ram the smaller craft and send its sailors to the bottom of the bay. The watchers in the tower rang bells in warning, and the town’s crier ran through the streets beating on a tin pot to rouse Ebbetshire’s citizens from their sleep.
Jonmarc stood shoulder to shoulder with the town’s men on the shore road, between Kell and Tucker. A month of Elly’s healing had put right his injuries, though he wondered if the nightmares would ever leave him. Working with Tucker in the forge had renewed his strength. Now, he waited, his hand clenched on the grip of his father’s sword.
“They’re taking their sweet time,” Kell growled. “They don’t seem to care that we know they’re coming.”
“They want us to be afraid,” Jonmarc replied, feeling his heart pound. “They’re certain we’ll lose. It’s a game to them.”
“We’ll see if the arrangements we’ve made will hold them off,” Kell said grimly. “If not, it’s been nice knowing you.”
Five boats emerged in the faint glow the men’s torches cast across the black water. Each boat, to Jonmarc’s eye, held at least fifteen raiders, a number that could easily overpower the adult men of most small towns. One of the village’s scouts ran up behind Kell and whispered in his ear. Kell nodded.
“Just as we thought—there’s more of them coming in from the side. They mean to flank us.” Kell reported quietly.
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Tucker murmured. “Let’s get the waiting over with.”
Jonmarc scanned the shadowy shapes of the raiders looking for one man: Whiskey Voice. He shifted and let his left hand fall to the knife hilt in a sheath at his side. This time, he wouldn’t be surprised. This time, he was ready.
The townsmen held their line at the edge of the shore where the ground gave them firm footing and the forest’s edge forced the raiders up an open approach. Their torches gleamed in the darkness, lighting the way, making certain that the raiders knew they would not take this town without a fight.
There he is
, Jonmarc thought.
Whiskey Voice.
The leader of the raiders strode up the beach as his men fanned out beside him, shouting to his men. The sea wind shifted, and Jonmarc caught the smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, and whiskey. He fought down flashes of memory from that other night, forcing himself to focus on the enemy that was nearly upon them. Down their line of volunteer defenders, Jonmarc heard men stirring as the tension became unbearable, but every man held his position and kept to his orders.
“Look at this,” Whiskey Voice said to the raider beside him, loud enough for his words to carry. “They’ve made it easy for us. Now we don’t have to drag them from their beds to put a knife through them.”
Jonmarc could feel anger and adrenaline surging through his body, but he held his place, awaiting Kell’s signal.
Whiskey Voice’s taunts grew more graphic and obscene the closer he and his men got to the villagers. Yet their silence seemed to rattle him, Jonmarc thought.
Just wait…
The raiders were almost upon them, and Jonmarc could hear murmurings among the men behind Whiskey Voice. Their stillness, their silence, and their suicidal stalwartness took the edge off the raiders’ bravado.
They want us to fear them,
Jonmarc thought.
They need to see our fear.
“I’ll give you something to make you move!” Whiskey Voice roared. He raised his sword and began to run toward the line.
Before the raiders could take two running steps, the twang of bows filled the still night air. A hail of arrows fell from both the right and the left, where archers waited hidden in the cover of the forest.
“Now!” Kell shouted.
With a feral cry, Jonmarc and the others broke their line, swords raised, rushing toward the attackers. At least a dozen raiders lay bleeding in the sand, arrows protruding from their bodies.
“With me!” Whiskey Voice rallied his surviving raiders. Rage reddened his features as he realized that he might lose both his profit and his sport.
Ebbetshire’s men were not swordsmen, but they knew how to wield the tools of their trade. The long reach of the farmers’ scythes made it possible to keep the raiders’ swords at bay while sweeping a deadly arc at their ankles and knees. Bertrand the butcher and his five stocky sons swung their cleavers with the certainty of men who knew how to cut up animals much larger than any of the raiders in their way. Beside Jonmarc, Tucker had forgone swords for the sheer brute force of a rod of iron and a sledgehammer.
In the distance, Jonmarc could hear more fighting, and he guessed that the men in the forest had intercepted Whiskey Voice’s reinforcements. Whiskey Voice seemed to guess it, too, because his eyes narrowed with the look of a cornered animal.
“If we can’t have what we came for, we’ll take them all to the Crone with us!” Whiskey Voice shouted, laying about himself with his broadsword. His blade cleaved one of the townsmen from shoulder to hip, but three more villagers came at him with a ferocity that drove him back a few paces.
Much as Jonmarc hungered for a chance to settle the score with Whiskey Voice, he had his own problems. He had drawn the attention of one of the raiders who now circled him like a cat toying with a doomed mouse.
“I’ll kill you quick, boy, if you don’t struggle.”
The voice sent a new surge of fury through Jonmarc as he recognized the thin raider as the reedy-toned man, Whiskey Voice’s second-in-command.
“That’s what you said the last time,” Jonmarc said through clenched teeth.
The raider charged at him, but Jonmarc deflected the blade. He struggled to keep himself on solid ground, doing his best to drive the raider back into the sand. The raider laughed, drawing a second blade from behind him, coming at Jonmarc in a flurry of steel.
Jonmarc readied his sword, drawing his own knife. He caught the sword’s stroke against his own long blade, feeling the jolt shudder down his whole body. Just in time, he struck back at the raider’s second blow, missing the worst of it but taking a gash on his forearm.
The raider was stronger than his wiry frame suggested, and the next few strikes pounded him with such speed and rage that Jonmarc was certain he was about to die. It was all he could do to beat back the blows, forcing the blades clear of his chest and belly, accepting the bloody gashes that opened on his shoulders and arms.
Jonmarc slashed himself clear and fell back a pace, holding his sword level with his attacker’s heart, unsure he could hold off another such salvo. The wiry raider chuckled and grinned, anticipating the kill. Then to Jonmarc’s astonishment, there was a swish of air, a shadow there and gone, and the raider stiffened, eyes rolling back in his head. Before Jonmarc could move, the raider was hoisted into the air by a power yet unseen, and thrown with force against Jonmarc’s outstretched sword.
Blood cascaded down the raider’s head, which looked oddly angled. More blood seeped from his chest as he slid haltingly down Jonmarc’s blade, sagging against the steel; a dead weight.
“That’s one for you!” Tucker stood behind the raider, and raised his sledgehammer in salute.
Jonmarc dumped the body from his sword and stepped over the dead raider. “That’s for father,” he muttered.
Two more raiders came at them, and there was no more time to talk. Jonmarc and Tucker found themselves fighting back to back amid the bloody chaos. The sand at Jonmarc’s feet was slick with blood and bodies littered the beach. Still, it looked as if more villagers were standing than raiders, and their allies in the forest appeared to have made good on their promise to keep any reinforcements from appearing.
Across the way, Jonmarc glimpsed Kell still on his feet, fighting off a raider who looked to be getting the worst of the match. The butcher and his sons, covered in blood, moved like a lethal wall down the beach. No new boats had come across the water from the sailing ship, and the fight had moved so that the townsmen blocked the raiders from reaching their boats had they been inclined to retreat.
The same coldness Jonmarc felt on the night of the attack in Lunsbetter settled over him once more. It quelled his fear, hardened his heart against the cries of dying men, and narrowed his focus. Without distractions, nothing existed except the sword in his hand. Jonmarc had no illusions about his skill with a sword. He fought on sheer instinct, fueled by rage and grief, hungry for vengeance. What he lacked in technique he made up for with an unpredictability that got him inside the guard of more than one raider. Blood soaked his shirt, his own blood and that of the raiders he killed.
“You should have stayed dead.” Whiskey Voice seemed to rise out of nowhere from the torch smoke, his blade glinting in the firelight. “I’ve already killed you once.”
Moving before Jonmarc could react, Whiskey Voice struck, stabbing deep into Tucker’s side. Tucker gasped and swung his iron bar in a wide arc, connecting with Whiskey Voice’s shoulder hard enough that Jonmarc could hear bones snap.
Jonmarc saw his chance in the instant before the raider could free his sword. He brought both his blades down in a ‘V’, striking with all his might, feeling his sword slice through bone and sinew and muscle. For a split second, Whiskey Voice stared at him in astonishment before his severed head toppled from his shoulders and his body landed with a wet thump at Jonmarc’s feet.
When he looked up, the beach had cleared. Of the men still standing, none were raiders. The butcher and his sons moved among the dead, dispatching the fallen attackers with cold efficiency. Shadows moved at the edge of the forest and Jonmarc tensed, raising his bloodied swords for another onslaught before he recognized the uniforms of the soldiers from the garrison.
“There’ll be no reinforcements coming this way,” proclaimed a man wearing the insignia of a captain in the royal army as he strode toward Kell. His uniform was spattered with blood, but he appeared to be unharmed.
“The bulk of the raiders landed on either side, planning to cut behind you,” the captain went on as he surveyed the bodies that littered the beach. “While this group kept you distracted, the others would have had the village in their hands before you could do anything about it.”
Distracted,
Jonmarc thought, eying the dead men on the ground.
That’s one word for it.
“Thanks for your assistance, Captain Duncan,” Kell said as the soldiers gathered behind their commander. “I wasn’t sure, when we sent the runner to the garrison, whether you’d be willing to bother with a village like Ebbetshire.”
The captain spared him a weary grin. “I dare say the king will be happy to hear that at least one pack of raiders has been dealt with.” He looked toward the water, where several teams of soldiers were rowing the raiders’ landing boats back toward the sailing ship. “When my men are done with whoever’s on board,” he said, “we’ll steer her into open water and burn her down to the waterline. That should give fair warning to anyone else who thinks to prey on the coast.”
Kell and the captain moved away, concluding their business. Jonmarc looked down at the crimson-stained swords in his hands and the wide-eyed visage of Whiskey Voice’s severed head. He had lost track of the raiders he had killed, and his father’s voice rang in his memory.
Will it count against me, I wonder, when the Crone reckons my fate?
Tucker’s heavy bear-paw of a hand landed on his shoulder. “You did well tonight, m’boy.”
“I got lucky.”
“Maybe the goddess likes you,” Tucker replied. “We’ve had the favor of the Lady tonight, that’s sure.”
Jonmarc thought of the raider who had cursed him with his dying words, and of his father, who feared the judgment of the Crone.
I’m in too far to turn back now,
he thought, looking down at his bloody hands. He raised his face to meet Tucker’s gaze.
“If the raiders come again, I want to be ready,” he replied. “Teach me to fight.”
“I’
M SORRY THAT
you’ll be moving on so soon. You’re a good customer.” Jonmarc Vahanian pocketed the silver coins for the load he had delivered. Forged iron and steel—bits and bridles, barrel hoops, rims for wagon wheels, and a variety of tools lay in bundles where the caravan workers had unloaded Jonmarc’s wagon. Next to them lay a smaller pile of dried herbs, bottled potions, and powders that he delivered from the village hedge witch.
“Tucker’s a fine blacksmith—and a smart man to have such a good apprentice.” Maynard Linton, caravan master and traveling entertainer, put his velvet money bag inside his tunic. Linton eyed Jonmarc as if sizing him up. “You’re Anselm’s son, aren’t you? Sorry to hear about your father.”
Two years had passed since raiders destroyed Jonmarc’s village, killing his family and the rest of the villagers. Jonmarc had been the sole survivor, and the thought of that awful night still put a lump in his throat. “Thanks,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
“I used to do business with your father when we passed this way,” Linton continued. “It’s a shame what happened. You’re lucky to find a master like Tucker. And if you learned anything from your old man, Tucker’s got himself a good deal.”
‘Lucky’ wasn’t the word Jonmarc would have normally chosen to describe himself, but he let it go. “What will you pay for the bits I brought you?” Jonmarc asked, nodding toward a canvas sack next to the forged items.
Linton opened the sack and poured out its contents onto the flat of the wagon. Old coins, copper jewelry tarnished with age, small carved statues, and other trinkets spilled onto the worn wood. Linton eyed them, then nodded and put them back in the sack.
“I’ll give you twenty coppers for them,” Linton said, withdrawing the coins from his pouch. “Things like these sell well in Principality. Soldiers are a suspicious lot. They hold with charms and talismans. These’ll do just fine.” He gave a sideways glance toward Jonmarc. “Does Tucker know you’ve been going into the caves?”
Jonmarc looked away. “Tuck’s a businessman. He knows how hard it is to get by these days.” A poor harvest for the last two seasons meant fewer travelers and fewer visits from merchant ships for the towns in Margolan’s Borderlands. “We grow what we can and barter for what we can’t, but the king wants coin for taxes.” He paused. “How long will you be staying on in these parts?”
Linton shrugged. He was stout with broad shoulders and a restless energy about him that made people clear a path in front of him. His skin had darkened to a coppery leather tan from seasons spent out of doors. His waistcoat was brocade with velvet trim and his boots were of a sort favored by the gentry, but Jonmarc noticed both the waistcoat and boots had seen hard wear.
Linton’s caravan was one of several that came through the Borderlands at odd intervals, setting up camp in a clearing on the outskirts of town. For the villagers, used to fisherman, tradesman and farmers, it was the most excitement to be had. The horses, brightly painted wagons, tents and flags, and dozens of oddly-dressed performers were quite a sight. Locals streamed in to see the acrobats and wild animals, sample unusual food, and buy trinkets from the artisans who traveled with the show. Linton’s caravan was one of the more impressive ones Jonmarc had seen, looking more like a troupe of entertainers than a pack of vagrants.
“It all depends, m’boy,” he replied. “We’ll see how the farmers and town folk pay to see our shows and buy our wares.”
Jonmarc grimaced. At seventeen, he was not a boy anymore, and Linton, who looked to be in his early thirties, was hardly of an age to set himself up as an elder. “And after this?”
Linton chuckled. “Wherever the road takes us,” he said. “We had a good run in the palace city for the harvest festivals, but I’d like to be in Principality by Winterstide, if not before.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Principality is where all the mercenaries make camp when they’re not on campaign. And there’s no one who’s more like to spend gold on drink, women, and amusement than a bunch of holed-up mercs!”
Linton paused and gave Jonmarc a sidelong glance. “You know, if you’re ever of a mind to see the world, I’ve got plenty of work for a good blacksmith. Takes one man just to keep the horses shod! My people get a tent to sleep in and food to eat, and enough coin to keep them in ale, that’s for certain.”
Jonmarc shook his head. “I don’t think Tucker would be too pleased at that,” he said. “And besides, my wife’s due any day now with our first born. Her mother’s a hedge witch and a healer—she’d like as not put boils on me if I tried a stunt like running off with a caravan.”
Linton clapped him on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first to join under those circumstances,” he said. “But I applaud your loyalty, though I’m not a family man myself. Get on then,” he said, making a gesture with both hands meant to shoo Jonmarc back to his wagon. “I’ll see you around, if the Dark Lady brings us back to these roads again.”
Just then, shouts and loud cries rose from the center of the caravan, where cages held wild animals from all over the Winter Kingdoms. The center of the caravan’s camp had bustled with people just moments before, but now the crowd parted to clear a path as the panicked shouts continued.
“By the Crone’s tits!” Linton blustered, planting himself in the center of the opened space. “What’s going on?”
Jonmarc spotted a dark form bounding toward them. Rippling with muscles under a sleek, dark coat of fur, the predator cat covered the ground as swiftly as a horse. The big cat growled, baring its sharp fangs, and ran straight for Linton.
The dark cat was on Linton almost before the caravan master could draw his sword. Linton let out a hoarse cry as he slashed at the cat. The crowd was backing away, and it was clear to Jonmarc that despite all the shouting, no help was on its way. Jonmarc looked around desperately, berating himself for leaving his swords in the wagon. He grabbed two of the heavy bridles he had delivered to Linton, and swung them with all his might at the cat that pinned Linton on the ground.
The steel in the first bridle slammed into the cat’s head, knocking the big animal to the side. A cheer went up from the crowd, but they got no closer to the fight. The cat growled at Jonmarc, momentarily forgetting the prey beneath it. The second bridle hit, opening a bloody gash by the wild cat’s ear. Jonmarc backed up, his heart racing, wondering if his damn fool plan would actually work.
The cat began to stalk him, and Jonmarc drew him off, giving Linton time to scramble to his feet. Jonmarc never took his eyes from the cat. The predator stepped up its pace, no longer walking but not yet at a full run. Jonmarc swung the bridle again, and the cat slowed warily.
The cat tensed to lunge just as a silver streak gleamed in the air, and the animal fell to the side, with the hilt of a dagger protruding from its fur. Jonmarc looked up to see Linton, his clothes torn and bloodied, ready with a second throwing knife.
When the cat lay still, Linton waved to several nearby caravan handlers who grudgingly responded. “Tie it up and get it to a healer. It’s too damn hard to find cats like that to lose him now. And make sure he stays in his cage this time!” Linton growled.
Jonmarc had not moved. His heart was still pounding, and now that the fight was done, he felt his hands shaking. Linton strode up to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“That was fast thinking,” Linton said. Up close, Jonmarc could see where the big cat’s claws had gashed Linton’s shoulder.
“What was that thing?” Jonmarc asked, watching as the men tied up the wounded animal, which still had enough fight to snap at them until one of them looped a muzzle over its nose and chin.
“
Stawar
. You don’t usually see one in these parts, but they’re native to Eastmark,” Linton replied. “They’re the symbol of the Eastmark royal family, so it’s highly illegal to remove one from the kingdom. I paid a pretty coin to smuggle that one out, and I’ll not lose my investment! Thank you,” Linton said, meeting Jonmarc’s gaze. “That took balls—more than any of my whore-spawned performers had, that’s for certain.”
Jonmarc shrugged. “I’d hate to lose my best customer.”
Linton guffawed. “Customer, indeed! You ever decide to see the world, I’ll have a place for you, and that’s a promise.”
J
ONMARC DROVE THE
empty wagon back to Ebbetshire alert for highwaymen. The trip had taken longer than he expected, and it was growing dark. Shanna would be worried about him. Shadows were already falling on the mountains just beyond town, and Jonmarc spared a glance for the high cliffs. In bright sunlight, you could just make out the dark places that marked the largest of the cave openings. But Jonmarc knew there were hundreds of others, many of them hidden or barely large enough for a man to enter. Places where long ago, the first people to settle this land had buried their dead.
It was their long-forgotten graves Jonmarc looted.
He hadn’t set out to be a grave robber. It began with an off-handed remark from Linton about how much money one of his merchants had gotten for an old bit of jewelry. Intrigued, Jonmarc had stopped by the merchant’s stall and recognized his wares were like the forgotten bits that littered the caves where he had gone exploring as a boy. Ever since then, Jonmarc had brought what he could find along with him when he traded iron and herbs, and Linton was happy to pay him for the odd pieces.
The dead don’t care, and the living need to eat
, Jonmarc thought.
His horse whinnied and stopped abruptly. Ahead on the road, Jonmarc saw a dark form in the shadows. He drew his knife. “Get out of my way, or I’ll ride you down.”
The figure took a few steps closer, moving out of the shadows and into the moonlight. Now, Jonmarc could see it was a man in a dark cloak with a hood that hid his face. “Who are you?” Jonmarc demanded.
“My name is Foor Arontala. I have a business offer for you, Jonmarc Vahanian.”
Jonmarc’s grip tightened on his knife. “How do you know my name?”
The figure chuckled. “You’re the one who sells trinkets to the caravan. There’s an item I’d like you to retrieve from the caves for me. I’ll pay you well for it.” The man lowered his hood. He had long, dark hair and a pale face with fine, aristocratic features.
“How well?”
“Three gold pieces. That should make it worth the effort.”
Three gold pieces were more than most village men would see for years of work. Jonmarc nodded, but did not lower his knife. “Say on.”
“I’m looking for a talisman,” the man said. “Nothing most people would value, but it’s of interest to me. It’s very old. If you’ll accept the job, I can tell you where to find it.”
“If you know where it is, why don’t you get it yourself?”
The man chuckled, and as his lips parted, Jonmarc could see the points of his long eye teeth. V
ayash moru
, Jonmarc thought, and a chill ran through him. “The lowest, oldest areas of the caves are spelled against my kind. But mortals may pass without harm.”
“That’s it? I go into the caves and bring back the talisman? Then what?” Common sense told Jonmarc he should snap the reins and ride on. Practicality made him stay. The last harvest had been poor, and the villagers had little coin to spend. Money had been too scarce over the last few years to turn down such a good prospect, and with a baby due any day and Shanna’s mother also depending on their earnings, Jonmarc could not make himself turn away. Tucker was a good master and he paid Jonmarc his promised wage, but there had been weeks when business was bad enough that they had all gotten by on cabbage and leeks and a few rabbits poached from the king’s forest. “Then I pay you,” the man replied. “Handsomely.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Jonmarc said. The stranger came closer, and Jonmarc’s horse shied. The man held out a folded piece of parchment.
“These are the directions. Show them to no one else. They are spelled for your eyes alone.”
Jonmarc’s suspicion that the stranger was a mage deepened. “How will I find you?”
“I’ll find you,” the man said. “In three days, I’ll come for the talisman at twelfth bells. Have it ready. I will be most unhappy if you do not have it for me when I arrive.” He gave an unpleasant smile, and this time, Jonmarc was certain it was to make sure he saw the
vayash moru’s
fangs.
“Understood,” Jonmarc replied, but his gut clenched.
Sweet Mother and Childe! What have I gotten myself into?
Jonmarc blinked, and the stranger was gone. He shivered, but it had nothing to do with the evening chill. He snapped the reins and sent the horse into a fast trot, and only his pride and the certainty that the dark stranger was watching from the shadows kept him from a full gallop.
S
HANNA WAS WAITING
for him when he came in from putting the wagon away and seeing to the horse. “I was beginning to worry,” she said, smiling. “There’s some stew left in the pot. I kept it warm for you.” Her dark blonde hair was tied back with a bit of cloth, and her cheeks were pink from the warmth of the cooking fire. One hand fell to her swollen belly, and she smiled. “I felt the baby kick again. He’s going to be a fine blacksmith, I wager!”
Shanna chuckled and helped him out of his coat. “We’ll have to wait and see now, won’t we?” Her smile faded as she watched him. “Did something go wrong? Didn’t you get the coin the caravan master promised?”
Jonmarc ladled some stew into a bowl and sat down at the table, ripping off a chunk of bread from the loaf that lay in the center. “Linton always keeps his word. He paid everything he said he would.” He took out a pouch of coins and laid them on the table. “I’ll take them to Tuck in the morning.”
Shanna came to sit on the opposite side of the table. “What about the bits from the cave?”
Jonmarc withdrew a second pouch and dropped it onto the wood so that the coins jangled. “Twenty coppers. Not bad for odd rubbish just moldering in the cliffside.”
Shanna made the sign of the Lady in warding. “You know how I feel about you going into the caves. There’s a reason they’re forbidden. They’re haunted.”
