The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Jonmarc took a hesitant step toward the corpse, fearing it might rise from its slumber to defend itself. When nothing happened, he carefully made his way to stand beside the dead warrior, and looked at the body with amazement. He said this tomb was spelled against vayash moru, Jonmarc thought. Perhaps the mages also cast a spell to preserve the dead.

  Along with the map, the stranger’s parchment contained a sketch of the item Jonmarc was to retrieve. It was a flat silver medallion on a leather strap with several runes scratched into its surface. Jonmarc looked more closely at the warrior’s corpse. Whoever he had been, the man had died wealthy. His cloak was held together by a silver clasp, and golden rings set with jewels glistened from several pale fingers. A chalice and ewer of gold lay beside him, and a large medal with a blood-red stone hung from his neck on a golden chain.

  What could possibly be so valuable about a little silver disk compared to the fortune in gold he’s wearing? Jonmarc wondered. He moved cautiously around the bier, still expecting the dead man to rise up and challenge him at any moment. I don’t want to touch him. And I really don’t want to go riffling through his pockets.

  Almost hidden by the leather cuirass and the gold chain of the medallion, Jonmarc spied a thin leather strap around the dead man’s neck. Gingerly, he reached out toward the body, fearing that any second the man’s eyes would open and a hand would reach up to grab him by the wrist. His fingers touched the stiff old leather and he tugged, drawing it up from beneath the clothing. The silver medallion gleamed in the lantern light, untarnished by the years, preserved, Jonmarc guessed, by the same magic that sustained the appearance of the corpse.

  He cringed as he drew the thin leather strap over the warrior’s head, and sighed with relief when it was free in his grasp. Compared to the value of the dead man’s medals and other belongings, the silver talisman looked roughly made and of insignificant value. Why would anyone ask me to steal something that looks like a child could have etched it? he wondered.

  Jonmarc closed his fist around the talisman, then dropped the leather strap over his head and tucked the silver disk beneath his shirt. All around him, the shadows had grown darker, and a growing presence was impossible to ignore. Though Jonmarc could not see the spirits, he knew they were close, watching him. And though he possessed no magic, three words pushed into his consciousness.

  Beware the beasts.

  Jonmarc left the crypt as quickly as he could, banging his shoulder against the rough stone side of the doorway in his hurry. His boot steps echoed in the empty tunnels, and had he dared, he would have broken into a run. He imagined that the spirits in the darkness behind him laughed at his haste. The footing was too uncertain and the tunnels too narrow for him to run without risking a turned ankle or worse. Jonmarc could hear his heartbeat reverberating in the dark tunnel, and the sound of his own shallow breaths seemed deafening.

  Twice he fell, rising with bloodied palms and scraped knees, protecting his lantern at the cost of his skin. The orb of light swung crazily, sending shadows flying back and forth across the tunnel walls. Jonmarc did not slow down until the cave entrance came into sight. The sky was already growing lighter, and Jonmarc realized that it was almost dawn.

  Bruised and exhausted, he made his way back home.

  He tumbled into bed next to Shanna, who was fast asleep, to catch a few candlemarks of precious rest before it would be time to go to the forge. As he drifted off, he wondered again about the stranger on the road, and the warning of the ghosts in the crypt. His sleep was restless, and his dreams were dark.

  JONMARC WOKE WITH a start, troubled by bad dreams. He reached for the talisman on the strap around his neck, and touched the metal disk to assure himself that the night before had really happened. Although the disk lay against his skin, it was strangely cool to the touch.

  He dressed quickly, chagrinned at the damage he had done to his pants and shirt getting out of the cave. One knee was out, the other pant leg was ripped, and a sleeve was nearly torn off. His boots were missing.

  “Have you seen my boots?” he asked, glad he had taken a moment to wash up in the horse trough the night before.

  Shanna was scooping hot gruel from a pan on the hearth. “Your boots stink. They’re out on the step. I don’t know what you trod in, but it’s worse than horse shit.”

  “Sorry,” Jonmarc mumbled.

  “Were you in a fight?” Shanna set the bowl down in front of him and stood back, hands on her hips. Her stance accentuated her rounded belly, and reminded Jonmarc that it would only be a few days before she would likely go into labor.

  “No fight,” Jonmarc said, remembering the terror of the night before. “I was just in too much of a hurry to get out of those damned caves, and I made a mess of things.”

  “Humph.” Shanna’s expression was skeptical, as if she suspected he was omitting part of the story. She sighed and then smiled. “Well, it’s nothing that a few patches and a little thread can’t put right. You don’t look much worse for the wear.” She bent down to kiss him. “And you’re home safe. That’s all I care about.”

  Shanna ruffled his hair, and Jonmarc caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. He felt a fierce stab of fear for her safety and that of their child. Before the journey into the cave, he might have dismissed it as new-father nerves, concern for the dangers of childbirth even with the help of an experienced hedge witch like Elly. Today, the fear felt far more real than nervousness over a new baby. Something deep inside screamed for him to pack Shanna and her mother into their wagon and drive until they reached the horizon, far from the caves and beyond the power of the dark stranger.

  “Linton, the caravan master, offered me a job,” Jonmarc blurted. “We could go with them—you, me, Elly. See the kingdom. It would be good money.”

  Shanna gave him a puzzled look. “And leave Ebbetshire? Our home is here. What about Tucker and the forge? And Kell and the rest of our friends? What’s gotten into you?”

  Jonmarc swallowed down his fear. “I told him no, but then I got to thinking. The pay is good. I wouldn’t have to thieve out of the caves anymore. We could go far away, somewhere Foor Arontala could never find us.”

  Shanna met his gaze. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? That bloody strange man on the road and his gold.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve got a mind to tell him what for, putting you through all that, gold or no gold!”

  “I don’t even want you here when he comes,” Jonmarc said, knowing Shanna could see the fear in his eyes. “I don’t want him to lay eyes on you or the baby. He’s a mage, I’m sure of it, and not a good one, if there is such a thing. I should never have told him I’d do his bidding.”

  Shanna sat down next to him and took his hands in hers. “If he’s as fearsome as you say, and if he really is a mage, you might not have been able to refuse him. Taking the talisman didn’t harm anyone; it’s not like he asked you to steal from the living.” She met his eyes. “Just be done with him as quick as you can. He’ll have no more need of you, and we can get on with our lives.”

  Jonmarc let out a long breath and gave a crooked smile. “I love how you always manage to think straight, no matter what’s going on.” He pulled her closer and kissed her, and laid a hand protectively on the bulge at her waist. “And after this, I promise to stay out of the caves unless it’s the only way to keep body and soul together.”

  TUCKER WAS ALREADY at the forge when Jonmarc arrived, and the day passed quickly to the sound of the hammer on the anvil. The forge was a second home to Jonmarc, one of the places that reminded him most of his own family, especially since Tucker had retrieved the anvil and tools from Anselm’s ruined workshop. Sometimes, Jonmarc shut his eyes, feeling the warmth of the coal fire, hearing the pounding, smelling the coal smoke, and for just a moment, it was as if the last two years had never happened. Just for a few heartbeats, he could make believe that his father was still at work in the forge, that his brothers were going about their chores outside, that his mother
would be waiting for them with dinner. With a sigh, Jonmarc opened his eyes, resigned to the fact that the home he remembered was gone forever.

  “I hate to see the caravan move on,” Tucker said after a long silence. “You brought back a good price for the pieces you sold for me. With how bad the harvest’s been and how tight everyone’s been with their money, unless we get some ships in, or there are merchants on their way to the city, I don’t know where we’ll get the rest of the coin to pay our taxes.”

  If Arontala holds to his word, that gold will be enough to take care of Shanna, the baby and Elly plus pay our taxes— and Tuck’s, too. Maybe I’ve let my imagination get the best of me, Jonmarc thought. This could be a real stroke of luck.

  “I’m sure something will come along,” Jonmarc said, hoping Tucker did not pick up on his unusual level of distraction.

  Tucker laughed. “I can see you’ve got bigger things on your mind, lad. A baby on the way can cause anyone to lose their wits. Don’t worry,” he said, switching out the iron bar he was pounding. “It’ll all go right. Fiona’s had six babies— four what lived—and we’ve managed to make it through.” He leaned toward Jonmarc conspiratorially. “Although with the racket one of them can put up, you may find it more restful here in the forge.” Tucker laughed heartily and went back to his work.

  The sun had long set by the time they finished for the day. Since orders were slim, Tucker had decided to make enough of their most popular pieces so that Jonmarc could take a wagonload to Eiderford, the large town further down the coast. They worked late into the night, trying to finish the pieces in time for market. Jonmarc and Tucker were finally banking the fire and putting away their tools when a strange sound made them both pause and exchange a wary glance.

  “Did you hear something?” Tucker asked, cocking his head so that his good ear was toward the doorway.

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure what it was,” Jonmarc replied. Tucker reached for his hammer and a bar of iron, while Jonmarc drew his knife and grabbed a second iron bar. As he moved, for the first time that day he became aware of the amulet that hung on its strap around his neck. The metal disk had suddenly grown cold, icy against his skin.

  The strange noise came again, reminding Jonmarc of a crab scuttling across rocks. We’re not close to the beach, he argued with himself. And it would have to be a very big crab to make a sound like that.

  This time, the sound seemed to come from more than one location, like claws on stone. The moon was bright and full, and Jonmarc did not pause to grab a lantern. Cautiously, Jonmarc and Tucker made their way out of the forge’s doorway into the open space that separated the building from the road.

  “Look there!” Jonmarc said, pointing to the right. “Did you see that?” Something skittered between the shadows of the trees.

  “Saw it,” Tucker said. “Don’t know what it is.”

  “There’s another one!” Jonmarc spotted movement to the left. The clicking and scratching grew louder, jumbled as if it came from many places at once.

  “Dark Lady take my soul, what is that thing?” Tucker murmured as a figure stepped out of the shadows. Whatever it was, it wasn’t human. The head was misshapen and bulbous, on a body with a stance all wrong to be a man. Wiry arms with long-fingered hands hung down from slim shoulders over a muscular torso and powerful, bowed legs. In the moonlight, its skin looked sickly gray, and Jonmarc was willing to bet that the thing’s long fingers ended in claws. It sniffed the air, scenting them, and turned its burning yellow eyes toward them as it opened a maw filled with sharp teeth.

  “It’s heading our way!” Even before Jonmarc could voice his warning, Tucker stepped forward in a defensive stance. Down the lane, toward the center of the village, Jonmarc heard shouts of alarm. A bell rang out, rousing the men of the village to arms. Ebbetshire’s men and women poured from their homes brandishing whatever weapons were at hand as more of the gray-skinned beings stepped forward from the shadows, their talons scraping and clacking on the rocky ground.

  The gray beasts began to move forward like wolves, crowding their prey together. Jonmarc could see Kell, the village mayor, running at one of the beasts with a broadsword, while the butcher and his four brawny sons set about themselves with cleavers. The good people of Ebbetshire had already proven their mettle driving off raiders, and they did not run from this new threat. Soon, the street was filled with villagers wielding kitchen knives and farm scythes, staves, and hoes, even the rope nets and sharp pikes of the fishermen.

  The beasts were in no hurry, and their deliberate approach unnerved Jonmarc, as did the reptilian calculation in their glowing eyes. Three more of the things had emerged from the shadows near the forge, and Tucker was swearing fluently under his breath, waiting for the beasts to come into range.

  Jonmarc swung at the nearest beast with his iron rod, wishing for the sword he had left under his bed at home. He struck the creature hard where the neck joined the shoulder, a blow that should have felled a man or slowed a wild animal. The creature hissed and swatted the rod away, fixing its cold gaze on Jonmarc.

  “Watch those teeth!” Tucker warned. Jonmarc did not need to be cautioned. The beast’s lantern jaw was filled with rows of sharp teeth, like the strange fish the nets sometimes brought up from the depths of the sea. Claws as long as a man’s fingers clicked together on its hands and its taloned feet scratched against the cobblestones.

  One of the creatures rushed forward with a speed Jonmarc had not expected. It slashed at Tucker with its claws, and staggered as Tucker slammed his sledgehammer against the thing’s bloated head. Ichor streamed from where the hammer tore the beast’s leathery skin, but the creature did not slow its advance.

  Down the street, Jonmarc heard curses and cries to the Lady as the townspeople battled for their lives. He crouched, watching the beast that was watching him, ready for the attack. It came at him in a gray blur, and Jonmarc slammed his long knife into its chest, trying not to recoil from the cold touch of its leathery skin. Black ichor spurted from the wound, but the thing twisted, yanking the blade from Jonmarc’s hand, and lumbered toward him.

  Tucker had his hands full, fending off two of the beasts. The blacksmith was taller than most of the men in the village, brawny from his work, with strong arms and powerful shoulders. It was taking all of Tucker’s skill to keep the beasts at bay as he swung the hammer and iron rod, knocking the creatures back. They shook themselves off and advanced once more, undaunted.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc saw a creature snatch one of the village men and hurl him across the road as effortlessly as a child might throw a ball. He spotted two of the fishermen using their staves and pikes to force one of the beasts into a fishing net, only to see the intruder shred the net with its claws as if it were parchment.

  Jonmarc felt a coldness settle over him, driving out fear. It was the same cold distance his father had taught him in the slaughterhouse, and it had served him well in his fights against the raiders. No room for fear, no place for worry about Shanna and the baby, nothing except an icy cold in the center of his being strong enough to do what must be done.

  The creature eying Jonmarc began to advance once more, then stopped and turned to watch as Tucker beat back the two beasts. Both of the beasts attacking the blacksmith were dripping with ichor, and it was clear that Tucker had done damage with the iron rod and sledgehammer. The face of one of the beasts looked sunken on one side where the hammer had smashed its bones, and the other beast’s left arm hung uselessly at its side, with shards of bone protruding from the leathery skin.

  Nothing natural could survive that pounding. Could a mage summon creatures like these? Jonmarc wondered, thinking of the dark stranger on the road. And did he send them for me, or did the talisman draw them?

  Jonmarc seized the chance to launch himself at the beast nearest him, bringing his long knife down with both hands into its back, using his own weight to thrust the blade deep and drag it down through skin and bone. The creature hissed, and i
t turned faster than Jonmarc could get clear, raking the right side of his face and neck with its claws and opening up a gash from Jonmarc’s ear down into his shoulder.

  Jonmarc lunged out of the way as the creature swung its claws once more, barely missing a slash that would have caught him across the chest. Tucker was bleeding from a dozen gashes on his arms and face, and his heavy leather apron was no match against the creature’s claws. Tucker swung again with his massive hammer, catching one of the beasts full in the chest. It stumbled, wheezing, and Tucker stepped toward it to finish it off with another blow. Before he could land his strike, the second creature moved with the speed of a coiled snake, lashing out its long arm and digging its clawed fingers into Tucker’s face. Tucker screamed, and the beast jerked his arm back, snapping Tucker’s head free from his body.

  Jonmarc had no time for grief or horror. The creature he battled was backing him toward the doorway of the forge, intent on its prey. Jonmarc looked around, desperate for a better weapon than his knife and iron bar. His face and neck were sticky with blood, but the pain of the gash kept him going. The hot coals of the fire drew his eye. The forge’s fire had not yet cooled, and Jonmarc thrust his iron bar into the coals, then backed up toward the bellow to blast air through the embers. Flames rose into the air, and the creature halted, eyeing the fire warily.

  “Maybe fire isn’t to your liking,” Jonmarc said, carefully moving to where Tucker stored bundles of reed torches. Snatching up one of the torches, Jonmarc stuck it into the fire and it crackled to life. Jonmarc jabbed the burning torch toward the creature, moving slowly to keep the fire between him and the beast, until he reached the bucket of whale oil Tucker kept to prime the coals if they went cold.