The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Jonmarc grabbed the bucket and hurled its contents onto the creature, then lunged forward, igniting the oil with his torch. The creature screamed and flailed, backing away from Jonmarc, lumbering into the beast that hunkered over Tucker’s bleeding corpse. In an instant, that beast and Tucker’s clothing went up in flames, and the night air was filled with the smell of burning meat.

  The forge was hot, but still the amulet that hung amid the tatters of Jonmarc’s shirt was cold as ice. It glinted in the firelight, and for an instant, Jonmarc thought its runes glowed with an inner light. He looked around wildly for more oil, but found only an empty bucket. Jonmarc shoved his knife back into his belt. He slipped his hands into Tucker’s heavy leather gloves. Snatching a coal shovel, Jonmarc loaded the bucket with hot coals and grabbed a basket full of torches, then picked up one of the iron rods whose tip had grown bright red in the fire.

  “I’ll get them, Tuck,” Jonmarc muttered.

  He walked around Tucker’s smoking corpse and the cindered remains of the creatures and headed for the center of the village. Bodies littered the roadway. The creatures had scattered, and some tore at the fallen corpses or gnawed on the remains of the villagers, while others seemed intent on wrecking anything within reach. Twice, beasts lumbered in his direction only to veer away.

  In the center of the village green, the butcher and his sons were still standing, but it was clear to Jonmarc that they were rapidly losing their battle. Jonmarc hurried his pace. He dropped the torches and set down the bucket of hot coal, then thrust one of the torches into the bucket where it caught fire quickly.

  “Let’s see how you like this!” he shouted, running toward the creatures. He swung the iron bar, landing its red-hot tip against the back of one of the beasts. The monster screamed, wheeling toward Jonmarc, who thrust the burning torch into its face. Jonmarc did not wait to watch as the beast burst into flame. He set about with the iron rod with all his strength, knowing he would tire long before he ran out of beasts. He jabbed at the creatures with the torch, and then hurled it into the midst of them, sending it wheeling through the darkness so that it rained bits of burning reed down on the shrieking beasts that scrambled to get away even as their skin began to sizzle and pop.

  Jonmarc fell back to his bucket of coals and lit another torch. The creatures were gradually leaving the butcher and his sons and had turned their attention to Jonmarc. Cursing under his breath, he stood his ground. Let’s see how many of them I can take with me, he thought grimly.

  The dry grass blazed where the creatures Jonmarc set afire had stumbled and fallen, and the fire spread rapidly. “Get out of there before you burn!” Jonmarc shouted to the butcher, but in the firelight, he could see that three of the man’s sons were on the ground and the butcher and his last son appeared too badly injured to flee. Smoke rose on the night air, smelling of burning grass and flesh.

  Jonmarc grabbed the unlit torches and backed away from the creatures, waving his firebrand to keep them at bay. Much of the ground between him and the butcher was already on fire, trapping the creatures on the dwindling bit of unburned land. The creatures began to rush toward Jonmarc. Caught between a half dozen snarling beasts and the fire, Jonmarc ran toward the flames, closed his eyes, and leaped. He landed hard on the other side of the flames, scattering his torches and knocking the wind from his lungs. His hands and arms were covered with burns and his lungs protested at the scorching hot air, but he was still alive.

  A nightmarish screaming rose from inside the flames, and Jonmarc could see the creatures writhing and curling like bits of paper tossed onto the hearth. Fearing for the butcher and his sons, Jonmarc ran as fast as he dared around the periphery of the flames, alert for any of the remaining beasts. He still had four of the torches, and he lit one from the curtain of fire.

  When Jonmarc reached the butcher, the hulking man was kneeling, surrounded by the savaged bodies of his grown sons. Together, the butcher and his boys had been an unstoppable force against raiders, but even their brawn had proven no match for the beasts. Two of the bodies were headless. One son’s arms had been ripped from his body. The fourth of the butcher’s sons had been eviscerated, and as the butcher turned slowly toward Jonmarc, he could see that the man was as badly wounded as his boys.

  “Go,” he ordered, managing a nod of his head toward the center of the village. “Save anyone you can. We’re done for.”

  For the second time in two years, Jonmarc found himself stumbling through the flame-lit darkness toward a burning village under siege. Emboldened by the flames, long past caring for his own survival, Jonmarc roared as he ran at the creatures, brandishing a torch in each hand. A year of drought had left the village lands and buildings tinder-dry, and the fire from the burning creatures had already spread down into the center of the town, catching on the thatch roofs and wooden beams, crackling through the tangle of dry grass and wilted hedgerows.

  Jonmarc drove the beasts toward the flames, giving them no choice except to burn by his hand or to fall back into the fire. He blinked blood out of his eyes, felt his shirt clinging to his body with sweat as his skin reddened from the heat. Yet the metal talisman from the cave remained cold, sliding across his chest like dead fingers.

  Exhausted and heart sick, bleeding from gashes and burns, Jonmarc shouted at the creatures like a drover. Two of the creatures lunged at him, but he jammed his torches into their open maws, choking as the gray flesh began to smolder and the screeching beasts staggered backwards, into the flames.

  Finally, he could see no more of the beasts. Whether they had burned or fled, the gray-skinned monsters were gone.

  Jonmarc took his remaining torches and began to search for survivors. For two years, in his nightmares he had relived the awful night the raiders burned his village and killed his family. Now, as he stumbled over bodies in the glow of burning buildings, he felt as if he were trapped in those dreams, or had awoken to relive that awful night once more. He found Kell’s body, what remained of it, in the street. The merchants and tradesmen who had welcomed Jonmarc into their village now lay dead, their shops ablaze. Jonmarc checked the stables, hoping to find survivors hiding there, and discovered that the creatures had even savaged the horses and livestock. Save for the wind and the crackling of the flames, the night was silent.

  Fear gave Jonmarc the energy to run through the ruined streets shouting for Shanna and Elly. No reply came save for the echo of his own voice. Smoke clouded the air and the smell of burning flesh threatened to make him retch. Jonmarc slowed when he came to the street where he and Shanna shared Elly’s small house. The front of the building was Elly’s shop of dried herbs and potions, where she provided her services as the village’s hedge witch. It was badly damaged. The windows had been broken and the wooden door bore the slashes of the creatures’ long claws.

  “Shanna! Elly!” Jonmarc shouted, fearing the worst.

  Elly lay in the doorway in a pool of blood. Her staff lay nearby, stained with the dark ichor of the monsters. Jonmarc swallowed hard, then bent down and closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer for the dead.

  He straightened, and took a deep breath to steady himself. He felt as if he were moving through deep water, as if a seer’s vision had already shown him what was to come. The memory of searching through his boyhood home only to find his mother and brothers dead at the raiders’ hands was so real that he felt as if time had undone the past two years, dooming him to repeat his loss.

  Jonmarc dodged the overturned bundles of herbs and broken jars of powders, heading for the living quarters in the back. The fires outside the building shone so brightly through the window Jonmarc did not need a lantern to see the wreckage the beasts made of the room. Shanna lay in the center of the room, one hand still gripping one of Jonmarc’s swords. Her dress and the floor around her was stained with blood from where one of the beasts had slashed open her belly, leaving her stillborn child beside her.

  Jonmarc wailed in grief and dropped to his knees. He gathered Shanna into hi
s arms along with the child he would never know, and rocked back and forth, utterly lost.

  May you lose all you love to the flame and sword, and the Dark Lady take your soul! The dying raider’s curse echoed in Jonmarc’s mind.

  Sweet Mother and Childe, Jonmarc beseeched Margolan’s patron aspects of the Lady, you’ve taken everything from me. Why not take me, too?

  No reply was forthcoming, and Jonmarc felt the coldness saturate his being, numbing his fear, pain, and grief. He lifted Shanna and the baby in his arms and placed them on the bed, spreading the coverlet over them and closing their eyes. I can’t just leave them here for the scavengers, he thought, swallowing down the lump that threatened to close his throat.

  Jonmarc retrieved his swords and cloak, and laid them outside the shop, grabbing a lantern and fresh candles, and the small bag of coins Elly kept in a chest under the bed. He threw the coins into a sack along with his clothing, and then tucked a small scrimshaw comb, Shanna’s prized possession, into the bag as well and put the sack with his sword. Then he moved around the hedge witch’s shop, using herbs and powders and a bit of water for a salve to cleanse the gash on his face and neck. The wound had clotted, but it hurt like a hot poker, and Jonmarc wondered if the beasts’ claws were poisoned. If so, then I’ll join Shanna and the others before long.

  He went to the front and returned with Elly’s corpse, laying it on the floor beside the bed. Time and again he went into the street, bringing back as many of the bodies as he could until the back room and shop were stacked shoulder to shoulder with the bodies of his neighbors. Always, he was alert for a sign that the creatures had returned, but the night was utterly still.

  When the small rooms would hold no more, Jonmarc took one of his remaining torches and lit it from the embers in the fireplace. He took a last look around himself, and once more murmured the prayer for the dead before he moved through the rooms, setting the building on fire.

  Jonmarc stood in the street, watching the building burn as tears streamed down his cheeks. Despair urged him to hurl himself onto the pyre, but a shred of self-preservation held him back. His skin felt hot from the blaze, except for where the talisman hung on his chest. Somehow, this damned amulet and Foor Arontala are responsible for this, he thought. He said he’d be back on the third night. Probably to finish me off if the creatures didn’t do it for him.

  The sky lightened with the dawn, and Jonmarc turned to look at the cliffs. I never should have taken the amulet from the caves. I’d best send it back to the pit where it belongs.

  Jonmarc gathered his meager belongings and headed toward the cliffs. His body ached and he was bone weary, but the conviction that he had to rid himself of the talisman grew with every painful step. He was reckless climbing the narrow ledges, no longer caring for his own safety, tempting the Formless One to take him. The rocks scraped and cut his hands, leaving a bloody trail. He felt nothing but cold, inside and out. Sheer resolve kept him moving. If I survive, someday, somehow I will find that mage and make him pay, Jonmarc thought.

  He reached the mouth of the cave as the dawn brightened to full daylight. From the ledge, he could see the smoke still rising from the ruins of Ebbetshire. Jonmarc tore the amulet’s strap over his head and flung the cold silver as deep into the cave as his rage gave him strength to hurl it. There was no way he was going to make the dangerous trek to the deep places; something warned him that this time, he would not escape the shadows. Ridding himself of the talisman would not bring back the dead, nor would it absolve him of his guilt over drawing the monsters to the village. But if it would cheat Arontala of his prize, it gave him a measure of cold consolation.

  He sat for a few moments on the ledge. The same despair that had tempted him to the flames called to him to jump, but he was too weary for self-destruction. The smoke from the village would eventually draw attention. Jonmarc figured it was wise not to be found when that happened. One tragedy had won him sympathy. Two might gain him a hanging.

  I’ve no home, no family, no village, no wife and child, he thought, staring out across the landscape. I’m likely cursed, and I’ll have a vayash moru mage after me. He sighed. But I’ve proven I’m good in a fight, I’m strong and I’ve got a trade. Maybe one of the mercenary companies in Principality will take me, no questions asked.

  He looked out to the horizon. Principality was on the other side of Margolan, a long way to travel. Then again, I’ve nowhere else to be.

  By evening, he had put distance between himself and Ebbetshire. He washed the worst of the blood and dirt from his skin, dabbing at the painful gash along the side of his face. Jonmarc wondered if the shock that numbed him showed in his face.

  The moon was high by the time Jonmarc reached his destination. Tents and wagons sprawled across a large clearing, and the smell of horses and other animals mingled with the smoke of cook fires. He eluded the guards and wound his way among the tents until he found what he was looking for.

  Maynard Linton looked up, startled and alarmed when the tent flap opened suddenly. He was halfway out of his chair with his hand on the grip of his sword before he recognized Jonmarc. “By the Crone, Jonmarc! I nearly took you for a brigand!”

  Linton stopped and looked closer, eyeing the bloody gash that ran from ear to collar, and the expression on his face, which Jonmarc guessed did not look altogether sane. “What in the name of the Dark Lady happened to you, m’boy?” He tilted his head to get a better look at the gash, and then gave Jonmarc a head-to-toe glance. Without another word, he went to a side table and poured Tordassian brandy into two cups, handing one to Jonmarc and taking the other for himself.

  “Sit,” he ordered. “Drink. You look like you’ve seen the

  Formless One.”

  “Near enough.” Jonmarc let the brandy burn down his throat, but even it did not warm the coldness he felt. “I’ll get a healer for that gash,” Linton said, knocking back his brandy in a gulp. “And I daresay the cook has food left.” He gave Jonmarc a pointed glance. “But first, tell me why you’re here in the dead of night without your wagon, looking like you’ve stumbled in from a fight.”

  Jonmarc took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

  “I’m here to take you up on your offer. If you still need a blacksmith, I’m your man.”

  STORM SURGE

  “DON’T LET THE horses drown!”

  Jonmarc Vahanian grasped the reins of the horse he was leading, fighting the panicked animal as he tried to move through surging waters that were proving far swifter than expected. “I’m trying not to drown myself!” he shot back. Thunder roared and lightning flashed.

  All around him, the caravan maneuvered skittish horses, stubborn oxen, and heavily loaded carts through water that was flowing swiftly and rising steadily. They had been caught in the lowlands by a heavy rainstorm, and the sodden ground flooded far more quickly than anyone had expected.

  Nearby, a man screamed and was swept off his feet and under the thigh-deep water.

  “Hold this!” Jonmarc shouted to the man nearest him, handing off the reins. He grabbed a nearby sapling and thrust his arm down into the water, grasping at the coat that was barely visible beneath the surface. At seventeen, he was six feet tall, strong from years of working in the blacksmith’s forge. It took all of his strength to keep his hold on the sapling and not lose his grip on the hapless man’s coat.

  “Help me out here,” Jonmarc yelled, but his voice barely carried above the storm. His grip was waning, and the man in the current bobbed above the surface, sputtering for air, only to disappear once more. Jonmarc could feel the man scrabbling for a foothold, but he also knew his own position was growing more tenuous with each passing moment.

  He gave a mighty pull with the last of his strength, and popped the man above the water once more, yanking him out of the worst of the current. They clung to the sapling, heaving for breath, as the rain pelted them and the wind plastered their wet clothing to their skin.

  Jonmarc got a look at the man for the
first time. It was Russ, a slender, bearded man who often worked with the caravan’s exotic animals. “Thanks. I thought I was a goner,” Russ said with an exhausted grin.

  So did I, Jonmarc thought.

  Shouting from the bedraggled procession of caravaners roused Jonmarc, and he looked up to see a human chain stretching across the treacherous stream to where the wagons sat on solid ground on the other side. Jonmarc made sure that Russ was secure, and then reclaimed his horse and took his position at the end of the chain.

  Twice, his feet were nearly swept out from under him as he was pulled across the stream. After a few harrowing moments, he reached firm footing beside a wagon, and collapsed against it, breathing hard, adrenalin tingling through his body at the near miss.

  “Yer lucky Jonmarc has a blacksmith’s grip,” the wagon driver said to Russ, who was pale and shaking. He turned to Jonmarc. “Nice catch.”

  “Keep moving, or we’ll all be fishes!” Maynard Linton, the caravan master, shouted loudly enough to be heard over the storm.

  Jonmarc hoisted Russ into the bed of a wagon, judging that he was too shaken and exhausted to fight the floodwaters. He took back the reins of the horse he had been leading. Despite his cloak, he was soaked to the skin, and his long, chestnut-brown hair was plastered against his scalp, strands finding their way into his eyes.

  It was early spring in the highlands of Margolan, and the snows in the mountains had been particularly heavy, making for swollen rivers and creeks. Maynard Linton’s caravan— part traders and part traveling show—wound its way from the Borderlands in the far north across the kingdom. Whenever the caravan reached a populated area that looked prosperous enough to afford them a paying audience, they made camp for a few days to a few weeks, moving on when the novelty had worn off.