The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Now, Jonmarc’s seemingly random strikes tested his opponent, gauging his skill and mastery. He fought back a smile as he realized that the vayash moru had little training, no doubt relying on his undead speed, strength, and compulsion rather than his swordsmanship.

  “It’s time to finish this,” the vayash moru said, lashing out with a strike that knocked Jonmarc’s sword from his hand with its sheer force. The tip of the blade scored a gash in Jonmarc’s forearm, and blood soaked his sleeve.

  “Hot blood is the sweetest,” the vayash moru hissed, meeting Jonmarc’s gaze with hungry intensity. Jonmarc heard a distant buzzing noise, and felt the familiar pressure in his temples. The coldness deadened his fear, though his heart was thudding and adrenaline tingled through his body.

  Jonmarc willed himself to take a step toward the vayash moru, then another, his hands open and empty at his sides. The vayash moru lowered his sword, but it was clear from his leering, hungry smile that he was confident of his prey. Dugan was screaming Jonmarc’s name, shouting for him to fight, but Jonmarc forced himself to move forward, until he stood arm’s length from the vayash moru.

  “This will be a banquet,” the vayash moru gloated.

  Now! Jonmarc thought as the vayash moru reached for him. Jonmarc dropped down, yanking the stake from his boot, turning it point up in his hand. He used his upward momentum to drive the stake between the vayash moru’s ribs, throwing his body weight against it so that they tumbled to the ground, pinning his would-be murderer.

  The rogue’s eyes widened in shock and black ichor fountained from his ravaged chest, spilling from the corner of his mouth, soaking them both. His body bucked and writhed, but Jonmarc kept him pinned, forcing the stake deeper with one hand while his other ripped the sword from the vayash moru’s fingers. Rearing back, Jonmarc brought the blade down hard across the vampire’s throat.

  The first blow cut through skin and tendon, sending ichor in a bloody spray. The second blow severed bone, sending the head rolling. Beneath him, the body fell still.

  Soaked with gore, breathing hard and trembling from head to toe, Jonmarc yanked the stake free and stood, gripping his sword white-knuckled. While he had been embroiled in his death match, the battlefield had changed.

  More vayash moru had joined the fight, but on the side of the caravan, tilting the odds against the attackers. Renden was making short work of Dugan’s attacker, while Eli battled Sayer’s murderer to his knees. Across the way, one of Zane’s throwing knives protruded from the chest of a rogue, while Hans held a downed thief at sword’s point on the ground. Jessup and Clark stood over another captive, the man Corbin and Linton had been fighting.

  Two more vayash moru Jonmarc recognized from the village were patrolling the tree line, alert should more rogues appear, but after a few moments, satisfied that there were no more attackers lying in wait, they returned to guard the captives.

  Linton’s clothes were torn and streaked with blood. A cut on his cheek oozed. His eyes held a killing gleam as he strode to stand in front of one of the bandits.

  “Are there more of you?” he demanded.

  Jessup held the thief in a bone-crushing grip with one hand, holding a knife against his throat with the other. “Answer him, and you exist for a few more minutes,” Jessup growled.

  “No,” the rogue replied, glaring at Linton. “All we wanted were your sheep.”

  “And the men you killed on the road last night, you wanted their sheep, too?” Linton snapped.

  The vayash moru glowered at the thief Eli had subdued. “It wasn’t my idea,” he muttered. “I told him it was going to cause trouble.”

  Linton’s gaze traveled to where Sayer lay still on the grass. “Crone take your soul,” he said.

  Eli looked down on his captive. “They’ve brought trouble on the village,” he said. “Those men they killed were from the town up the road. A couple of people found the bodies in the ravine. Someone remembered that there were vayash moru among the farmers. Today, during daylight, townsfolk came and threatened our kin.”

  Linton looked from Eli to Renden. “What will you do?”

  Renden grimaced. “We’ll deliver these troublemakers to the authorities, and see that they confess.” He shrugged. “Whether or not they will accept that, and keep the truce with my people, I don’t know.” He grew sad. “My family has farmed that land for four generations. I don’t welcome the thought of leaving, but I won’t allow my kin to come to harm.”

  “Take the other three,” Linton said, his voice growing hard. He pointed at Sayer’s killer. “But I want that man dead.”

  Jessup had come up behind Sayer’s killer as Linton spoke. Moving swiftly, he drove his sword through the rogue vayash moru’s back, piercing the heart, and protruding from his chest. Black ichor spread down the thief’s stolen finery, and gurgled from his lips. The body began to tremble, until it was spasming uncontrollably.

  Jonmarc and the other mortals stood back, while the vayash moru from the village watched dispassionately. Smoke began to rise, and then the skin grew dry and papery. In another breath, the thief gave a final death rattle, and the body collapsed in a pile of ash. Jonmarc glanced back toward the vayash moru he had killed and the one that Zane had felled with his blade. Both were no more than cinders.

  “Take them,” Linton said in a cold voice. “Thank you for coming to help. I hope no harm comes to you and yours because of this.”

  Renden nodded. “It would be best if you moved on as soon as the sun rises. It’s unlucky for you here.”

  Linton nodded. “My thought, too. Dark Lady willing, we’ll pass this way again, and when we do, I’ll have more iron and coin to spend with you.”

  Renden clasped Linton’s arm. “Istra watch and keep you,” he said. Something in his dark gaze chilled Jonmarc. He doesn’t think things are going to go well, Jonmarc thought. He’s afraid.

  In the blink of an eye, Rendon, Eli, and the other vayash moru from the village were gone, along with the three surviving thieves. Hans, Jessup, and Clark hung back, as if unsure of their place. Linton looked at them sharply. “What are you staring at? There’s work to be done. Strike the tents. Ready the wagons. And for the love of the Mother and Childe, figure out where you’ll spend the day so you can catch up with us,” he barked.

  Hans looked up, surprised. “You want us to stay?”

  Linton rolled his eyes. “Didn’t I just say as much? Stop lollygagging and get to work!”

  Reprieved, the three vayash moru vanished in a blur. Linton turned back to Jonmarc and the others. He looked down at Sayer’s bloody body. “Come on,” he said, his voice suddenly tired. “He deserves better, but we need to get him buried in the woods before we have to explain it to anyone.”

  Jonmarc hefted Sayer’s shoulders, while Dugan carried his feet. Zane and Trent ran back to the camp for shovels, returning a few moments later with grim expressions. Linton led them to a clear place not far from the camp’s perimeter, and they worked in silence to lay Sayer to rest in a grave deep enough to keep his body from the animals.

  “Let the sword be sheathed, and the helm shuttered. Prepare a feast in the hall of your fallen heroes. Sayer died with valor. Make his passage swift and his journey easy, until his soul rests in the arms of the Lady,” Trent murmured, and Jonmarc suspected it was a soldier’s prayer.

  And may the Dark Lady take his soul, Jonmarc added silently, thinking of the shrine in Renden’s forge.

  They filed back to the camp, which had come alive in the darkness as the news of their sudden departure spread.

  “We’ve got a few pieces to finish before we can take the forge apart,” Trent said.

  “I’ll handle it,” Jonmarc offered, glad for something to do. “Go ahead and start packing things up. I’ll finish the pieces.”

  A few pumps of the bellows revived the embers and made the coals glow brightly. Jonmarc fastened on his leather apron and pulled on his gloves. He heated the iron, placed it on the anvil, and struck it with his h
ammer. The pounding formed a rhythm as familiar and comforting as his own heartbeat.

  Everything goes to the grave. People come and go too quickly. The forge remains.

  STORMGARD

  “KEEP YOUR WITS about you,” Maynard Linton warned. “There will be pickpockets at the market.”

  The two wagons bumped and rattled their way toward Kerrton, the nearest town that might offer fresh supplies for Linton’s traveling caravan of wonders. Their wheels sent clouds of dust into the air on the dry, rutted road, leaving grit on everything. In a futile effort, Linton brushed the dirt from the sleeves of his shirt

  “Just remember: strength counts in fistfights, but thieves use knives,” Linton said, glancing at his companions.

  Maynard Linton was a short, stocky man in his early thirties, his skin turned a coppery tan from a life lived outdoors. He had shrewd eyes and a quick wit, and while he was ferociously protective of the caravan’s crew, his ethics in other areas could be rather flexible. Linton was the shortest of the four men who had set off for Kerrton, and while he could hold his own in a fight, he had neither the height nor the brawn of the three men who accompanied him.

  From his seat in the second wagon, Jonmarc Vahanian glanced at his companions. Trent, the caravan’s head blacksmith, had broad shoulders and powerful arms from a lifetime in the forge. Corbin, the fourth member of their group, was the lead farrier, and the daily work of wrestling uncooperative draft horses into being shod had given him both strength and speed.

  Although Jonmarc was not yet eighteen, he was on his way to a similar build, having worked in the forge for several smiths from the time he could carry the iron bars. Jonmarc was Trent’s apprentice, and on this outing, was quite sure he’d been brought along for extra hands and a sturdy back. There was likely to be a lot of loading involved.

  “We should be done loading supplies by the noon bells. By the time we get back to the caravan, things should be pretty well set up,” Trent said. He flicked the reins, directing the wagon horse to turn left.

  “I’ve got a bit of business to transact. While you, Corbin, and Jonmarc load the supplies, I’ll go see to that and meet you at the brewery,” Linton replied.

  Usually, Linton preferred flamboyant colors and elaborate fabrics that suited his role as grand master of one of the largest caravans in the Winter Kingdoms. Today, he had chosen muted colors in brown and black; for Linton it was a fairly somber outfit. On the other hand, the dust didn’t show as badly with Linton’s outfit as it might on his usual choice of silks or brocade.

  “You and Jonmarc can get started,” Corbin directed as the wagons drew up to the Pheasant and Quail, the only brewery within a league of Kerrton. “I’ll see to loading the barrels of ale.” He grinned. “And if you take too long, I may see to drinking some of it, too.”

  Jonmarc and Trent stayed in the driver’s bench of the second wagon. “We’ll head over to the market,” Trent said, twitching the reins once more to move their horse along, farther down the road toward the heart of the village. “The head cook gave me a list of provisions he’ll need to keep the caravan fed for the next week, and Maynard told me to be on the lookout for any good pottery, wood carving or jewelry the artisans might be able to resell.”

  Maynard Linton ran one of Margolan’s many traveling caravans. The motley assemblage of acrobats, dancers, artisans, craftspeople, workers, musicians, and roustabouts was part freak show, part entertainment, and part merchant faire. With Linton as caravan master and impresario extraordinaire, the caravan had made a name for itself as it traveled the length and breadth of Margolan and its neighboring kingdoms.

  “What’s up there?” Jonmarc asked, nodding his head toward the hillside above Kerrton. Thick walls of white stone ran across the crest of the hill, with rounded turrets at intervals along the wall, and crenellations along the length. The walls flared out at the bottom, the better to keep potential invaders from easily scaling them with ladders. Whoever had built that fort had obviously expected trouble.

  “That’s Stormgard,” Trent replied with barely a glance. “It was built as an outpost back when this part of Margolan was considered to be the wilderness. There are tales about the battles fought there and the marauders turned away, but it’s been decades since there’s been any fighting in these parts. King Bricen tries to keep it that way.”

  Stormgard seemed to loom over the small farming town. The massive walls and tall towers might make the townsfolk feel protected, but something about its hulking size silhouetted against the sky made Jonmarc feel watched.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Trent said to Jonmarc as they jostled along the rutted road.

  “You expect trouble?”

  Trent shrugged. “No reason to, but Maynard seems a little jumpy. He said a messenger came to the caravan last night when we made camp and invited him to meet the head of the merchants’ guild.” He grimaced.

  “Those kinds of meetings can go sour pretty quickly,” he added. “On occasion, the merchants want to sell their wares to the caravan. But more likely than not, they don’t like having competition, even if it’s only for a week or two, and they’ll do their best to get the caravan run out of town.”

  “My money’s on Maynard,” Jonmarc said.

  The market bustled with activity as they rode up. Trent pulled the wagon up to a hitching rail, and Jonmarc jumped down to tie the horse’s reins to the post. Stalls and carts lined the village square, filled with fresh vegetables and fruits. Under the shade of a portable awning, a butcher had set up his wagon. Freshly slaughtered geese, sheep, calves, and pigs hung from the side of his cart.

  Across the way, a spice merchant offered her wares. Dozens of baskets overflowed with fragrant seasonings from every corner of the Winter Kingdoms. Flower vendors set out cut blooms in a patchwork of colors, while further down the row, a fishmonger spilled out a basket of his fresh catch onto a table for shoppers to examine.

  Jonmarc was a few inches taller than Trent, and about ten to fifteen years younger. The wind picked up, and Jonmarc pushed a lock of shoulder-length chestnut brown hair out of his brown eyes. Often, he wore his hair tied back in a queue, but today, among strangers, he let it fall loose, the better to hide the scar that ran from his left ear down below his collar, the reminder of a battle that had cost him his family.

  “Keep a hand on your money. Maynard’s right: the market’s the best spot for thieves,” Trent warned in a low voice. “And that includes the vendors. Make sure you count your change.”

  So many people jostled through the crowded, narrow walkways that it would be impossible to tell whether any collision was intentional or accidental. Jonmarc wasn’t too worried. Trent carried the bag of silver for the provisions. Jonmarc’s small stash of silver from his wages was hidden at the forge. He had brought a few coppers to buy some candied fruit, a bit of bread, meat, and cheese for lunch, and some ale at the end of the day.

  Jonmarc drew a deep breath, taking in the jumble of colors, the mix of aromas and the babble of accents. The caravan had traveled halfway across Margolan from his home in the Borderlands and the forsaken remains of the village where he had buried his loved ones. Every stop on the caravan’s journey was a new set of smells, tastes, and sights—and, far too often, dangers.

  Trent had begun bargaining with one of the wood-carvers in the marketplace. “Two pieces of silver for these items,” he said, gesturing to the majority of what the carver had laid out on a blanket for sale.

  “You wound me!” the wood-carver cried, dramatically clutching at his heart. “Two silver coins for my life’s work? I’ve poured my blood and sweat into these pieces!”

  Trent leveled his gaze at the man. “Oh? Then how is it I saw four more bags of the same pieces behind the fishmonger’s stall?”

  “You do not appreciate what it takes to create these pieces,” the carver protested. “Two silver coins! My family would starve if I took your offer.”

  Trent rolled his eyes. Jonmarc had seen him negotiate these b
argains before, and the blacksmith usually came out ahead, although the process could be lengthy.

  “Three coins, but I get the rest of what’s displayed,” Trent said, his eyes narrowing shrewdly.

  “I should report you to the constable! What you want is theft!” The woodcarver was giving quite an impassioned performance, but it seemed to Jonmarc that both he and Trent were actually enjoying the process of coming to an agreement.

  Knowing from experience that the bargaining could last for half a candlemark or more, Jonmarc wandered a few steps away to the next stalls. One vendor offered skeins of yarn died in a variety of hues. The next called out to passersby to look at her selection of woven shawls and scarves.

  Jonmarc paused at the spice trader’s stall. His late wife’s mother had been a hedge witch and a healer, and her home had smelled of dried flowers and medicinal herbs. Jonmarc let himself take a deep breath, savoring the familiar scents, as the old sadness coursed over him.

  A glimpse of someone familiar in the crowd roused Jonmarc from his thoughts. He caught sight of the top of a head of greasy blond hair, and while he could not see the man’s face, the gait reminded him of someone he had no desire to see.

  “Trent—”

  Trent flicked his hand from his side to indicate that he did not want to be bothered. Jonmarc frowned, and turned to see if he could catch another look at the man he had seen.

  The crowd around him ebbed and flowed like the tide. Market-goers bunched together in a knot, then spread apart, offering a better view of the square further down the aisle between vendors.

  Jonmarc spotted the blond man again. This time, he got a look at the squat figure and rounded shoulders, the pockmarked face and the flattened nose. There was no mistaking it. That had to be Chessis. And if so, then Jonmarc knew they had a big problem.