Trent shook his head. “Vakkis may not have found Jonmarc, but the fact that he went looking in the shrine meant he had a good idea how he disappeared. He’ll be watching.”
“We could wait for night, get a couple of the vayash moru who work for the caravan and tear the place apart,” Zane suggested.
Corbin gave him a withering look. “That just sends the bounty hunters after our vayash moru, and every other vayash moru within a dozen leagues. Bad idea.”
“I have an idea,” Jonmarc said, looking up. “But you’d have to be barking mad to make it work.”
Trent gave a mirthless laugh. “Then you’ve come to the right place, lad. Tell us what you’ve got in mind.”
AFTER DARK, NO one paid any attention to the two men in ragged clothing pulling a cart full of corpses.
“Damn, they’re heavy,” Jonmarc muttered to Trent as they hauled the ramshackle wagon through the shadowed streets of Stormgard. They had cobbled together a makeshift wagon from parts Trent and Zane stole from the brewery’s barn, and helped themselves to clothing on a wash line within easy reach. Jonmarc and Trent had smudged their faces with dirt and soot, patting liberal amounts on their clothes for good measure. Corbin, Kegan, and Dugan were rolled up in burlap like corpses, and Zane followed mournfully in the supplicant’s robe, chanting for the souls of the dead. Corbin had brought their weapons from the caravan, so the cart with the ‘corpses’ also carried their swords and throwing knives.
“You’d just better hope no one pays any attention to what Zane’s chanting,” Trent hissed. “He’s gone through every tavern song I know, and moved on to some I doubt you’ll hear outside a whorehouse.”
“I hope we’re not too late,” Jonmarc said. Worry had knotted his stomach all afternoon. Not only might they find Linton already dead, but their rescue attempt could easily cost the lives of his friends. Despite that, none of the men had questioned the need to go after their boss.
“How much further?” Trent asked. “And why are we still going uphill? Isn’t anything in this city level? I may not be able to swing a hammer for a week after this.”
“Not far,” Jonmarc said, lifting his head to have a look around. Stormgard was even more intimidating after dark, when the fortified walls loomed, dark and menacing, casting the interior of the city in shadows that even the torchlight did not fully dispel.
They turned a corner and Jonmarc signaled for them to stop. “That’s it,” he said, pointing toward the two-story building. “And the wagon is still over by the stable.” He looked to Trent. “Any idea who the building belongs to?”
Trent gave a cold smile. “Actually, yes. While you and I gathered our disguises, Corbin made a few inquiries around town. It seems that the head of the merchant guild fits your description of the man Maynard met at the pub. And even more damning—he’s said to own a fine barn and warehouse in Stormgard that he won from a noble in a card game.”
Jonmarc and Trent pushed the cart into the shadows. Corbin, Kegan, and Dugan cast off the burlap to ready themselves for the work at hand. Trent had a set to his jaw that told Jonmarc the blacksmith was ready for a fight. “Dugan—go get Vakkis’s wagon ready. Hitch up the horse and wait around the corner, out of sight but close enough to hear me whistle,” Trent directed. “Kegan—go with him and lend a hand. We won’t need you until the fighting is over.” Dugan gave a sharp nod and ran off with Kegan close behind.
Unlike that morning, the area was quiet, and nearly empty of foot traffic. The storehouse had few windows, so it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside. The rest of the street was dark. Jonmarc heard Dugan in the stable and froze, awaiting discovery, but when no one appeared to check on the noise, Jonmarc breathed a sigh of relief.
“Think it’s a trap?” Jonmarc murmured.
“Probably.” Trent replied. He signaled for Zane and Corbin to go around to the back. “Don’t see a choice, do you?”
Jonmarc shook his head, and Trent grinned. “Let’s make it expensive for them,” Trent said, drawing his sword.
The wooden door splintered under their weight as Jonmarc and Trent shouldered their way in. A crash at the other end of the building signaled that Corbin and Zane had the same idea.
Barrels, crates, and bales filled most of the storehouse’s large, open interior. Sawdust covered the hard dirt floor, and stout wooden pillars and roof beams indicated that more goods were likely housed above. A single oil lantern hung from a rusted nail below a roof support, and its light cast a dim circle. From the footprints and scuffs in the sawdust, the storehouse had seen plenty of recent traffic.
Stacked wooden boxes and bales made it impossible to see beyond the center of the building. Here and there, piles of barrels lay on their side, stacked one atop the other taller than a man’s head. Linton lay in a heap on the floor to one side, bound hand and foot, and he did not stir at the noise as they entered.
“You go for Linton. We’ll circle around,” Trent whispered. A shake of his head confirmed Jonmarc’s suspicion that Vakkis and Chessis were likely to be waiting for them in the darkness.
“I wish we knew whether or not Tarren is with them,” Jonmarc said.
Trent shrugged. “I’ve heard he works on his own sometimes. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’s off making someone else’s life miserable. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Jonmarc’s sword was in his hand as he approached Linton. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Trent moving behind the boxes on one side while Zane headed into the shadows on the other. Corbin removed the ladder to the top floor, and stood ready with his sword in one hand and an iron rod in the other.
Linton groaned as Jonmarc turned him over. The caravan master’s skin was ashen and clammy, and his breathing was shallow. From his torn clothing and the bruises on his face, it appeared his captors had vented their anger with a beating. Blood flecked Linton’s lips, and one eye was swollen shut.
The clang of swords and the scuffle of footsteps sounded in the darkness behind the crates and barrels. One set of crates wobbled dangerously, and the top crate tumbled to the floor, sending splinters and shards of pottery flying.
Jonmarc hoisted Linton over his left shoulder, leaving his right hand free for his sword. Shouts and curses rang out from the shadows, and Jonmarc heard the familiar thud of Zane’s throwing knives. A loud crack echoed as Corbin’s iron rod collided with force against something hard. He could not see the battle, but it was easy to guess that Vakkis and Chessis had brought reinforcements.
Halfway to the door, Chessis stepped out from behind a pile of barrels. The squat bounty hunter shook a lock of oily blond hair out of his eyes and gave a predatory grin. “Figured you’d be dumb enough to come after him,” Chessis said, his voice a nasal whine.
“Get out of my way.”
“And let you walk out with our prize catch?” Chessis gave a wheezing laugh. “Not when we could get good silver from the slavers for the likes of you.”
Chessis was plump and slackjawed, but it would be a mistake to underestimate his skill with a sword. Jonmarc had seen Chessis in action the night Conall died, and the bounty hunter was faster than he looked. He was also not encumbered by the dead weight of a grown man, which Jonmarc knew would slow his own reactions. Chessis looked like he was relishing the chance for revenge.
“Your friend’s not quite dead yet,” Chessis said. “But soon. The Guild Master wanted a slow death, as a warning for others.”
“Go to the Crone,” Jonmarc muttered.
Chessis lunged, and Jonmarc parried, but Linton’s weight made him slow and blocked his field of view. Chessis laughed and came at him from the left, forcing Jonmarc to wheel, slamming Linton’s legs against the stack of barrels, which tottered but did not fall.
“Vakkis saw you at the Hind and Hound,” Chessis gloated. “He figured you’d follow us. He wanted to catch you for the slavers then, but you got away and we figured you’d be back.”
Jonmarc did not waste his breath with a reply. He remembered
Chessis’s fighting style from the last time, and recalled that the bounty hunter relied on strength rather than style, bashing his way through an enemy’s defense.
Chessis came at him again, driving Jonmarc back a step. Linton’s weight threw him off balance, and he caught himself against the center pole, jarring it hard enough to send the oil lantern crashing to the floor. Flames spread rapidly in the loose sawdust, but Chessis did not run.
“Burn or bleed,” Chessis taunted. “Your choice.”
Jonmarc had no desire to do either. He charged at Chessis, sword angled for a blow to the chest. Chessis parried, and Jonmarc swung suddenly to the right, using Linton’s dangling legs as a weapon and catching Chessis hard enough to send the bounty hunter onto his back and into the growing fire.
Smoke was rapidly filling the storehouse, and Jonmarc gasped for air. Across the way, he caught a glimpse of Vakkis and Trent still locked in combat. Corbin was fighting twohanded, using his iron bar to block the swings of a man in the uniform of a private guard.
Chessis rolled away from the fire to extinguish his burning shirt, and scrambled to his feet, coming after Jonmarc with a roar of obscenities. Chessis’s blade was angled to skewer Linton through the back, and Jonmarc dodged to the side, just as a streak of silver glinted in the firelight and one of Zane’s throwing knives lodged in Chessis’s shoulder.
Chessis howled in pain, but there was determination and hatred in his eyes and he slashed with his left hand, wielding a blade Jonmarc did not see until it was too late. The knife cut deep into his side, and Jonmarc bit back a cry of pain as he managed to land a solid kick to the bounty hunter’s chest that sent him sprawling.
“Come on!” Zane emerged from the smoke, and half pushed, half dragged Jonmarc and Linton out to the street.
“Trent, Corbin—” Jonmarc gasped, trying to breathe. The wound in his side staggered him, and he focused on keeping his feet.
Two figures crashed through what remained of the wooden door, wrestling for control of a single sword. Vakkis and Trent rolled into the rutted road, both bleeding from multiple gashes. Zane went running toward them, and Vakkis bucked beneath Trent’s weight, landing a solid kick before wresting out of Trent’s grip and running into the night.
Corbin came around the side of the storehouse as Zane helped Trent up. “Better hope Dugan got that wagon,” he grunted as he joined them. “Those flames are going to draw a crowd soon.”
Thick smoke poured from the upper windows of the storehouse and the broken doors. It looked to Jonmarc as if the entire first floor was engulfed in flames, and he wondered if Chessis had managed to get out, or if the bounty hunter had died in the flames.
Chessis is like a cockroach. He’s probably still alive, and madder than ever, Jonmarc thought. He could feel warm blood soaking his tunic and the waist of his trews, and he took deep, slow breaths, willing himself not to pass out.
From the direction of the plaza, Jonmarc heard the sound of boot steps and half a dozen guardsmen burst into the roadway, taking in the sight of the burning storehouse and the five wounded men who had obviously just come from a fight.
“I don’t think I’ll make it if we’ve got to fight our way out,” Jonmarc said, staggering a step under Linton’s weight and his own injury.
Trent let out an ear-piercing whistle and from behind them, Jonmarc heard the snap of reins and a drover’s cry. The wagon careened toward them with Dugan in the drivers’ seat, a crazed smile on his face and a hard glint in his eyes. Behind the wagon came a half dozen panicked horses, being driven from the stable by Kegan who was shouting and waving his arms to send the horses into a frenzied gallop.
Dugan angled the wagon for the guards, who had no choice but to throw themselves out of the way or be ridden down. “Get in!” he shouted as he reined in the horses.
Zane grabbed Linton from Jonmarc and tossed the caravan master into the bed of the wagon like a cord of firewood. Corbin climbed in over the side and Trent swung up beside Dugan as the wagon began to roll. Jonmarc had not realized Zane knew he had been wounded, but without a word, Zane hefted him and threw him into the back of the wagon, climbing on and reaching a hand back to grab Kegan’s outstretched arm and haul the healer up as the wagon sped up.
“Linton’s in bad shape,” Jonmarc said, holding tightly to the side slats of the wagon as it bumped over the cobblestones and ruts.
“You’re bleeding,” Zane said, eyeing the growing stain on
Jonmarc’s shirt.
“Linton’s worse,” Jonmarc said, trying not to lose consciousness as every jostle sent pain lancing through his side. If the guards had thought to give chase, the loss of their horses ended that option, and after the soldiers picked themselves up off the ground, they left off with shouted curses before turning back to the storehouse. Flames shot from the roof and had leapt to the stable next door. “Whatever was stored in there went up like a torch,”
Corbin commented. “With a little wind, that fire could take out the center of the city.”
“I suspect the Guild Master’s fortunes have taken a turn for the worse,” Zane chuckled.
Dugan shouted to the horses to keep up the pace and snapped the reins. The wagon rumbled at top speed, barely clearing the walls of the narrow alleys, and threatening to spill out its passengers or break a wheel as it jolted through the streets.
Stormgard’s massive entrance loomed ahead of them, and Jonmarc feared the guards might have lowered the portcullis, but the fire and fight were too far toward the center of the city to have attracted the attention of the soldiers. The night guard saw them coming, and looked as if, for a split second, he weighed his duty to try to stop them against the certainty of being run down. He and the other guard dove out of the way as Dugan sped through the gate with a cry of triumph.
Jonmarc managed to lash himself to the side of the wagon.
He was fading in and out of consciousness, and the night seemed much colder than he remembered it. Dimly, he heard the buzz of voices around him, but it took too much effort to focus on what was being said. Exhausted and in pain, he let the darkness take him as the wagon hurtled into the night.
WHEN THE DARKNESS lifted, Jonmarc realized two important things. The pain was gone, and he was warm. Maybe I’m dead, he thought, but if so, ‘dead’ felt a lot like lying on his cot back at the caravan.
“He’s awake.” The voice was nearby, and Jonmarc recognized it as Ada, the lead healer with the caravan.
Jonmarc opened his eyes slowly, feeling as if every muscle fought his will to move. Ada was sitting next to him, and Trent walked over, taking in Jonmarc’s condition with a shake of his head.
“You’re luckier than you deserve,” Trent said. “Chessis and Vakkis didn’t get their reputations as bounty hunters by missing their targets.” He managed a smile. “Good to have you back with us.”
“Linton?” Jonmarc’s mouth was dry and the word came out as more of a croak, but Ada seemed to understand.
“He’s fine. Just sleeping off a dose of Mussa poison. He’ll have a foul headache and not be able to keep any food down for a day or so, but he’ll survive,” she said with a half-smile.
“I thought… Mussa poison was… deadly.”
Trent leaned closer. “It is if you haven’t built up a tolerance. This isn’t the first time someone’s tried to poison Maynard. Since then, he’s taken a tiny dose every day, which means it would take a whopping amount to kill him.” He gave a conspiratorial grin. “But don’t tell anyone, or they might change what poison they use.”
Jonmarc felt for the place on his side where Chessis’s blade had cut him. The skin was unbroken, and the area was tender but no longer agonizing to touch. He looked to Ada. “Thank you.”
She nodded. “Glad to do it. Can’t help that you’ll have a scar.”
Jonmarc sank back into the cot and closed his eyes. “It probably won’t be the last.”
“Chessis didn’t die in the fire.” Trent’s voice made Jonmarc open his eyes a
gain. “Vakkis is gone—no idea where and I don’t care. But we heard from one of Linton’s informants that Chessis’s body wasn’t found in the ashes, so he may be injured, but he’s still alive—and he’s going to be out for your blood for sure.”
“Not the first,” Jonmarc replied, still groggy from the healing.
“If there’s a bright side, the man who hired Vakkis and Chessis not only lost his storehouse and stable, but word has it he is no longer head of the Merchant Guild,” Trent said, sounding rather pleased. “In fact, it seems that some powerful men in Stormgard have let him know he is no longer welcome inside the city walls.”
“Good to hear,” Jonmarc murmured. He wasn’t sure what Ada had done, but he felt cocooned in honeyed warmth. He didn’t feel like fighting sleep, and he suspected Ada had a hand in that, too.
“I’ll expect you at the forge tomorrow, bright and early,” Trent said brusquely. “No malingering.”
Jonmarc let the voices drift out of reach. He was alive, which was more than he expected, and so was Linton. He let that knowledge sustain him as he sank into a deep, healing sleep. The caravan had taken care of its own.
MONSTROSITIES
“I’M GOING TO take you down.” Jonmarc Vahanian muttered between gritted teeth as he swung his sword. Steel clanged against steel as their blades hit, with a jolt that shuddered down Jonmarc’s arm.
His attacker disengaged and lunged, forcing Jonmarc into a series of desperate parries. One of the blows got inside his guard, slicing down his forearm.
He gave an angry roar and took the offensive, delivering blow after blow that rang out as their swords clashed. He scored a hit on his attacker’s shoulder, only to be driven back with strikes that nearly took him off his feet.
His attacker wheeled into a high kick, and his boot connected hard with Jonmarc’s sword arm, sending his blade flying and numbing his hand beyond use. In the next instant, a sword’s point nicked the underside of Jonmarc’s chin.
“I win.”
The Shadowed Path Page 20
