The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Pol shuffled through the food line and stood just outside the circle where Jonmarc and the others ate. “Room for one more?” he asked in a tone that said he would not have been surprised to be turned away.

  “Plenty,” Kegan said, sliding down to make a space on the log. “You in for the adventure tonight?”

  Pol nodded, still not making eye contact. “Should be interesting,” he said without looking up.

  “I’m thinking it’ll be pretty tame,” Jonmarc said. “After all, we’ve had vyrkin and vayash moru here in the caravan. Most people think they’re monsters, but they’re not. After that, what could still be strange?”

  “My grandfather told stories about a show like that,” Dugan said. “Said there were creatures who were cursed by the Lady, maybe even some that crawled out of the underworld.”

  Kegan rolled his eyes. “I heard the master healers talking about it. They said such things happen when the body’s humours are shifted. Things get off center, odd, like when a wagon’s wheel isn’t on the axle right.”

  “Guess we’ll see for ourselves,” Jonmarc said. “You ready to go?”

  Linton had loaned them a wagon for the occasion, more proof that the caravan master was seriously worried. When Jonmarc and the others reached the wagon, they found Trent, Corbin, and Zane the knife-thrower waiting for them, along with Karl. The men were dressed all in black, astride black horses so that they blended into the night.

  “We’ll follow you,” Trent said. “And we’ll wait outside the show. If all goes well, no one will know we’re there.”

  Jonmarc had seen battle with Trent and the other men. Left unspoken was just how much trouble they could cause if things did not go well. Jonmarc’s hand fell to the hilt of the large knife in its sheath on his belt. Wearing his swords would have been conspicuous, but Jonmarc would have felt better with a bigger blade at hand. He noticed that Dugan and Pol also wore knives. Kegan carried a stout walking stick.

  “Tell me again why healers can bash someone over the head with a stick, but using a knife is forbidden?” Jonmarc asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I could, but you still wouldn’t understand,” Kegan replied. It was an old debate between them, mostly in jest.

  Dugan already sat in the driver’s seat of the wagon. “Come on!” he urged. Jonmarc swung up beside him, while the others piled into the back. It was already dark, and Jonmarc watched the sides of the road for wolves. The ride to Dunleigh took less than half a candlemark, but Jonmarc found himself on edge, unable to get Alyzza’s warnings out of his mind.

  “There it is,” Dugan said, pointing.

  Pitched at the crossroads was a large tent, larger than the biggest of the caravan’s enclosures. Torches burned on posts along a pathway leading to the tent, and the tent glowed with fire from within. As they drew closer, Jonmarc saw a large banner hung across the entrance. ‘Monstrosities’, he read. Beneath it was another banner in red, ‘Come and see’. Outside the door stood a man collecting coins. A small line waited to enter.

  Dugan pulled the horse and wagon off the road and threw the reins over the branch of a tree. Jonmarc knew that Trent and the others would keep an eye out for thieves. He glanced toward the shadows of the tree line, and spotted the men, although with their dark clothing and black horses, he would not have seen them if he had not known where to look. Reassured, he jangled the coin in his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said to the others.

  Jonmarc and Dugan walked in front, with Kegan and Pol behind them. An unusually short, fat man held a chubby hand out for their coins. “One copper each,” he said in a voice that sounded like it belonged to a roustabout.

  The man watched them as they entered as if he thought they might set the tent afire. They walked past the tent flap, and stopped.

  “Well now, that’s not quite what I expected,” Dugan murmured.

  Stages were set up all along the tent’s walls, each with a stranger exhibit than the last. In the center of the tent, several performances were underway. A small cluster of visitors milled about, tittering and pointing.

  “Let’s see what there is to see,” Jonmarc said, heading toward the nearest stage. A man led a slow parade of animals across the platform, each more hideously deformed than the last. A two-headed calf balked at the lead, its second head hanging blackened and shrunken from its neck. Behind it was a sheep with three extra legs protruding from its body and hobbling its gait. A dog with a badly misshapen head followed, and a pig with two snouts.

  Some of the onlookers jeered and laughed. Jonmarc felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. “There’s something very wrong here,” he said quietly.

  “Agreed,” Dugan replied.

  On the next stage, an unnaturally muscular man held a huge snake. When Jonmarc and his friends drew closer, they realized that the snake was covered with large growths that rippled as it moved.

  “Do you see the face?” Kegan whispered over Jonmarc’s shoulder.

  Jonmarc could not take his eyes from the snake. Beneath the scales and despite the elongated snout, the eyes that looked back at him were human.

  “Just keep going,” Jonmarc murmured. He glanced behind them and saw Pol straggling behind. “Keep up,” he whispered. “We don’t want to get separated.”

  The next stage had a large banner that read, ‘See the Spider Girl’. A thin girl was on her hands and knees on the stage, with four sets of arms and legs. As Jonmarc and the others watched in horrified amazement, she reared back on two limbs, then moved through a series of contortions that defied even the skills of the acrobats Jonmarc had seen with Linton’s caravan. Her body twisted and bent in places Jonmarc was certain there were no natural joints, and beneath the torch light, her skin had a gloss to it that looked like a carapace.

  ‘The Human Bull’ the next banner proclaimed. Kegan caught his breath as they came into view. The creature on stage was neither man nor beast. The head was broad like a bull but with human features, although a thick brass ring pierced the creature’s nose. Massive shoulders ended in hooves, like the forequarters of a bull, while the bottom torso and legs were those of a man. The creature’s skin was mottled with patchy bits of ox hide. The eyes in the distorted face were human, and as the beast was prodded to turn and parade for the jeering crowd, those eyes fixed Jonmarc’s gaze with an anguished stare.

  Every stage held a new transmogrification, each more hideous than the last. The ‘Stawar-Man’ had the heavy head and shoulders of the big predatory cat and the spindly legs and scrawny body of a half-grown boy. It seemed to Jonmarc that whatever power had made the combinations took the weakest and ugliest portions of both.

  Some of the wretches on the stages appeared to have been twisted and tangled by an angry god. Arms or legs were elongated far beyond their normal lengths, jointed backwards like a dog, or bent in unnatural ways. Under the banner of ‘The Boneless Wonder’, a gelatinous mass flopped on the stage like one of the creatures fished out of the deep sea, save for the desperate, all-too-human eyes.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jonmarc muttered.

  But before they could turn, a ring of torch light flared in the center of the tent. The aimless crowd turned to stare at the figures moving into the flaming ring. One was an impossibly tall man dressed in a black frock coat and trousers, with high black boots. In front of him scuttled a half dozen pathetic creatures, grossly twisted and altered. Each was an unholy combination of human and animal parts, cobbled together by nightmares. The master snapped a white whip and the cursed beings limped and hobbled through their paces.

  “Is that whip what I think it is?” Dugan wondered in horror. Pol edged closer for a better look.

  “It looks like a spine,” Kegan murmured, and his face had gone pale.

  The audience cheered and clapped, catcalling and pointing. As the man with the frock coat took his bow, the torches flared again, and the next stage in the middle of the tent became the center of attention.

  “Look at that,” Dugan whispered as a man
made his way on stage. His gait was hitched and his shoulders stooped, but all the audience cared about was the slender iron shaft that appeared to impale his skull, its ends obvious on either side of his hairless head. A woman shambled behind him. Hundreds of needles protruded from her skin everywhere on her body, as her scandalously brief scrap of clothing made clear. Behind her staggered a man with a lance through his belly, its point clearly evident poking through his shirtless back, its broken shaft penetrating his belly.

  “I really think we need to go,” Jonmarc hissed urgently. Kegan and Dugan seemed to share his uneasiness, but Pol was staring at the center stage with rapt attention. “Come on,” he said, tugging at Pol’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

  The tent had grown more crowded since they had entered. Jonmarc had to shoulder his way through the press of people. He glanced behind him, catching a glimpse of the others, only to be cut off again by the mob. It felt as if he were swimming upstream, caught in a current, and the tent’s doorway looked much farther away than he remembered walking. Odd thoughts flitted through his mind, images best forgotten, random impulses that did not feel like his own. Impatiently, Jonmarc brushed them aside, focused on the door.

  “You don’t want to leave now,” the fare man chided. “Things are just starting to get interesting.”

  Jonmarc pushed past him. “I’ve seen enough,” he growled, striding toward the door. Everything he had seen disgusted him, yet as he stepped toward the darkness outside the tent, out of the warmth of the torches within, it felt as if something tugged at his sleeves and caught at his ankles to make him stop.

  Fear welled up in him, deep in his gut. Jonmarc hurled himself across the threshold, bursting into the cold darkness of the spring night. Kegan stumbled out behind him, and Dugan nearly plunged face first into the dirt.

  “Where’s Pol?” Jonmarc said, wheeling to look behind them.

  The tent and everything in it vanished.

  Jonmarc and the others stood staring, dumbfounded, at the empty space where the huge tent had been. Trent, Corbin, Karl, and Zane galloped up.

  “Where’s Pol?” Corbin demanded.

  “He was a step behind us,” Jonmarc said, staring aghast at the open field. “There was a crowd, and we had to push our way through. We got separated, but I saw him just behind Dugan, right before I made it through the door.”

  “I got the feeling that something didn’t want us to leave,” Kegan said. “Like it was pulling us back. Maybe Pol couldn’t get loose.”

  Jonmarc and the others tramped across the field, assuring themselves that the traveling show was actually gone, and not just somehow hidden from view. Nothing remained, not even footpaths trodden over the dry grasses. Trent swore loudly, while Corbin looked near panic. Zane looked like he wanted to kill someone. Karl’s mouth was a tight, angry line.

  “We’ve got to find him. By the Crone! I’m responsible for that boy!” Corbin groaned.

  “Let’s get back to the caravan, and sort things out there. Nothing to be done here tonight,” Trent said. He held up a hand to forestall Corbin’s protest. “I’m not giving up on Pol. But standing in an empty field won’t help him. I don’t think they’re going to reappear—at least, not here.”

  “I’ll stay, to make sure,” Corbin said, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “Until daylight. Just in case.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Zane said. “The rest of you, go back.” Jonmarc suspected that Zane did not expect the caravan to show up, but he would not allow Corbin to keep his vigil alone.

  Jonmarc and the others rode in silence back to the caravan. Trent and Karl followed them, their cloaks thrown back and their swords visible. They saw no one on the return journey, but Jonmarc could not shake the feeling of being watched. Linton was waiting for them when they arrived.

  “Well?” He asked expectantly, and then his face fell. “Wait—where are the others?”

  “Pol disappeared, along with the entire tent and everything in it,” Trent snapped. “Corbin and Zane are keeping watch where things were.”

  “Disappeared?” Linton repeated incredulously. “Come in and tell me all about it.” They followed the caravan master to his tent, and he waved them to be seated. “Start from the beginning,” he said.

  Linton listened in silence as Jonmarc told the story, then peppered Dugan and Kegan with questions. Finally, he sat back and let out a long breath. “Well,” he said, “I didn’t expect that.”

  “The real question is: what do we do now? Corbin’s beside himself.” Trent said. “He won’t leave without Pol.”

  “And there’s no reason to think the monstrosities show will come back,” Jonmarc replied. He looked from Trent to Linton. “I don’t think the creatures we saw in there were accidents of birth. Magic did that—bad magic. And I think it took Pol.”

  Trent frowned. “Why do you think it wanted Pol and not any of the rest of you?”

  Jonmarc searched for the words to express himself. “It seemed to speak to Pol,” he said finally. “Kegan and Dugan and I didn’t like what we saw. Most of the people around us were laughing, not taking it very seriously. But Pol seemed to be drawn to what was going on. And I think whatever it was called to him.”

  “Listen to the boy.” They startled at the sound of the hoarse voice. Alyzza stood in the doorway, wrapped in a stained and torn gray cloak.

  “What do you know of this?” Linton demanded.

  “I know blood magic when I feel it,” Alyzza rasped. “I heard the tale the boy told,” she said with a nod toward Jonmarc. “That’s not a mage you face; it’s a dimonn.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the Formless One herself, how to we get Pol back?” Linton replied.

  Alyzza made the sign of the Lady in warding. “Don’t speak of such things, even in jest,” she said, shaking her head. “Words have power.”

  “Those creatures you described, the ones in the tent,” Karl said. “They sound like ashtenerath.”

  “That’s foul magic you speak of,” Linton said, fingering an amulet on a strap around his throat. “I pray you’re mistaken.”

  “What are ashtenerath?” Dugan asked.

  Karl met his gaze. “Men, twisted by blood magic and potions—and pain—until they’re broken and mad, used to do the bidding of their maker. I’ve fought them on the battlefield.”

  “Can they be saved?” Kegan had gone pale at Karl’s description.

  “Not that I ever heard,” Karl replied. “Just put out of their misery.”

  “I will not believe that of Pol, not until I see it myself,” Trent’s anger was clear.

  “If it’s magic that strong, what can we do?” Linton asked. “And what can a hedge witch do against a dimonn?”

  Alyzza chuckled, a wheezing sound. “You might be surprised. Yes, you might,” she replied, wagging a finger at Linton. “First, we call the dimonn, and then we trap him. Then, we get Corbin’s boy back.”

  Trent sighed in exasperation. “She’s mad,” he said, beginning to pace. “Call a dimonn?”

  Alyzza stood up to him and drew herself up to her full height. She was tiny compared to Trent’s huge form, her head barely reaching his ribs, but her eyes sparked fire. “How else do you think you’ll find him, huh? Ride every crossroads in the kingdom at midnight?” She shook her head. “You won’t find him unless you call him.”

  “No one sane calls a dimonn!” Trent argued.

  Alyzza laughed. “No,” she agreed. “They don’t. Do you want the boy back, or not?”

  “DO YOU THINK the dimonn will come?” Dugan asked nervously as they crouched in the darkness. Only one night had passed since the ill-fated journey to the monstrosities show, but preparations for the evening’s foray had taken nearly every candlemark.

  “Alyzza thinks it will,” Jonmarc replied.

  “Maybe she’s crazy,” Kegan whispered.

  Jonmarc watched the old woman as she unpacked her things from a satchel. “Maybe she is. Doesn’t mean she’s not right about
this.”

  After picking up Corbin and Zane, they traveled half a candlemark from where the monstrosities show had appeared, to a crossroads Alyzza judged just right for the type of magic to be worked. Alyzza had insisted that each of them fill their pockets with iron nails, and she had made them all necklaces of iron nails to wear against their skin. She also prevailed upon Linton to give each of them a gold coin to hold for the night.

  “This type of dimonn hates iron and gold,” she told them. “That’s why he didn’t take a smithy like you,” she said, thrusting a gnarled finger at Jonmarc. “It wouldn’t want a healer,” she said with a look at Kegan, “and you weren’t going to feed it the way Pol would have,” she added, glancing at Dugan.

  “What do you mean by that?” Dugan challenged.

  Alyzza chuckled. “Challenge the witch who’s going to tangle with a dimonn, will you?” she said slyly. “That’s what I mean. You’re a fighter. Dimonns like the weak.”

  Jonmarc remembered Pol’s hesitant stance, and the way he hung back from the conversation. Perhaps it was his nature, or the effect of the scars the pox left him with, but of the four of them, Pol had been the weakest. “It’s my fault he came along,” Jonmarc said. “I suggested it.”

  Alyzza gave him a glance that seemed to see down to his bones. “You meant no harm,” she grated.

  I never do, Jonmarc thought bitterly. But in the end, someone dies.

  “There are different types of dimonns?” Trent asked.

  Alyzza nodded. “Aye. And each with its own weaknesses and hungers. I’ve heard tell of this kind, the ones they call gwyndullhan, the ‘form twister’.” She made a sign of warding. “Not as many about as there used to be, thank the Lady. They served the Old Ones, like Konost and Shanthadura.”

  Jonmarc repressed a shiver. He knew the names of those beings from the bogey stories told to keep children close to the fires at night. As legends, they had frightened him as a child. Finding out they were true was terrifying.