Jonmarc was bleeding from gashes on his arms and back where he had fallen when the beast threw him. His left ankle had bent badly under him in the last fall, and he suspected it might be broken. He was tiring fast, and with the vayash moru down, it was up to him and Madeg—and Alyzza.
Alyzza leveled her willow staff at the cat-creature and a blast of brilliant light struck it in the chest. The creature shrieked and fell back, dragging Clark along with it, impaled on its hideous claws. It gave a low, deep-throated growl, as if daring Jonmarc to come at it again.
Madeg’s sword took the beast full in its chest. Jonmarc mustered his courage for another strike, fearing that Clark might not survive. Ignoring the pain in his damaged ankle, Jonmarc ran at the monster’s front leg, holding the sword two-handed, swinging with all his might. The sword still glowed with Alyzza’s enchantment, a dim phosphorescent green that reflected eerily from the clouds of mist. All around them, the glowing blue orbs bobbed and wove through the clouds of fog Just as Jonmarc’s sword ripped into the dead flesh of the monster, Alyzza sent a different swell of magic streaming from her staff. This time, the magic flowed out in a cone, amber-colored, holding the monster in its place. Madeg raised his voice, adding his magic to Alyzza’s spells, and Jonmarc saw the light grow brighter. The creature shrieked and snapped, frozen in the glare of the magic, its red eyes murderously bright.
Jonmarc hacked at the thing’s leg, finally cutting through, freeing Clark. Clark moaned in pain as Jonmarc dragged him back from the fight. The creature gave one final howl of fury and collapsed. Madeg stabbed it once more through the skull, and the monster lay still.
The glow from Alyzza’s staff faded. Jonmarc sprang back from the creature, alert for a trick, but the cat-thing slowly dissolved into dark tendrils of mist and disappeared.
From deep inside the black maw of the elder barrow, Jonmarc heard a new, angry growl.
He was breathing hard and bleeding fast. His entire body ached from the fight, and he was soaked in the monster’s fetid ichor. Two of Jonmarc’s companions had been destroyed and the third was in no condition to fight. One look at Alyzza told him all he needed to know about the toll the magic was taking on her. Madeg was bleeding and carried himself as if he might have broken ribs. They could not fight another creature.
“I am not finished!” Madeg roared. He strode toward the barrow, planting himself at the dark maw of the entrance, and raised his arms to the sky.
“Lethyrashem!” he shouted.
Madeg began to chant, a guttural, strange language unfamiliar to Jonmarc. As the stranger spoke, flashes of white light flared through the mist, moving between and over the immobilized caravan crew, driving back the malevolent fog and sending the blue orbs fleeing.
The thing in the barrow howled again in rage. Madeg brought his hands down and then together with a sharp movement, and the side of the elder barrow began to shudder and shake until rocks fell and the ground collapsed to fill the opening completely.
The fog vanished, and with it, the visions. The orbs winked out.
Jonmarc watched their rescuer warily. He had not sheathed his sword, though it no longer glowed its greenish hue. Alyzza left off chanting, and went to kneel beside Clark.
Madeg took several items from a pouch at his belt, then bent down and worked them into the dirt at the mouth of the barrow. To Jonmarc’s eye, the items looked like charms and talismans, magical pieces that would bind whatever dwelled within, keeping it locked in its prison, at least a while longer.
Madeg spoke in low tones, still in the unfamiliar language. Jonmarc could not tell whether he was praying to the Lady or saying spells over the sealed barrow, or both.
Now that the fight was over, Jonmarc’s anger flared.
“Two men and a child are dead. All those people have been trapped in torment. We nearly died!” Jonmarc snapped. “If you knew about the wights, why didn’t you warn us? You rode this way earlier in the day.” Anger and pain made him reckless, and he did not shy away from meeting the stranger’s amber eyes.
“Your seer warned you, and no one listened,” Madeg said, but how he knew that was a mystery to Jonmarc. “Would your people have listened to me, a stranger, when they would not heed one of their own?” As much as Jonmarc wanted someone to blame for the night’s tragedy, he knew Madeg was right.
“I grieve your losses,” Madeg said. “My people ride the barrows, up and down the length of the kingdom and beyond. There are few of us, and many barrows. My circuit is a long one. When you saw me earlier, I had just come from sealing another barrow, several candlemarks’ ride away.”
He paused. “I had to gather my strength to heal, because I feared there would be trouble.” Up close, Jonmarc could see that in addition to the damage Madeg had taken in the night’s work, he bore older wounds that were not yet fully healed. “It takes time to raise the kind of power needed to quiet the spirits.”
“We have healers,” Jonmarc said, trying to make up for his outburst. “You’re hurt.”
Madeg shook his head. “Thank you, but no. My people have their own ways.” He looked behind Jonmarc. All across the meadow, the caravan was awakening, abuzz in confusion.
“You fought well,” Madeg said. “Your people will be safe now. Avoid the barrows, and the road ahead is clear.” With that, he headed off to the tree line, and disappeared into the darkness.
“Jonmarc!” Dugan and Kegan bounded up to him. The fog was gone, and the night air was cooler than usual. Both of his friends looked haggard, and Jonmarc could see the tracks of tears through the dust on their faces.
“Dark Lady take my soul!” Kegan exclaimed. “What happened to us?”
Dugan looked Jonmarc up and down, taking in his injuries, the torn clothing and bloodied sword, and the way Jonmarc stood, favoring his ankle. “We need to get you to the healers,” Dugan said. “Here, lean on me.” Dugan got under one of Jonmarc’s arms and Kegan supported him on the other side.
“Clark needs it more than I do,” Jonmarc said, trying to see past them to where Alyzza bent over the vayash moru.
“If he’s still got his head and his heart, he’ll heal up on his own,” Dugan said. “You won’t.
“Once we fix you up, I want to hear the story about how you ended up looking like you fought the Formless One,” he said with a look that promised he wouldn’t relent until he heard the tale.
Across the way, Jonmarc could hear Linton shouting and saw the caravan crew running to heed his orders. Near the elder barrow, the tinker and his wife keened in grief over their murdered child. Jonmarc shuddered, and hoped they would find her a more peaceful burial place.
“What’s going on?” he asked, wincing as he put weight on his damaged ankle.
“Linton’s made up his mind,” Kegan said. “We pull up stakes and move out at dawn.”
DEAD MAN’S BET
“IF YOU WANT to take up soldiering, you might as well practice by guarding the caravan when Trent can spare you.” Karl Steen, caravan guard and one-time soldier leveled a challenging gaze at his sword-fighting pupil.
Jonmarc Vahanian splashed water on his face to wash away the sweat. Most nights after Jonmarc was finished with his tasks as apprentice to Trent, the caravan’s blacksmith, he and Steen drilled with swords and knives. It was all part of Steen’s attempt to make sure that if Jonmarc did carry through on his plan to join up with the mercenary groups in Principality, he was properly prepared to live through the experience.
“Fine by me. What did Trent have to say about it?” Jonmarc asked, shaking out water from his long, chestnutbrown hair like a wet dog. At eighteen, Jonmarc stood a little over six feet tall, with a body made strong by years working in the forge. He was good at blacksmithing, but he had a natural talent for fighting, and he hoped that making a fresh start in Principality might put distance between him and the losses of his past.
Steen shrugged. “Trent means well. He cares about you like a son, figures you’ve had enough raw deals in your life. And I don
’t think his own soldiering turned out like he expected. What do you think he said?”
Jonmarc shrugged, knowing that both Steen and Trent were trying to look out for him in their own ways. “I figure he still wants me to stay on with the caravan, helping him out.” He sighed. “And I’m grateful for everything the caravan’s done for me. It’s just that I need to do this. Join up, I mean. I can’t explain it. I just know.”
Steen nodded. “Linton runs a great caravan. It’s a place people come back to, when there’s nowhere else to go. It’s a place you end up. You’re too young for that.”
“Linton was fine with me helping out as a guard?” Jonmarc asked. Maynard Linton ran the most successful caravan in the Winter Kingdoms. His traveling road show of acrobats, animal trainers, artisans, performers and oddities crossed from one side of Margolan to the other, sometimes even into neighboring Principality and Dhasson.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Steen replied. “Linton said you’d already proven your worth in a fight a few times over.”
That much was true. It had been just a little more than a year since Jonmarc had begged Linton for sanctuary. Since then, he had seen more adventure than he had expected as the caravan’s route took it on an unpredictable journey of the best and the worst that the kingdom had to offer. Danger went with a life on the road, and Jonmarc had helped to resolve more than one troublesome situation.
“With luck, we’ll just have a nice ride out and back, nothing to worry about,” Jonmarc said, and meant it. He never intended to go looking for danger, but it seemed to have a knack for finding him.
“With luck,” Steen echoed.
The caravan was heading to one of its last stops before crossing the Nu River into Principality. It would take several more days to reach the small towns and villages where the caravan would set up its tents and wonders. Before then, provisions would be needed to help the cooks, healers, riggers, blacksmiths, and all the behind-the-scenes workers keep the caravan going. And since the wagons heading to market were likely to have money and those coming back from market had valuable items, guards were needed to protect them from highwaymen in an area where the king’s guards were scarce.
“Tell me again why we couldn’t just take the forest road?” Jonmarc asked as they rode. The two-wagon supply party was heading back laden with materials to keep the caravan eating and functioning. The cook’s assistant and baker’s helper had purchased barrels of flour and oil as well as baskets full of fresh produce and herbs for the healers. Casks of ale and a few small barrels of whiskey augured pleasant evenings. Boxes of wax, coils of wire and rope, lengths of canvas, a barrel of quicklime, and a box of nails rounded out the order, along with sundry odds and ends requested by the riggers, farriers, merchants, and others who kept the caravan in good working order. Large canvas tarpaulins were tied down over the cargo, since the hedge witches predicted storms on the horizon.
“You’ve really never heard of the Ruune Vidaya forest?” Steen asked, looking at Jonmarc in amazement.
Jonmarc shook his head. “Sorry, no. I grew up in the Borderlands, remember? We had hardly heard of the Nu River, or anything east of the palace city.”
“The Ruune Vidaya forest is haunted,” Steen said with a grin.
“Yeah, sure.”
Steen nodded. “Truly. A couple of hundred years ago, a man named Jaq the Damned slaughtered peasants who dared to revolt. It’s said that their spirits haunt the forest to this day, taking vengeance on oppressors. No one’s exactly sure how the spirits figure out who they don’t like, so everyone stays clear.”
Jonmarc slid his gaze sideways. “And you believe that?”
Once again, Steen nodded. “I’m skeptical of a lot of things, but I believe in vengeful ghosts.”
Just then, the party came to a halt. Jonmarc and Steen, who had been riding in the back, exchanged worried glances. “What’s going on? Why are we stopping?” Jonmarc called out.
Two of the regular guards rode in front of the wagons. One of the guards gestured to where the road was blocked by a fallen tree. “Can’t get past,” he said. “We’re going to have to go around.”
Jonmarc sighed. Wild thunderstorms had raged earlier in the day, and they had seen many trees down along their journey. The storm had delayed their departure, keeping them in the village market several candlemarks past when they had hoped to begin the journey home. Now, they would have to backtrack and take an unfamiliar return route, nearly guaranteeing that they would still be traveling after dark.
“Let’s see if we can move it,” Steen suggested. “I’m not familiar with the roads around here.”
Jonmarc and Steen dismounted, as did the guards. Kegan, one of the apprentice healers, and Dugan, a junior rigger, also jumped down from the wagons, and so did the baker and cook.
“Wait,” the cook said, pointing. “Even if we move the tree, it won’t make a difference. The bridge is out.” Jonmarc followed his gesture. What the cook said was true. Just ahead, past the downed tree, the bridge they had crossed earlier in the day was badly damaged. It would be far too risky to take two heavily laden wagons across.
Steen swore under his breath. “All right. Turn around. There was a crossroads about a mile back. We’ll use dead reckoning to figure out a way back to the caravan.”
“Does this mean we can get dinner at a tavern?” Dugan asked expectantly.
Kegan elbowed him. “You just want to down a couple of pints before we get back to the caravan.”
“We don’t have time to drag your sorry asses back with us,” Jonmarc jibed with a grin. Dugan and Kegan were close to his age, and the three young men had become fast friends.
“It would be best if we could return before dark,” one of the guards said. “There’ve been reports of trouble in these parts. Highwaymen, and worse.”
Worse? Jonmarc wondered. The village where they had gone to market seemed peaceable enough, and as he looked around them now, all he saw were well-tended fields and stone fences, hardly dangerous territory.
The road was narrow and muddy from the recent storm, but they managed to get the wagons turned without getting stuck. Though it was early afternoon, the sky was dark with rainclouds, and the fields around them were soaked and empty, too wet for farmers to work. It gave the area a desolate feel that made Jonmarc shiver.
Backtracking to the crossroads took most of a candlemark. The mud and ruts made the road slow for the wagons. Even the horses trod carefully, picking their way through the muck. Fields sprawled as far as the eye could see on three sides, and in the distance, the vast Ruune Vidaya forest stretched like thunderheads along the horizon.
“Not much choice about the way to go,” Vitt, one of the guards said. He stood, hands on hips, in the middle of the crossroads. “We can go back to the village, which doesn’t help. We can go south, but that’s taking us farther from the caravan. Which leaves us one road.”
“It looks to head in the right direction,” Mort, the second guard agreed, peering through the drizzle. “But no way to tell if it bends off somewhere.”
“It’s farm country,” Steen said. “That’s why we’re not set up and performing. Harvest was poor around here. Folks aren’t feeling wealthy enough to spare coins for entertainment. So the roads will be few and far between so as not to cut up the fields.” He swore under his breath. “Problem is, we could go miles out of our way before we hit another crossroads to take us back toward the caravan.”
Jonmarc followed the run of the road. It took them north, into less traveled country, and veered closer to the forest. “Not likely to pass many travelers that way if we get stuck,” Jonmarc observed. “Doesn’t look like there’s much in that direction.”
Vitt nodded. “Less traffic might mean fewer ruts. Then again, with the main road out, there might be more of us than you’d expect going this way.”
“I’d feel better with a few more travelers around,” Steen muttered. “There was more traffic coming toward the village. Someone ought to
be heading home besides us.”
Mort shrugged. “Maybe the others had business that kept them longer, or decided to stay the night and avoid the rain.” He gestured toward the wide-open fields. “It’s not like anyone’s going to sneak up on us.”
“Can we move?” Betta, the cook’s apprentice, yelled back to them. “We’re getting soaked, and if that canvas doesn’t keep the water out of the flour, Cook’s going to serve your heads for dinner!”
They headed out, and for the first half-candlemark after the crossroads, the road was good. Jonmarc rode up alongside the wagon that Kegan drove, with Dugan alongside. Jonmarc and the other guards had worn their swords, but he was surprised to see that Dugan wore a long knife in a sheath on his belt.
“Did you expect to get into a fight at the market?” Jonmarc joked.
Dugan grimaced. “With you around, it’s possible.” Jonmarc had to agree that some of their past provisioning runs had ended in trouble.
“I heard the riggers talking,” Dugan said quietly. “They heard some of the customers at our last stop mention that there’ve been highwaymen around these parts. Bandits, brigands, whatever you want to call them. People have gone missing.”
“Murdered?” Jonmarc asked, raising an eyebrow. Throughout most of the kingdom, King Bricen’s guards kept the roads well clear of cutpurse gangs. It was always folly to travel alone after dark for anyone but a skilled fighter, but the incidents that did occur usually were no worse than an unwary traveler relieved of his coins or possessions. Stealing a man’s purse might earn a thief time in irons. Killing his mark was a sure way to a swift hanging.
“Who knows?” Dugan said, shrugging. “You know how rumors fly. People talk. Dimmons, rogue vayash moru, slavers, even blood mages—no idea seems too crazy when folks need something to do with their time.”
“Maybe that’s why Linton wanted extra guards on this run,” Jonmarc said.
Kegan gave a harsh laugh. “Likely. He’d stand to lose good money if we got waylaid going in either direction.”
The Shadowed Path Page 26
