Vitt and Mort rode in front, far enough ahead to scout the road. Betta and Jemman, helpers to the cook and the baker, drove the first wagon, while Dugan and Kegan drove the second. Jonmarc and Steen took up the rear.
If it came to a fight, Jonmarc knew Dugan and Steen could hold their own. Kegan wasn’t much of a fighter, but he had nerve, and he could think on his feet. Jonmarc did not know Vitt and Mort other than to see them around the camp, but the guards were strong and their swords looked as if they had seen use. Betta had a temper, but Jonmarc doubted she had ever used a knife on anything more dangerous than a plucked chicken. Jemman was a little older than Jonmarc, and very shy. Kneading dough had given him strong hands and arms, but Jonmarc was not counting on help from him if things got rough.
“Thanks,” Jonmarc said. “I’d better get back with Steen.”
Dugan nodded. “I’d be just as happy if this errand stayed boring, if you know what I mean. We’ve had enough tales to tell.”
“I brought my basic healing kit, but I’d rather not have reason to use it,” Kegan added.
Jonmarc scowled. “You make it sound like I go looking for problems.”
Dugan chuckled. “You don’t have to. It finds you, like moths to flame.”
“Very funny,” Jonmarc remarked dryly and fell back to ride beside Steen. Dugan’s comment bothered him far more than the other had intended. Jonmarc had never told Dugan—or any of the others—about the curse.
Three years ago, raiders had killed Jonmarc’s family and his village. Jonmarc had fought with all his might, taking down several of the raiders before being badly wounded and left to die. One of the raiders had cursed him with his dying breath, damning him to lose all he loved to the flames. When a hedge witch and her daughter rescued Jonmarc and took him to their nearby village, he had discounted the curse, until a dangerous mage and magicked monsters brought the curse to his new home, destroying everything and leaving him alive to bear the pain.
Trent doesn’t understand that I’ve overstayed my welcome with the caravan, Jonmarc thought. yes, I’ve helped them out of some tight spots, but maybe those misfortunes wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been part of the crew. I need to get out before more people I care about die. At least if I’m a soldier, dying is our business.
“I don’t like this.” Steen’s voice jarred Jonmarc out of his thoughts. Steen sat tall in his saddle, looking from side to side, on high alert.
“Not crazy about the rain myself,” Jonmarc replied, slouching in his cloak against the drizzle.
Steen shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Even with the rain, even out here, we should have passed someone else. And look at this road,” he said, gesturing. “It’s getting worse the farther we go, without a crossroad in sight except a few farm lanes.”
“You think we should have taken the southern road?” Jonmarc asked. “There’s no guarantee it would have been the more traveled or better road.”
“I’m thinking that we’re being herded,” Steen said. “What if that tree didn’t fall by accident? Awfully convenient for the bridge to be out, too.”
“Seems like a lot of work for someone to pick our pockets,” Jonmarc replied.
“Maybe,” Steen allowed. “But it might not be our pockets they’re after.”
Steen fell silent after that, and Jonmarc did not feel like talking. Whether it was Steen’s worry or Dugan’s rumors, something cast a pall over the afternoon, making Jonmarc ill at ease.
Up ahead, the ruins of an old barn hunkered on the right, and not far behind it, the dark fringe of the Ruune Vidaya forest. The sound of hoof beats made Jonmarc turn to see four men on horseback riding down one of the farm lanes. They turned onto the road behind the group.
In the distance, Jonmarc spotted more travelers, coming their way. “We’re not the only ones traveling anymore,” he said.
Steen looked worried. “No, we’re not. Funny how that changed all of a sudden.”
Vitt and Mort must have also concluded that something was amiss. Jonmarc saw both men flick their cloaks back to give them fast access to their swords. Dugan drew his knife and laid it across his lap. The drizzle gave way to rain, and in the distance, Jonmarc heard thunder.
Leaving the road to go around the newcomers would have been difficult on horseback. It was impossible for the wagons, even if the edges of the road had not been mud. The two wagons pulled to one side to let the oncoming rider pass. Behind Jonmarc and Steen, the second group of riders were closing quickly.
The oncoming riders moved to the other side. But once they drew level with the first wagon, two of the riders wheeled on Betta and Jemman, swords drawn, while the other two rode for Vitt and Mort.
Behind them, four more riders spurred their horses on, quickly closing the gap, swords raised. And rising from the tall, dead weeds on the side of the road, four additional men leapt from cover, armed with knives and swords.
Jonmarc drew his sword fast enough to block the downward swing of the nearest brigand. An odd triangleshaped tattoo on the man’s left hand caught Jonmarc’s eye.
Steen was already battling an attacker of his own, while ahead, Dugan slashed at a man who tried to grab the reins. Kegan made boils rise on the arms of the man who tried to drag him from his seat. Betta was smacking one of the robbers with her walking stick. Jemman, for all his shyness, landed a solid roundhouse punch to the jaw of the man who grabbed at his leg.
“They’re not robbers,” Steen shouted, glancing at the odd tattoos. “They’re slavers! Fight for your lives!”
Vitt was better with a blade than Jonmarc had expected. He got inside the slaver’s guard and scored a cross-body slash that put the brigand on the ground, holding his slit gut. Mort used his bulk to his advantage, holding forth with a powerful onslaught of strikes that had his attacker backing up, barely holding his own.
Steen swung into a high Eastmark kick, planting his boot firmly in the slaver’s chest, sending the man sprawling. Jonmarc fell into the moves he and Steen had practiced back at camp, and parried the strike from a second slaver who meant to come at Steen while he was regaining his balance. Then it was Jonmarc’s turn to wheel into the high kick, and he smiled grimly as he heard a bone snap when his foot caught the slaver in the elbow, knocking him flat in the mud. Jonmarc and Steen dove forward, sinking their blades deep into the downed men’s chests.
“Two down,” Steen muttered.
Twelve slavers to eight caravaners wasn’t a fair fight, but if Trent and some of the other men had been with them, Jonmarc had no doubt they could have easily evened the odds. Betta fought like a wildcat, poking, jabbing, and smashing with her solid walking cane. Jemman was better in a fist-fight than Jonmarc would have ever imagined, and the baker’s strong hands and arms served well for grabbing a slaver in a choke hold and breaking his neck.
Steen and Jonmarc were holding their own, though two more of the slavers had appeared to take the place of the ones they had killed. Dugan was slashing at a slaver with his broad knife, while Kegan sent one slaver screaming in panic with seeping boils and another cursed and scratching himself bloody from red welts that sprang up all over the his body.
If we’d had Trent, Zane, and Corbin with us, this fight would be over by now, Jonmarc thought, gritting his teeth as he parried a wild swing by one of the slavers. But the blacksmith, the caravan’s knife-thrower and the farrier had stayed back at camp, and all the wishing in the world would not change that.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc saw a slaver get inside Vitt’s guard. The brigand sank his blade deep into Vitt’s shoulder, and Vitt staggered backward, gasping, as he dropped his sword. He dropped to his knees, his shirt crimson with blood, and fell face-forward into the mud.
Jonmarc felt his anger rise, and he took it out on the slaver he fought. Behind him, he could hear Steen cursing in Common and in Margolense. Jonmarc was sweating even though a cold rain was falling, and his blood mingled with the rain from a score of gashes he had taken keeping hi
s attacker at bay. Steen was bleeding from wounds on his chest, shoulders and arms, but he had felled a slaver and was rapidly gaining an advantage over another.
Lightning flashed overhead and thunder sounded loud enough to echo all around them. The late afternoon sky had grown dark, and rain fell in sheets. Jonmarc chanced a look at his fellow travelers. The caravaners were better armed than the slavers had expected, and less willing to surrender than the brigands might have predicted. But Jonmarc could see that the odds were against them even before five more slavers ran from the direction of the barn.
Betta and Jemman were not soldiers, and neither was Kegan. Vitt was down, and Mort was barely holding off a determined slaver. Dugan had gotten in several lucky slashes, but his experience was with rigging tents, not fencing. It was just a matter of time before the slavers won, but even so, Jonmarc was determined to make it an expensive victory.
The wind and rain made it difficult to see. A flash of lightning illuminated the scarred, angry face of the slaver who came at Jonmarc, sword raised. Steen closed with his attacker, driving his sword through the man’s belly and out the other side. The slaver got in a final slash, opening a deep gash across Steen’s chest. The two men fell together, rolling toward the rain-choked ditch, and neither rose.
“Throw down your weapons if you value your lives!” A darkhaired man with a crooked nose and pox-scarred face held his sword to Betta’s throat. “Surrender, or I take her head.”
Betta loosed a string of curses. “Keep fighting!” she shouted, until the blade bit into her neck, raising a scarlet line.
The fighting halted, and one by one, the caravaners threw down their weapons with muttered curses. Jonmarc glanced behind him, hoping Steen had crawled from the ditch, but in the darkness and rain, he couldn’t see the man.
“Take the wagons to the barn, and tie up the prisoners. We’ll get good money for them in Nargi,” the pox-faced man said.
Jonmarc glowered at the slaver who bound his wrists. “Go to the Crone,” he muttered.
The slaver cuffed him hard across the face. “It’s going to take a while to break this one,” he laughed. “I’m going to enjoy it.” He grabbed Jonmarc’s chin as he tried to clear his vision from the blow. “We have a long road ahead of us to Nargi, and by the time we reach there, I’ll have taught you to lick my boots clean.”
Jonmarc spat in his face, earning another blow that made his ears ring. The slaver would have struck him again, but the pox-faced man grabbed the slaver’s wrist.
“Leave the merchandise alone,” the leader said. “They’ll pay less for damaged goods.”
Whether or not the slavers intended to spend the night in the old barn, the storm made other plans impossible. They unhitched the horses from the wagons and tethered them in the barn, leaving the wagons under an overhang. The road was ankle-deep in thick mud, and the ditches ran full and swift. Wind howled across the fields and through the shadowed tree line. Thunder crashed overhead, and lightning touched down close enough Jonmarc could see the jagged streaks hit the ground.
His whole body ached from the fight. He was soaked through. Blood and rainwater made his sodden shirt cling to his skin. The slavers prodded them at swords’ point toward the questionable shelter of the ruined barn, which was leaning badly enough that Jonmarc wondered if it would survive the storm.
Inside, three more slavers were waiting. Half the roof was missing, leaving only the space along one wall dryer than anywhere outside. Jonmarc tested his bonds, but the rough rope held fast. The slavers took their swords and Dugan’s knife, even Betta’s walking cane. Jonmarc had a small knife hidden against the small of his back, but his hands were bound in front of him, putting it out of reach.
Steen’s dead. Vitt’s badly wounded. That leaves sixteen of them to seven of us. The caravan won’t have any idea where we are. If we’re going to get out of this, it’s up to us. He kept his head down, but watched his captors carefully as they moved about the rough camp. They rekindled a small fire that was sheltered from the wind. From the smell of the spices in their provisions, Jonmarc guessed the slavers were not Margolan-born. They spoke a language among themselves he had never heard before.
The slavers prodded their captives toward the posts that held up the second floor of the ruined barn, and tied them with their backs to the hard wood. Jonmarc was tied alone. Kegan and Vitt were lashed together against another pole, then Betta and Jemman. Dugan and Mort were tied separately.
“Show some respect, and we might feed you,” one of the slavers taunted. He was a narrow-faced man with an eye-patch and he walked with a twisted foot. He kicked at Jonmarc’s leg. “After all, they’ll pay more if you’re in good enough shape to work.” He limped away, laughing at his own joke.
“We won’t get much for the cargo,” one of the slavers said. “Nothing much of value in the wagons. Might be able to sell the horses and the wagons themselves.”
“Won’t get top dollar for the slaves, either,” his companion replied. “That one,” he said with a nod toward Betta, “is too old to be worth much. The others might sell for some silver, though. Young enough to do some labor.”
“Not a bad night’s work,” a third slaver replied. “And if we can’t sell what’s on the wagons, we might be able to eat some of it. Nothing wasted, that’s what I say.”
Jonmarc glanced down the row. Vitt still slumped against the pole, and from the look of his shirt, he had lost a lot of blood. But Kegan gave Jonmarc a nod, and managed to scoot close enough to touch Vitt, so that he could use his healing magic to repair the damage from the sword-strike. The others were bruised and cut from the fight, but no one appeared to be likely to die. Yet.
Jonmarc worked at his bonds, but the ropes held tight. Perhaps tonight, once the slavers were asleep, he might be able to jostle the knife in his belt loose, but it would take some maneuvering. And even if I get loose, what then? I can’t fight the slavers by myself, and with the roads the way they are, we can’t sneak out and get very far. They’d ride us down and capture us again before we got more than a few miles.
He did his best to look as if he were dozing, keeping watch on their captors beneath half-closed eyes. The slavers drank the whiskey from the casks they took from the wagon and played cards as the storm raged outside, pausing briefly to give each of their captives a few crusts of bread and sips of ale.
Betta and Jemman looked defeated. Dugan and Mort appeared to be dozing, but Jonmarc was sure that Dugan, at least, was also watching for an opportunity. Kegan was intent on saving Vitt. Vitt still was not awake, but his color had improved.
By now, even without the storm, it would be dark outside, Jonmarc thought. When the storm cleared, the slavers would have them headed to Nargi. He had heard enough of Steen’s horror stories about Nargi and its slaves. A cold deliberation settled over him. I would rather die a free man than live as a slave. Even better if I can take down some of those slavers with me when I go.
JONMARC ROUSED IN alarm out of a fitful sleep. The old barn was dark except for the slavers’ banked fire. The slavers had settled into their cloaks for the night, which Jonmarc reckoned was already half-spent. A man’s hand clamped down on his mouth, and a voice hissed in his ear.
“It’s Steen. Don’t make a noise. I’m going to cut your ropes, then we’re going to give these bastards what they deserve.”
With a wary glance toward the front of the barn where he had spotted a slaver on watch, Jonmarc silently melted into the shadows, scrambling out through a hole in the barn wall.
“I thought you were dead,” Jonmarc hissed.
Steen grinned. “Would have been, without the chain mail under my shirt. I went down, and stayed down, figuring that one of us needed to be free.” Steen drew him into the darkness of the overhang where the wagons were stored. “I’ve got an idea,” he whispered.
“It had better be a good one.”
Steen grimaced. “Not really. It’s a dead man’s bet, but it’s all we’ve got.”
&nb
sp; “If it gets us out of here, I’m in.”
“We create a distraction, delay the slavers, while we get the others into the forest and then hold the slavers off.”
Jonmarc raised an eyebrow. “The haunted forest? With the angry ghosts?”
“You have a better idea?”
Jonmarc swore silently. “Anything’s better than being slaved. Lead on.”
One slaver stood watch near the barn door. Jonmarc pitched a handful of small stones as Steen moved in the brush just down from the door, a shadow the slaver was unlikely to miss.
The guard glanced at the other slavers who were sleeping off the whiskey, and then chanced one step and then another into the darkness, peering toward where the shadow had been.
Steen moved swiftly, coming up behind the slaver. With a hand over his mouth before he could cry out, Steen sliced his blade across the guard’s neck, and then dragged him around the corner of the barn.
One down, Jonmarc thought grimly.
Together, Jonmarc and Steen dug under the tarpaulins that covered the caravan’s wagons. Steen handed him several lengths of wire, as well as some rope. Together, they maneuvered a barrel of quicklime to the top of a small rise above the farm pond. Jonmarc and Steen pounded two sturdy sticks into the wet ground just far enough to hold the barrel, and attached rope to the sticks, which they led off into the darkness.
Next, they each took a length of wire and ran a maze of tripwires in front and in back of the barn, stringing the wire between hastily pounded sticks.
“That should slow them down,” Steen said with satisfaction.
Finally, they grabbed a few more items from the wagon: a small cask of oil and a box of wax. These, Steen ran to the edge of the forest, then returned to the shadows where Jonmarc waited.
“You might as well swear Istra’s Bargain right now,” Jonmarc said. Soldiers in a no-win situation had been known to offer their souls to the Dark Lady in exchange for the life of their enemy.
“Not today,” Steen murmured. “I think with luck, we might be able to make this work.”
The Shadowed Path Page 27
