A groan from behind him made them all turn toward Linton. “By the Crone!” Linton muttered. “I feel awful.”
“You were poisoned—again,” Jonmarc replied. “Mushrooms. Nasty stuff. You’re in the Floating City. Sister Birna healed you.”
“Damn,” Linton replied. “Last time I eat vegetables, that’s for sure.”
“The caravan is safe,” Trent said, moving into the small room. “They’ll catch up with us sometime tomorrow. Do you still intend to cross the river?”
Linton shook his head. “Not this time. Maybe next year. We’ll head back toward the Isencroft border.”
“Just as long as we stay well to the South of Duke Ostenhas’s lands,” Trent replied.
“Fine by me.”
“I’ll make sure the caravan knows,” Trent said. “We’ll provision here, then head out when you’re ready.”
The others filed out of the room, but Linton called out to Jonmarc to stay. “You still intend to join the mercs?” he asked.
“It’s something I need to do.”
Linton regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Then go with my blessing, for what it’s worth. And if you ever need a place to go, the caravan will always take you in.”
“Thank you,” Jonmarc replied.
THE NEXT MORNING, Trent and Corbin accompanied Jonmarc to the riverbank, where Steen had hired a man named Nyall and his boat to take them across into Principality.
“You’ve got a job with the forge, if you decide soldiering isn’t for you,” Trent said, shaking Jonmarc’s hand.
Corbin clapped him on the shoulder. “Between the forge and the farriers, there’s always work for you. The blessing of the Lady go with you,” he said.
Jonmarc managed not to look back as the boat pulled away from shore. Neither he nor Steen spoke. Before long, Steen instructed Nyall to guide the boat to shore at a rundown dock that made the Floating City look plush by comparison.
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Jonmarc asked. He grabbed his bag, felt for the sack of coins that hung around his neck beneath his tunic, and assured himself that his swords were secure at his belt.
“No point complicating things by coming in at one of the main ports,” Steen said. “We’re closer to where the mercs camp this way. Let’s just hope that my friend isn’t out on a mission.”
Steen paid Nyall. The boat master muttered a benediction against harm, giving Jonmarc to know that they were heading into territory that was as dangerous as it looked. Jonmarc followed Steen up the worn stairs that led to a path through the woods. Near the far side of the forest, a burly guard stepped out from the shadows to block their path.
Steen and the guard traded words in the river patois, and then the guard waved them on. “What was that about?’ Jonmarc asked when they were well past the man.
“Just making sure we had good reason to be here,” Steen said. “Mercs don’t win popularity contests. They aren’t fond of being knifed in their sleep. I mentioned a few names. Good to know my contacts are still held in high regard.”
Jonmarc let Steen do the talking as they emerged in a campground many times the size of what Linton’s caravan required. Tents, wagons, and campfires filled the flatland for as far as the eye could see. No one moved to stop them, but Jonmarc could feel the weight of the stares that followed them as they made their way through the crowded encampment.
A tip from one of Steen’s contacts led them to The Wobbly Goat, an inn of dubious reputation at the edge of a dilapidated town. Jonmarc stayed close as he followed Steen into the run down tavern. The sign hung only by a chain on one side, making it more wobbly than its namesake, and the inn smelled of burnt bread, overcooked venison and bitter ale.
“Steen! By the Crone’s tits! What brings you to Principality?” The man who hailed them was barrel-chested, with a dark, full beard.
“Harrtuck, you old dog! I’ve got a favor to ask.”
Harrtuck gave Steen a sidelong glance. “It doesn’t involve money, does it? Because except for some ale coins, I’m broke as a fat whore’s bedsprings.”
Steen shook his head. “I don’t need a loan. I need a tutor.”
Harrtuck slammed his tankard down on the rickety bar, and the entire counter shook. “Then you’ve come to the wrong place, mate, unless you’d like to learn to curse in four languages.”
Steen chuckled. “I can already do that,” he said. He motioned for Jonmarc to step forward. “Tov Harrtuck, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Jonmarc Vahanian. Jonmarc’s been a guard and an apprentice blacksmith with Maynard Linton’s caravan, and he’s pretty good at fighting.”
He looked to Jonmarc. “Harrtuck here has soldiered with the king’s troops and several of the merc groups. He knows his way around.”
Steen returned his attention to Harrtuck. “Jonmarc aims to join up with one of the merc groups. I told him you might be able to steer him toward a good fit.”
Harrtuck nodded. “I just might.” He looked Jonmarc up and down. “Too bad you weren’t a week earlier. Gregor’s mercs just shipped out. By the Lover and Whore! He’s a son of the Bitch, but he runs a tight company, and most of his men come back alive.”
Steen shook hands with Jonmarc. “Well then, you’re in good hands,” he said. “Take care, Jonmarc. I hope our paths cross again.”
“Thank you,” Jonmarc said. “For everything.”
Steen turned away and disappeared into the crowd. Harrtuck clapped Jonmarc on the shoulder. “If Steen vouches for you, that’s enough for me.” He pushed a tankard of ale toward Jonmarc. “You’re going to make a fine mercenary.”
FRESH BLOOD
“A MERCENARY, HUH?” Tov Harrtuck looked at Jonmarc Vahanian and raised an eyebrow. “How did you decide that’s what you want to be?”
Jonmarc looked back at him with a level gaze. “Because I’m good with a sword. I’m good in a fight. And I can’t go home.”
They sat in a rough bar, a place called The Wobbly Goat. The tavern was busy with traders and soldiers, along with weary, wary travelers. The tavern’s walls were splintered and dented in places where old fights had gotten out of hand. The floorboards were sticky with ale and dirt, and the air was stale with pipe smoke and the smell of too many bodies gone too long without a proper bath. Jonmarc hoped he looked seasoned and tough. He had never been out of Margolan before, never this far away from home. And while he told himself he was ready, that decision would not be his to make.
Harrtuck regarded him in silence for a moment before speaking. “You could have stayed with Linton’s caravan. I’m betting they didn’t want to see you go. I’d also bet coin I don’t have that Steen tried to talk you out of this.”
Jonmarc’s lips tightened and he gave a curt nod. “That’s true. I’m grateful to Maynard, and to the caravan. But I’ve been enough trouble to them. Trouble seems to follow me. So I might as well get paid to get into it and out of it.”
Again, Harrtuck studied him, sizing him up. The mercenary was probably ten years older than Jonmarc, in his late twenties. Harrtuck was short and barrel-chested, strong and scarred. Steen had made a point to introduce them, going out of his way to make sure that if Jonmarc was going to join up with a mercenary group, he at least got a chance to pitch his services to Harrtuck and, if he passed muster, to the War Dogs.
“What kind of trouble?” Harrtuck asked. “If your idea of what mercenaries do is drink and carouse and bust up towns, then the War Dogs aren’t your troop.”
Jonmarc shook his head. “No. That isn’t what I meant. It’s just that, fights seem to find me. Raiders burned my home village. Then different kinds of raiders destroyed the village that took me in.” In truth, they had been monsters, but he didn’t think Harrtuck would believe him if he said that.
“When there were attacks on the caravan, I did a good job helping fight off brigands,” he continued. “Well enough that Linton brought me along as a guard many times, although I was officially the blacksmith’s apprentice.”
> Harrtuck nodded. “Brigands are one thing,” he said. “But here in Principality, the mercs fight more than raiders, although that’s some of what we do.”
Jonmarc’s gaze was unyielding. “I’ve gone up against mages, vayash moru, vyrkin, and monsters. And trained soldiers too. I’ve fought with a team, and on my own.”
“Can you fight under orders?” Harrtuck asked. “Not just brawl, but fight like soldiers do, together for a cause, one you might not even care about, aside from the money?”
Jonmarc had been asking himself that same question for days. I think so. But how can I know, until I’m in the thick of it? In the three years since his father died, Jonmarc had never missed his counsel so much as he did now. Principality was a foreign place, filled with people who spoke strange languages and who kept unfamiliar customs. And while he had fought and killed and faced down fearsome creatures, Jonmarc felt completely out of his depth.
“Yes,” he replied, with as much conviction as he could muster.
Harrtuck’s eyes narrowed. “The fights you’ve fought, why did you get involved?”
Jonmarc looked at him as if he were crazy. “Because someone was hurting my family, my friends, or threatening the caravan. Because I didn’t want to die—or let them die.”
Harrtuck nodded. “Fair enough. But what about a fight you could avoid? One that isn’t any of your business— except that you’ve been paid to make it your business?”
That was a question Steen had asked him, before agreeing to bring Jonmarc to Principality. you’re a good man in a fight, Jonmarc, Steen had said. And you pick your fights pretty well. you have your friends’ backs. But mercs don’t fight for loyalty, or friendship. They fight for coin. What will you do, when you find yourself on the side of a fight you wouldn’t have picked? Mercs do a job. It’s not about right and wrong.
Steen had done everything he could to warn Jonmarc away from selling his sword. Like others among the caravan, Steen had been a merc and left it behind him. Jonmarc heeded Steen’s warning. But what drove him on was something he could not have explained, to Steen or Trent or Corbin, or even to Maynard Linton himself.
I have to leave because the caravan has become family, Jonmarc thought. Because the curse will follow me. Eventually, it will catch up with me. I don’t want it to destroy them, like it’s destroyed everyone else. Soldiers can take care of themselves.
“I’ll do what I have to do,” Jonmarc replied, hoping he sounded resolute. Steen had told him that the War Dogs were choosy about the jobs they accepted. Choosier than most, anyhow. From what Steen said, the War Dogs stayed away from hiring on with the worst of the nobility or the brigands wealthy enough to pass themselves off as aristocrats, interested only in their petty squabbles for territory. King Staden himself had turned to the War Dogs on more than one occasion, Steen told him, to guard the royal family or to settle a dispute. And Steen had spoken of their Captain Valjan with respect and admiration, something the former soldier did not grant easily to anyone.
Finally, Harrtuck nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll speak to Valjan about you.”
“When? Where?” Jonmarc pressed. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
Harrtuck shrugged. “Stay here tonight. You’ll be safe enough; safe as anywhere in this part of the city. I’ll arrange a meeting, and we’ll let the others have a proper look at you.”
Jonmarc swallowed down his fear with the rest of his ale. Most of his food had gone cold on his plate. Harrtuck, on the other hand, had finished off his meal, talking with his mouth full. Maybe I’m not as tough as I think I am. If I were tougher, I’d still have an appetite.
No one in the bar gave much notice to Jonmarc, but he saw that they cleared a path for Harrtuck when he rose from the table and headed for the door. The tavern’s customers looked as hard worn and seedy as the bar itself, and much more dangerous. Harrtuck regarded the tavern’s occupants with a cold gaze, and they soon went back to their business. Jonmarc’s hand was near the hilt of his sword, but Harrtuck never moved for his weapon. His reputation—or perhaps the reputation of the War Dogs—was defense enough here.
The door closed behind Harrtuck, and the Goat’s patrons went back to their drinks and conversations. Jonmarc sat with his back to the wall, nursing a tankard of ale. Harrtuck’s assurances notwithstanding, he did not feel safe. Then again, until he knew his way around Principality, he doubted he would feel safe anywhere, even among the War Dogs.
He sipped his ale and glanced around the smoky room. Two minstrels played in the far corner, music from their drum and pennywhistle nearly lost in the rumble of conversation. Three strumpets in faded and smudged dresses made halfhearted rounds of the room, offering their companionship. A dice game to one side drew a crowd, and the loud wagering, plus the shouts of the winners and groans of the losers drew a harsh glare from the barkeeper. Most of the tavern’s patrons looked like they had seen their share of fights, whether or not fighting was their business or a side-effect of too much ale. A few might have been traders or travelers, but Jonmarc guessed the majority were, or had been, soldiers.
Jonmarc saw two men at a table toward the rear of the tavern conclude their conversation and rise to leave. One of the men ducked his head, but Jonmarc got a glimpse of his face as he walked to the door. He was missing the tip of his nose, and the scar from the blade that took that tip had left a furrow across the man’s cheek and chin. To Jonmarc’s surprise, the man’s table companion walked over to where he sat.
“Mind if I join you?” the stranger asked.
Jonmarc shrugged. “There’s a chair. Suit yourself.” He kept his voice neutral. His right hand stayed on his tankard, while his left went to the pommel of his sword, just in case.
“Saw you talking with Tov Harrtuck,” the stranger said. “Thinking of joining up with the War Dogs?”
“I’m thinking that the ale is watered down,” Jonmarc replied. “What’s it to you?”
“I used to be with the War Dogs. Thought I might spare you that mistake.”
Jonmarc’s eyes narrowed. “How, exactly, is any of this your business?”
It was the stranger’s turn to shrug. “It isn’t. But I’ve seen too many young men come to town looking for adventure and get tangled up with the wrong sort. Happened to me. Figured you might want to know a little more about the Dogs, if you’re thinking of joining up.”
“I’m listening,” Jonmarc replied, his voice flat. “Doesn’t mean I’ll believe what you have to say, but I’m listening.”
The stranger gave a curt nod. “Fair enough. All right then. Name’s Hagen. I did a few years in the Margolan army, and came over to Principality looking for a little more money in exchange for risking my neck. Heard that the War Dogs were the best bunch of mercs in the kingdom. So I signed on with them. Found out the hard way they weren’t what I was led to believe.”
Jonmarc raised an eyebrow, indicating for Hagen to go on. He studied the newcomer. Like many of the other men in the tavern, Hagen had the fit, muscular build of a career soldier. His dark blond hair was cut short, and he carried himself like a fighter. He wore a tunic and cloak that could easily hide a cuirass. He carried both a broadsword and a short sword, though Jonmarc was sure that Hagen, and everyone else in the inn, had more weapons hidden about themselves.
Hagen was probably seven or eight years older, Jonmarc guessed, a bit younger than he judged Harrtuck to be, old enough to have been around a bit, and perhaps close to Steen’s age. From the bruises and cuts on Hagen’s hands and forearms, Jonmarc guessed his new ‘friend’ was no stranger to fights, or had extremely bad luck. Hagen’s looks were passable but nothing special, except for his eyes, which were mismatched: one blue and one brown.
“Everyone says Valjan’s such a hero,” Hagen said. “He’s nothing special. No less greedy than the rest of the merc commanders. That’s why I got out. Got tired of fighting for whoever had the money, no matter what kind of a sorry bastard they were.”
“That’s what mercs
do,” Jonmarc replied. “No surprise there.”
Hagen leaned across the table. “You don’t think so? Wait until you’re in the pay of one of those murdering sons of bitches. Wait until you’re part of an army marching in to put down an uprising, and you see what kind of animal is paying your wage.”
“So far, I’ve heard a lot of opinion, and nothing solid,” Jonmarc said, eyes narrowing. “If you’ve got a point, make it.”
“My point,” Hagen said with emphasis, “is that I hate to see a young man make the same mistake I made. Especially with the War Dogs. Seeing how I don’t think Valjan and his crew will be around much longer.”
Jonmarc did his best to appear disinterested. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Hagen gave a nasty smile. “Just rumors. It’s on the street that some of the other merc troops might be looking to shuffle the deck a bit. If Valjan wants to keep his place at the top, he’s going to have to fight for it.”
“Talk is cheap,” Jonmarc drawled in his Borderlands accent. “Thanks for the warning. See you around.” He picked up his ale and took a sip, clearly looking away from Hagen.
After a moment, Hagen stood. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t do you a good turn with a warning. Guess you need to learn your lessons the hard way.”
Jonmarc did not speak, but he turned so that the lantern’s light fell on the old scar that ran from his left ear and jaw down below his collar. “Already have,” he said, letting Hagen hear the steel in his tone.
That night, Jonmarc dozed sitting up against the wall in the crowded, shared sleeping quarters. He stayed awaked until the others were asleep, or at least snoring like bears, before he let himself drift off, his knife in his right hand, and his coin purse well-secured beneath the laces and straps of his clothing. A few times he startled awake, only to find that one of the men in the room was lurching downstairs to the latrine, or thrashing from bad dreams.
Morning came, and Jonmarc was pleasantly surprised to find that his throat had not been slit nor had he been relieved of his possessions. From the outcry from one man on the opposite side of the room—and the suspiciously notable absence of a trader who had disappeared in the night—not everyone had been so lucky.
The Shadowed Path Page 33
