The Shadowed Path (26 page)

Trent and Dugan together battled the spider-thing, hacking at its many legs, frustrated by its unnatural speed. Trent’s sword sliced down with a stroke that should have snapped bone, only to skid along the hard carapace of the creature’s skin. To Jonmarc’s left, Corbin and Linton were hard-pressed to hold their own against the bull-monster. Linton jabbed with the torch, dancing around it like a drunken boxer, while Corbin rained down blow after blow that should have felled anything mortal. More of the things loomed in the shadows, shuffling their way toward the fight. Some moved faster than others, but it would not take many to overrun the rescue party.

Inside the warded circle, the
dimonn
and Alyzza were warily circling each other. Alyzza brandished her gold like a shield, while the
dimonn
flicked his bone whip, waiting for an opening.

A streak of blue-white lightning sizzled from Alyzza’s outstretched hand, and at the same instant, the spine-whip snapped out. The lightning grazed the
dimonn
, sending him reeling, but the whip struck Alyzza on the shoulder and she stumbled.

“Not tonight!” Karl shouted, running toward the circle.

“Karl, no!” Jonmarc yelled, sprinting to intercept him. “You can’t break the warding.”

“There won’t be a warding if that thing gets in another blow,” Karl snapped, and with one leap, cleared the salt line without breaking it. Muttering a curse, Jonmarc followed an instant later.

Karl managed to land next to Alyzza, and he thrust the torch between her and the
dimonn
. “Go back to the depths where you came from, monster!” he shouted.

Jonmarc eyed the spine-whip as it flicked, and glanced toward Pol, who had inched his way closer to the fight. Jonmarc almost moved to intercept, but there was a flicker of something human enough in Pol’s eyes to make him pause.

Alyzza had regained her footing, and she straightened, paying no heed to where the whip had laid open a gash on her shoulder. She raised her hands to chest level and opened them. With a word of power, iron nails flew like darts into the
dimonn’s
body. Jonmarc struck at the arm with the whip, bringing his iron rod down on the
dimonn’s
hand as he held his torch aloft. The whip flailed, knocking the burning brand from Jonmarc’s hand and throwing it across the circle.

With a battle cry, Karl dove toward the
dimonn
, holding his torch like a lance. The
dimonn
shrieked an ear-splitting howl, opening its toothed maw wide. Alyzza seized a fistful of gold coins from her skirt and leapt forward, pouring the golden treasure into the
dimonn’s
mouth. The
dimonn
began to smoke and shriek, falling to the ground though one hand scrabbled for its whip.

“Go.” The voice sounded behind Jonmarc, drawn out like the shuddering breath of a dying man. Pol had grabbed Jonmarc’s fallen torch, and his twisted hands held it in a tight grip.

“Pol!” Jonmarc shouted as the
dimonn
snatched back its whip and cracked it toward Jonmarc.

Pol fell toward the
dimonn
, impaling it with the torch, and blocking the whip’s strike. The spine-whip cut Pol’s flesh deep enough to show his ribs, but Pol held tight to the torch. Alyzza leveled another blast of blindingly bright light, and Jonmarc was struck by something heavy, taken off his feet, and thrown into the air. He landed hard on the dirt, still blinking from the flare, scrabbling to get to his feet before one of the
ashtenerath
attacked.

“You’re safe,” Trent said.

Jonmarc blinked again, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw the circle completely engulfed in flames. “Alyzza… Karl—”

“Right here,” Karl assured him, sitting on the ground not far from Jonmarc. He spotted Alyzza near the circle but outside the warding, watching to assure herself that nothing escaped.

Flames lit the empty field bright as a bonfire. The misshapen creatures of the monstrosity show lay dead, cut down by the sword or burned by torches. Thick black smoke rose from the conflagration inside the circle, smelling of old blood and putrefying flesh.

Corbin was on his knees near the circle, head in his hands, grieving. Jonmarc stared into the fire, but nothing stirred.

“He was already dead, or near enough,” Karl said quietly, coming up behind Jonmarc. “Too far gone to help.”

“You don’t know that,” Jonmarc snapped.

“You can tell yourself that,” Karl said. “But it was too late. Pol used the last bit of himself to save us. Honor that, and move on.” He turned and walked away, toward the horses, and Jonmarc saw that Karl was limping.

Trent’s heavy hand came down on Jonmarc’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” he said, with a glance toward where the bone whip had knocked the torch from Jonmarc’s hand. “Best get you back to a healer soon. A wound like that can go bad.”

Jonmarc never took his eyes from the fire. “They were people once,” he said. “All those
things
. Before they were monsters, they were people.”

Trent nodded. “They always are.”

“Y
OU
’
RE GOING TO
get him killed.” Trent’s voice carried in the cool air. The smoke from the blacksmith’s forge hung on the wind as the coal fire grew hot enough to work.

“No, I’m trying to keep him from getting killed,” Karl Steen argued. “He’s going to go, prepared or not, and if he isn’t prepared, he won’t make it.”

Jonmarc Vahanian slowed down, trying to listen without being seen. He was certain the conversation was about him, and his plans to leave Maynard Linton’s caravan once they reached the border in order to sign on with one of the many mercenary troops in Principality.

“He doesn’t need to leave,” Trent snapped. “He’s got a steady job with the caravan. Linton favors him. He’s good at the forge—Corbin and I depend on him.” Corbin, the caravan farrier, often borrowed Jonmarc from his apprenticeship with Trent. Blacksmiths and farriers went together like coal and iron.

“He’s not ready to settle down,” Karl replied. “This caravan is a last resort, a place people gravitate to when they’ve lost everything else.”

“Which is why he came here in the first place,” Trent said, banging the iron rods around more than necessary. “The kid’s been through a lot. Being a soldier won’t help.” Trent knew most of Jonmarc’s story, at least that he had lost his family to raiders and his wife and relatives to wild, magicked beasts. Some things he didn’t know, like the part about the red-robed
vayash moru
mage whose bargain had led to the tragedy, a powerful enemy who was somewhere in Margolan still nursing a grudge against Vahanian.

“He’s a natural fighter,” Karl countered. “He’s better with a sword at eighteen than most men are after several years in the army. Jonmarc picked up the Eastmark kick quickly— and that’s a move few soldiers ever master.”

“He’s safe here.” Trent’s voice was a growl. Although the blacksmith was only ten years older than Jonmarc, in the year Jonmarc had traveled with the caravan, Trent had become not just his master but his friend, and he was as protective as an older brother.

“Men become mercs when they’ve got nothing left. They’re a rough bunch, and the mercs who make it aren’t the kind of people you want to know.” From where Jonmarc stood, he could hear the squeak and blast as Trent pumped the bellows. “He doesn’t have to end up like that.”

“No one could have told me that at his age,” Karl said. Karl, who had signed on a few months prior as one of the caravan’s many hired guards. From what little he had shared with Jonmarc, Karl had done his time both as one of King Bricen’s soldiers and as a merc. So had Trent. “How well would you have listened, at eighteen?”

Trent barked a harsh laugh. “Me? I didn’t listen to anyone. Got me where I am today.” There was a note of bitterness in his voice. Jonmarc knew almost nothing about Trent’s life before the caravan, but here within the tight-knit group of the traveling company, Trent had a wife and children, a respected position, and the trust of the caravan’s owner and impresario, Maynard Linton.

“The caravan isn’t big enough for him, Trent,” Karl said. There was a note of sadness in his voice that Jonmarc had never heard before, a jaded disappointment and a certainty that nothing ever went as planned. “He might come back to it someday, but he’s got to strike out on his own, leave his ghosts behind. Most of us sign on with a troupe like this after we’ve spent all our dreams and come up a few coins short.”

Jonmarc decided that he had eavesdropped long enough, so he made a noisy approach before he rounded the side of the blacksmith’s lean-to and came into view.

“Hello Trent, Karl.”

“You’re late,” Trent grumbled. The conversation had put Trent in a dark mood, and Jonmarc also guessed that Trent surmised the discussion had been overheard.

“Still trying to get the tents set up,” Jonmarc said, although from the look on both men’s faces, his excuse didn’t fool anyone. “I got waylaid to help people on the way over.”

“I’ll see you when you’re done with your work,” Karl said, taking his leave. Jonmarc and Karl sparred nearly every night after he finished up in the forge and the supper fires were banked. In the months since Karl had signed on with the caravan, Jonmarc knew he had improved as a swordsman, and his natural skill only deepened his resolve to seek his fortune in Principality.

Maynard Linton’s caravan traveled the breadth of the kingdom of Margolan, and occasionally into the neighboring kingdoms of Principality and Dhasson. Linton’s marvelous troupe included acrobats, jugglers, musicians, and wild animal trainers, artisans and merchants, healers, tent riggers, hedge witches, and the assembly of wagon masters, cooks, farriers, blacksmiths, and guards that it took to keep such an entourage on the road. The individual members changed along the route as people came and went, but the caravan’s ability to amaze and mystify never waned.

Linton had taken Jonmarc in when there had been nowhere else for him to go, and for that, Jonmarc would be forever grateful. But Karl had summed up Jonmarc’s restlessness exactly, and as much as Jonmarc had come to care for his friends with the caravan, he was increasingly ready to strike out on his own and see what he could do. He suspected that Trent understood, even if he didn’t like it.

“How long do you think we’ll camp here?” Jonmarc said, tying on his leather apron and getting to work. “We’re not going to draw any crowds in the middle of nowhere.”

Trent shrugged and took out his frustrations on the hot bar of iron he worked on the anvil. “Not too long. Give everyone a rest after how busy it’s been, fix the wagons and the tents, and pasture the horses.”

“Linton decide yet which way we’re going after this?” Jonmarc hurried to bring more coal for the fire and ready more iron bars in the forge, since he figured he was partially responsible for Trent’s sullen mood.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Trent muttered. “Linton keeps his own counsel—too much, if you ask me, and he doesn’t.” He struck the iron a few more times. “I’ve already told him what I think. Too damn dangerous trying to take everyone across on barges down by the floating city. I’d much rather go across the North Bridge—soldiers be damned.”

Jonmarc had heard Trent’s thoughts on the matter before. If they went north, a large bridge connected Margolan and Principality across the wide Nu River. That bridge, however, was guarded by King Bricen’s troops and those who crossed not only paid a toll, their goods were subject to inspection.

Since the caravan made some of its money by smuggling, Jonmarc understood why Linton was loathe to subject his wagons to the inquiries of the king’s guards. The alternate route involved going south to a less formal arrangement of river traders who would take groups across for a fee, no questions asked. Trent and Corbin had already expressed their opinions about the traders, but Jonmarc expected Linton would take the southern route. He was also curious about what everyone called a ‘floating city’, an arrangement of houseboats, barges, rafts, and other boats that tied up to each other when the mood struck them and went their separate way when necessity required.

“How did Linton pick this forsaken spot to camp?” Jonmarc asked. Usually, the caravan chose an open meadow large enough for the performance tents and trader’s stalls, with room in the back for the tents, wagons and lean-tos of the crew, plus their horses, cook fires, and the moveable blacksmith’s forge. When they were performing, the meadow also had to be close to well-traveled routes and several towns or villages in order to bring in plenty of customers.

Trent shrugged. “Nice and flat, out of the way, not likely to get us into trouble with anyone. And there’s a village not too far up the road where we can buy provisions. We’ve camped worse places.” He paused. “Not much traffic on this part of the road. I saw a single rider earlier today, nothing since then.”

Northeastern Margolan was not as thickly populated as the southern half of the kingdom. The ground was rockier, the grazing lands sparser, and the weather colder. Since they had left the Midlands, towns and villages had been smaller and farther between. Farms looked poorer here, and even the taverns and inns they passed along the road seemed down on their luck.

Maybe Jonmarc shouldn’t have been surprised, given all that, when the caravan found a large flat open space dotted by small hills. There was a clear stream nearby for water, a stand of trees for wood, and good pasture for the horses. They had arrived that morning and the camp was still busy setting up. But something about the place made Jonmarc uncomfortable. He felt on edge, as if they were being watched, yet no one else was around. That bothered him too, the isolation of the place. He kept his thoughts to himself, since his opinion of the caravan’s camping spot was of no importance to anyone.

After a morning in the forge, Jonmarc headed toward the cook wagons to bring back lunch. The caravan sprawled out across the grassy meadow. Without the need to put up the big performance tents and the avenue of food vendors and merchant’s stalls, the group pitched camp quickly, gathering their tents and wagons around the central area where the small team of cooks set out their fires and cauldrons.

Jonmarc could smell roasting meat and vegetables. Lunch was likely stew, since it made the most of whatever meat was cheap and whatever vegetables were at hand. Most of the time, the caravan’s cooks served up food that was edible and warm, which was all Jonmarc cared about.

“We shouldn’t be here!” The raspy voice turned heads and brought frowns. “We’re all in danger! This is a bad place. A very bad place.”

Jonmarc turned as Alyzza, one of the caravan’s hedge witches, stalked past with the zeal of a prophet. Her gray hair fell long and tangled, and she was stoop-shouldered, with a lined face and stained clothing. She leaned on a gnarled walking stick, but her step was quick and sure and her eyes flashed with anger. Many in the caravan thought her crazy, and perhaps she was, but Jonmarc had seen her power and knew it to be real.

“Danger!” Alyzza shouted to any who would listen. “We must leave before nightfall. We are not meant to be here. This is a bad, bad place.”

The others turned away, shaking their heads, but Jonmarc paused. “Why is it bad?” he asked.

Alyzza looked at him for a moment as if trying to place him, and then she smiled in recognition and nodded. “You were there,” she said in a wheezy rasp. “The night the monsters came. You saw the
dimonn
.”

Jonmarc nodded. “I was there. And I saw what you did.”

Alyzza gave a breathy chuckle. “Crumbs. That’s what left of my power now. Just crumbs. I lost my power when I lost my mind.” She tapped her forehead with two broken-nailed fingers. “But not completely,” she said, her eyes alight. “I’ve got enough left to know we should not be here.”

“Why not?” Jonmarc asked, intrigued enough to fish for the answer from her crowded, cluttered mind. When the caravan had been threatened by a hungry spirit that yearned for blood and pain, Alyzza’s power helped defeat the
dimonn
. He had an inkling of what she could do, and her warning worried him.

“Do you see those hills?” she asked, pointing at the rolling slopes that bounded the valley.

“Yes,” he answered uncertainly.

“Those aren’t hills!” she snapped. “They’re barrows. Cairns. Ancient burying places. Restless spirits dwell inside, and worse things. Much, much worse things,” she replied, her eyes wide. “Don’t you wonder why no one else lives in this pretty meadow? Because they know better, that’s why. They stay away, because this is a place of the dead. And if we don’t leave before sunset, the dead will have their due!”

Karl and one of the other guards ambled up. “Come on, Alyzza. Stop scaring the folks,” Karl said with a friendly grin. The other guard looked at Alyzza warily.

Alyzza tossed her head and stood, one hand grasping her walking stick, and the other hand on her hip. “If you were doing your job to guard these people, you’d insist Linton move the camp right now!” she said defiantly.

Karl’s grin slipped just a bit. “Look, Alyzza, you’ve made your case to Linton and you’ve already given the rest of the caravan your opinion. We’ll have the usual night watch plus our
vayash moru
guards. There’s not going to be trouble, way out here.”

Alyzza’s eyes blazed. “Not from the living. But can you protect these people from the barrow wights?”

The second guard guffawed. “Them’s just tales told to keep children in at night,” he countered. “You don’t believe them, do you?”

Alyzza’s glare stopped his laughter. “I don’t have to believe in them,” she said, jabbing her walking stick against his chest for emphasis. “I’ve seen what they can do. And mark my words—someone will die if we don’t leave here by nightfall.”

“That’s enough,” Karl said, all humor gone from his face. “Come along. You’re causing a scene.”

“I meant to cause a scene!” Alyzza shrieked. “We need to leave this place!”

Karl moved toward Alyzza as if he meant to take her by the shoulder. Alyzza raised one gnarled hand, and Karl stumbled backwards as if thrown. She gestured toward the second guard, and he fell flat on his ass in the dirt. Jonmarc saw the anger on the guards’ faces, and stepped up before either man got back on his feet.

“Come on, Alyzza,” he said in the voice that had always won over his mother in an argument. “I’ll walk you back to your tent, and I promise to take your warning to Trent. You know he and Corbin have Maynard’s ear.”

“Thank you, young man,” Alyzza said, accepting his offer to take her arm. With a warning look at Karl and the guard to stay back, Jonmarc escorted Alyzza around the thickest part of the crowd, back to the tattered tent she called home.

A ring of salt circled the tent. Bunches of feathers and the bones of small animals tufted the ridge of the tent. A weathered post with a bleached rabbit skull guarded the entrance, festooned with garlands of dried herbs and seed pods and stone disks etched with runes. He stopped outside the salt circle.

Alyzza turned to look at him, and her eyes were clear of madness. She took hold of his arm with her bony hand. “The barrow wights lie,” she hissed. “They show faces that aren’t their own. Shake off the lie, and free the others.”