Anselm looked up. “Done with dinner already?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “I ate. Figured you could use some help.”
If Anselm could guess the cause of Jonmarc’s moodiness, he said nothing about it. “That I can,” he said. He plunged the hot bar of metal he had been working into a bucket of water, and a cloud of steam rose in a hiss. “I’m almost ready to put this by for the night. Give me a hand bringing in some coal for the morning and putting the tools on the table, and we can go up.”
Jonmarc hurried to do as he was bid as Anselm banked the fire. The two swords caught Jonmarc’s eye as he was setting tools back in their proper place, and he ran a finger down the smooth, cold flat of one of the blades.
“They’re both beauties, if I say so myself,” Anselm murmured, standing behind him. “Some of my best work, I think.”
“I want to learn to forge swords like these,” Jonmarc said.
“Keep at it, and you will,” Anselm replied. “Go on, pick one up, but mind you don’t swing it around. It’s been sharpened.”
Jonmarc grasped one of the broadswords and let his hand close around the grip. He lifted it, marveling at how wellbalanced it felt. He turned it so that the firelight glinted off the blade, and he caught a glimpse of his own distorted reflection in the polished steel. He extended his arm, pointing the blade.
“No, no. Not like that.” Anselm stepped closer. “Put your feet so,” he said, kicking at Jonmarc’s heels until he adjusted his stance, “and hold your arm thus,” he added, reaching around Jonmarc’s shoulder to position his arm. “There. That’s how to hold a sword.”
Jonmarc stared at the glittering steel. “You learned in the army, didn’t you?”
Anselm gave a heavy sigh. “Aye. And I like forging swords more than fighting with them, to be damn sure. War’s a business for fools and madmen.”
Jonmarc let his arm fall and returned the sword to the table. “All I get to make are barrel hoops, shovels and bridles.”
“They’re good, honest pieces,” Anselm said, and his large, heavy bear-paw of a hand clapped Jonmarc on the shoulder. “No shame in that. If we didn’t need the money, I’d just as soon turn down orders for swords.”
“Why?”
Anselm did not answer right away. His left hand rested on the grip of the nearest sword and his expression grew distant. There was a haunted look in his father’s eyes that Jonmarc had rarely glimpsed before. “I wonder, sometimes, how the Lady sees it,” he murmured. “All the blood that sword will spill, and mine the hand that forged it. Will it count against me, I wonder, when the Crone reckons my fate?” He shook himself, as if to change his mood.
“No more of that,” he huffed, turning away. “We’re done here for tonight. Let’s go eat.” He headed for the path, but Jonmarc cast a last glance at the swords, still thinking about his father’s words.
LATE THAT NIGHT, screams broke the midnight silence. Jonmarc roused from his uneasy sleep to see Neil sitting up in bed, his hand closed around the boning knife.
“What was that?” Neil asked in a tight voice. “Please say it’s cats fighting.”
More screams, along with thumping and banging that echoed in the room. Piers and Marty woke with a start, and Marty began to sniffle. “Hush,” Piers cautioned, handing a blanket to his brother to hold. “Get under the covers and don’t come out until we say so.”
By now, Jonmarc and Neil were on their feet, knives in hand. Piers looked from one to the other. “I heard you talking earlier, when you thought I wasn’t listening,” he said. He reached below his bed and brought out the axe Neil used to cut wood. He was pale and his eyes were wide with fear. He gripped the oversized axe with both hands, and Jonmarc could see that the blade was trembling.
“Put that down before you cut off your own leg,” Jonmarc said. “You and Neil need to stay here, protect Marty and mother. Maybe you can hide down in the dugout where mother keeps the vegetables. I’ll go help father.”
He heard the door open and slam as more cries echoed on the night air. Jonmarc bounded for the door and took the steps at a run.
“Jonmarc! Where are you going! Oh goddess, why do you have a knife?” Dalia stood near the doorway clutching a woolen shawl around her, and Jonmarc thought his mother looked as if she had aged a decade just since supper.
Piers and Neil followed cautiously down the stairs, with Marty edging behind them, still holding tight to the blanket. Dalia gasped as she saw that the two older boys were armed. “By the Crone! Have you all gone mad? Put those knives down right now!”
Jonmarc stepped to the door and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “If it’s raiders, it’s wise to be able to protect ourselves,” he said, marveling that his voice held steady when he was trembling. “Please, mama. Go to the vegetable cellar. Stay safe.”
A fierce glint came into Dalia’s eyes. “And let those sons of the Whore burn my house down around me? Your father and I worked too hard to build what we’ve got. They won’t take it from me while I cower in a hole in the ground.” She snatched up a butcher’s knife from the kitchen.
“Go to your father, Jonmarc. He’s often got more courage than good sense. See to it that he comes home safely, both of you.” Delia gave a sidelong look at the other boys. “The rest of you, stay with me.” She pulled Jonmarc close enough to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll pray to the Dark Lady for your safety.”
The door slammed behind Jonmarc, and he strode off before his fear could stop him. After a few steps, he veered off toward the forge, only to find it deserted. One of the swords Anselm had forged was gone. Jonmarc shoved the knife he carried through his belt and grabbed the remaining sword, then took off at a run toward the commotion in the village center.
The shrill screams of women had woken him from sleep, but men’s curses carried on the wind now, along with the clang of steel. Long after the night’s fires should have been banked, the village glowed with firelight, and as Jonmarc grew closer, he realized that many of the buildings were ablaze.
He rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. The main street in the village of Lunsbetter held two taverns, an open market where farmers, butchers and traders gathered, and shops of tradesmen: cooper, chandler, and tailor. Flames rose from the thatched roofs of the shops, but no bucket brigades ran to fight the fires. Down the muddy main street, rough strangers fought an unequal battle against townsmen armed with kitchen knives and garden tools.
Jonmarc edged forward, and his boot kicked something solid. He looked down to see the body of the sheriff lying splayed on the ground, his gut split open from crotch to ribs, so freshly dead that his blood and spilled innards still steamed in the cold.
Jonmarc collapsed against the wall, heaving for breath, willing himself not to retch. Pretend it’s a just a goat, he told himself as he gulped air. Pretend you’re butchering. He found the cold place inside himself, the place he had learned to go when he helped his father slaughter livestock, where he did not feel and where the death shrieks did not make him tremble.
After a moment, he gathered his courage and moved forward again, avoiding the sheriff’s corpse, until he could see the fighting in the street. He searched for any sign of his father. Bodies littered the rutted road. Please don’t let him be among the dead.
“Looking for a fight, laddie?” A large man with a wild, dark beard lurched in front of him. The man’s hard-used, mismatched clothing was splattered with blood and the long, wicked blade of his sword was crimson. His arms were covered in crude inked images, and around his neck on a piece of leather swung small talismans and charms. One of them was a star of bones, the symbol of the Formless One, the most feared of all the Aspects of the Lady.
Jonmarc backed up a pace, but he held his sword in front of him with both hands. “I’m looking for my father.”
The raider’s smile revealed broken, mottled teeth. “Then you’d best look among the dead. The men here are soft. Not a one of them knows how to fight.”
The raider dove forwa
rd and on instinct, Jonmarc brought his blade up to block the blow. The force of it reverberated down his arm, jarring him to the bone, but he held onto the grip with all his strength. The man chuckled, then swung once more, and his time, the point of his sword opened a deep gash on Jonmarc’s shoulder.
“I’m going to split you open like a pig, boy,” the man said, chuckling. “Spill your guts out onto your shoes and let you drag them home with you,” he laughed.
Once more, the raider swung at him. Jonmarc could smell whiskey on the man’s breath, but it did not blunt the raider’s aim. The sword slashed for his throat, but Jonmarc managed to get his blade up and parry the swing to the side so that it sliced open his other shoulder, but the force of the blow knocked the weapon from his hand.
All trace of humor was gone from the raider’s face. “Next time, I won’t miss, laddie.”
Jonmarc saw the sword glint in the firelight. He ducked and dove, rolling. As the large man began to lumber around, Jonmarc yanked the butcher knife free from his belt and slashed it across the back of the raider’s knees. The man gave a hoarse cry of pain, then screamed curses as his useless legs buckled under him. Jonmarc darted forward and slammed his foot down on the man’s hand, kicking his sword out of reach.
Never leave an animal in pain, his father had told him sternly. If you begin a job, have the balls to finish it. Jonmarc drew a ragged breath, steeling himself.
“A curse on you, boy!” the raider roared. “May you lose all you love to the flame and sword, and the Dark Lady take your soul!”
Jonmarc knew he was shaking with rage and adrenaline as he stepped closer, his knife raised. I don’t know how to fight with a sword, but I do know how to butcher a pig. Before he could think about what he was going to do, he bent forward and grabbed the raider by his long, matted hair. The raider was still cursing him as Jonmarc jerked the man’s head back. With one swift stroke, he drew his blade across the raider’s throat. The man wheezed, blood gurgling and bubbling as he struggled for breath, and then with a spray of crimson, lay quiet in the mud.
Jonmarc did not have to look down to know that his hands were shaking. He was covered in blood, his own and that of the raider. He felt cold to the bone, though the night was mild for autumn. The sound of fighting behind him roused Jonmarc from shock. He bent to retrieve his sword, and turned back toward the carnage on the main street, willing himself not to look at the dead man at his feet.
He kept low, slinking in the shadows of the buildings that had not burned, trying to glimpse the faces of the few village men who were still fighting. He crawled over the bodies of men he had known all his life. Lars, the cooper, one of his father’s best customers, lay sprawled on the ground, a gaping wound in his chest, his face frozen in pain. Dunn, the master of the Rattled Raven pub, was slumped and still against the wall, his body already growing cold, hands pressed against his belly in a vain attempt to force his entrails back into his open gut.
The burning buildings on the other side of the street gave the night an orange glow, casting the area in shifting light and shadow. With a sinking heart, Jonmarc realized that he could not spot his father among the men still fighting the raiders. Pushing away his grief, he began to search the faces of the dead and dying.
The light flickered, and Jonmarc caught a glimpse of a familiar scrap of clothing; the woolen cloak his mother had made for his father. His father was lying in the middle of the street near the bodies of two other men. Jonmarc took a step toward his father’s corpse, and stepped into a puddle of blood. Blood darkened the mud and filled the wagon ruts. And in that moment, Jonmarc felt the coldness from the butchering take him completely even as rage animated his movements. He gave a roar and headed toward the nearest raider, a burly man who was about to best the constable.
He was too late to save the lawman. The raider sank his blade deep into the man’s chest and jerked it back. The constable sagged to his knees, hands clutching his chest, as his shirt grew crimson. The burly raider wheeled, bringing his full attention to Jonmarc just in time to knock aside a blow that was made with more force than skill.
“Now that the men are dead, have they sent in the pups?” the raider chuckled.
Jonmarc wielded the sword two-handed, striking with all the strength he could muster. Work in the forge had made him strong, and the blows he rained down on the raider seemed to take the man by surprise in their ferocity. The leering grin gradually slipped from the man’s face, replaced by dark anger.
“That your old man?” the raider asked, giving the body of Jonmarc’s father a kick for good measure. “Is that it? Well hear this, pup. After I kill you like I killed him, I’ll take your mother like a whore—and your sister, too if you’ve got one—before I slit their throats. Then we’ll have your gold and silver, since you won’t be needin’ it no more.” He chuckled, but his pale eyes were mirthless.
Jonmarc swung again. The raider parried, knocking his sword wide. Seemingly out of nowhere, a short sword was in the raider’s left hand. Jonmarc only glimpsed the blade before the raider rammed forward, driving the point into Jonmarc’s side.
Jonmarc stumbled backward a step, and the raider began to laugh. Blood was soaking down Jonmarc’s shirt and trousers, and the wound hurt like a son of a bitch. But the sound of the laughter stoked his rage and he brought his sword up faster than the raider expected, jamming the blade into the man’s belly just beneath his ribs. Vertigo tilted Jonmarc’s world and he fell, holding onto the sword hilt with his full strength, slicing down through the raider’s abdomen, so that the night air was filled with the smell of fresh offal as a pink cascade of warm entrails spilled from the burly man’s belly.
“You damned cur!” the raider roared. He brought the pommel of his sword down on Jonmarc’s skull, and his world went black.
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED SLOWLY, and Jonmarc struggled for breath. He opened his eyes and saw only darkness. Something heavy was on his chest, while whatever was beneath him was cold and oddly shaped. Pain flooded back with awareness, as if hot coals had been pressed to his side. Whatever lay atop him stank of sweat and shit and cheap liquor.
Gradually, memory sparked. Sweet Chenne, I’m lying in a heap of dead men! Panic tingled through him, warring with the pain. He gathered his remaining strength to try to hurl the body of the raider off of him when he heard voices nearby. It took all his will to force himself to lie still, breathing shallowly, listening.
“Is that everything?” The voice was whiskey-roughened and deep.
“Nearly. Loadin’ it all onto the ship now, Cap’n.” This voice was reedy and nasal. “Couple of the men wondered if we could bring a few of the wenches with us, shame to waste fresh meat,” he said with a lecherous chuckle that turned Jonmarc’s stomach.
“Poke ’em and choke ’em,” Whiskey Voice replied in a bored tone. “Bad luck to have women on a ship, ’specially women who’ve seen you kill their men.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “They’re like as not to slice off your nuts and branch when you’re not lookin’.”
“Aye.” The reedy voiced speaker sounded disappointed. “This shithole of a town waren’t good for much, if you ask me. Provisions are slim, women are ugly, not a man in the place worth the bother to slave, and hardly no gold nor silver.”
“Patience,” Whiskey Voice replied. “Think of it as practice. We’ll take Ebbetshire next, when we need more provisions and a night on the town,” he said with a chuckle. “Then Eiderford when I’m sure the new crew know their places.” He paused. “Best we be gone before anyone comes to see about those flames.”
Jonmarc felt a jolt as they threw another body on the pile. He heard boot steps recede, and let out a shuddering breath. It hurt to move; it ached to breathe. One leg had gone to sleep under the weight of the dead raider. His side was sticky and warm, seeping blood. He passed in and out of consciousness, then awoke once more to silence.
I don’t care if there’s anyone left to see. I’ve got to heave this big oaf off me before I suff
ocate, Jonmarc thought, taking strength from his foul mood. He shoved with all his might, rolling the body of the burly raider to the side and scraping the man’s entrails off of himself. Jonmarc took a steadying breath, and struggled to his knees, looking around. He found his sword and picked it up, watching the shadows warily.
The main street was dark and silent. The shops had burned down to charred posts, and the flames that flickered inside the ruined buildings cast a dim glow across the carnage. Bodies lay everywhere. Some were dead raiders, but most were villagers. Jonmarc looked down at the body that had been beneath him. His father’s corpse was cold and rigid, eyes staring. Next to the body lay the sword Anselm had made for the sheriff. Jonmarc sighed. He leaned over and closed his father’s eyes, and he muttered the prayer for the dead that he had heard his mother say over the bodies of her stillborn babies. I imagine every dead man here said a prayer before he fell, Jonmarc thought. Seems like the goddess isn’t listening.
He reached down and took the sword that lay beside his father’s body, then climbed to his feet. The bleeding had slowed from the gash in his side, and it was hard to tell how much of the blood that covered him was his own, and how much belonged to the dead raider. The smell of smoke hung in the air. An odd scent of roasting meat wafted on the wind, puzzling Jonmarc until he turned. In the ruins of the chandler’s shop he glimpsed two blackened forms.
By the Crone! The tradesmen lived above their shops with their families. When the raiders torched the stores… He did not need to put words to the thought. He fell to his knees retching into the blood-slick mud, every involuntary heave sending searing pain through his gashed side.
When Jonmarc finally caught his breath, his head was spinning. I can’t pass out again, he thought desperately. I might not wake up. I’ve got to get home, got to see—
He trudged back up the road to the forge, making as good progress as his battered body would allow. He carried a make-shift torch he had lit from the ruins of the village shops, and it sufficed to light his way. He had no idea how long it had been since the raiders departed, but judging from the sky, dawn was still far off. He passed no one, heard no sounds to suggest that anyone else had survived the raid. Jonmarc struggled to hold on to the coldness that had carried him through the fight, but the best he could manage was numbness. Even his rage felt spent. Desperation carried him forward, along with the hope that by some luck their small home had been too far for the raiders to notice, too out of the way to be worth the bother.
The Shadowed Path Page 2