The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Please, please, please, he begged silently, though to which of the eight faces of the Sacred Lady he prayed, he did not know.

  He rounded a bend in the road. The house and the forge were both still standing. Nothing had been touched by fire. Jonmarc could smell the coal smoke from the furnace, its fires banked for morning. Yet everything was far too still, he realized as he approached. No lanterns burned inside the house. The barnyard was quiet, though the ruckus in town should have spooked the animals into a frenzy.

  Jonmarc was so intent on reaching the door to the house that he nearly stumbled when his boot caught on something. He looked down and felt his breath leave him. Neil lay cold and still, his knife still clutched in his fist.

  No, please no, please no…

  Jonmarc ignored the pain and began to run. Piers lay a few feet closer to the house, with the axe he had used as a weapon turned against him, pinning his body to the ground. Jonmarc stumbled across the threshold, searching for signs of life. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the hearth in a warm glow, though most of the room was dark.

  “Mother! Marty!” Silence answered him. Then he saw a bundle near the fireplace, and he took a step closer for a better look.

  “Mama!” Jonmarc recognized the pattern on the dress his mother had worn that day, had been wearing just a few candlemarks ago, when she had served him dinner and the world had not gone spinning out of control.

  Jonmarc rushed to kneel beside his mother. There was a smear of blood on the hearth, more blood on her forehead where she had struck the stones. He laid a hand against her skin. It was cold and waxy.

  “Oh no,” he moaned. He rolled her over, and felt his breath leave him. Beneath her body was Marty, and both of them were soaked with blood.

  “No, no, no, no!” His moan became a howl, venting grief and rage. For a long time, he sat with the bodies across his lap, rocking back and forth, sobbing until he could no longer draw breath.

  Gone, all gone. Jonmarc heaved for air, and drew a bloodied sleeve across his eyes. I’m still bleeding. I could just lie down. If the cold doesn’t take me, I’ll bleed out. Fall asleep. So easy…

  The voices of the raiders came back to him. Ebbetshire was next, then maybe Eiderford. More nights of fire and blood and death, more people dead, and no one knew the plan except for him. No one else to warn them. No one else who might keep it from happening.

  “Time to go,” Jonmarc said softly. He leaned down to kiss his mother on the cheek, and he laid his hand gently on Marty’s head. Gone, all gone.

  He laid their bodies aside and dragged himself to his feet, pausing to take a last look around. His mother’s loom looked as if she had been surprised in the middle of her work. The carding combs lay on the floor and a tangle of wool stained with blood had been kicked beneath the table. The wind whistled through the eaves, underscoring just how silent it was on the inside of a house that, with four boys, had never been quiet.

  Jonmarc thought about going back to his room, but he eyed the stairs warily. It would take all his strength— perhaps more than he had—to make it to Ebbetshire. There was nothing in his room valuable enough to risk spending precious energy on climbing the stairs. He stopped and retrieved a few handfuls of wool from the pile on the floor, and packed it against the gash in his side, wrapping his belt against it to keep it tight.

  He went out the back door. The sheep gate was open, and the chicken roost was empty. Looted, no doubt, by the raiders. Jonmarc turned and limped down toward the forge. He had both swords his father had made, as well as the butcher knife, so there was nothing he needed from the forge, but he could not leave without a last look.

  The smell of coal smoke greeted him when he entered the shed. The furnace coals glowed brightly, banked for the next morning’s work. But there was another smell, a strange one that put Jonmarc on alert. He drew his sword and advanced cautiously.

  “Well, now. Lookit that. Guess there’s one of ye left.” The voice sounded from the corner as a dark, hulking shape rose from the shadows. “I thought I got all ye.”

  Jonmarc thought his rage was spent, but the raider’s casual dismissal made his anger flare. “I’m going to kill you.” His voice was utterly flat and not his own. It came from the cold place inside himself, the place that had expanded to fill his chest, the chill that drove out thought and fear, pain, and grief.

  The drunken raider laughed. “Are ye now? Like those two pups in the yard? Came at me with a knife and an axe they did, and landed nary a scratch on me.” He took a step out from the shadows, and Jonmarc saw a pockmarked face with a fresh, bloody slash down one cheek.

  “That bitch in the kitchen had a knife hidden in her skirts,” the raider growled. “I used it to stab the brat while she watched, and then used it on her. Pity. I might have had a bit of fun with her.”

  He’s baiting me, the cold voice in Jonmarc’s head warned. I can’t rush him. I’ve got to have a plan. He’ll make ribbons of me if I fight him with the sword. He looked past the raider to the tables littered with his father’s tools, and a plan formed in his mind.

  “I doubt you have the balls to screw a woman,” Jonmarc said. “You’re probably too clap-eaten to even get it up.” He raised his sword, knowing the raider’s eye would follow the movement.

  “You mangy cur!” The drunken raider lumbered toward Jonmarc with a rolling gait as if he were forever aboard ship in a pitching sea.

  Jonmarc ducked and dodged, coming up behind the man and grabbing for the workbench. He seized the pair of tongs his father used to pull hot iron from the fire and swung around, closing their jaws on the raider’s full beard and yanking it with all his might.

  It sent the raider stumbling toward him as Jonmarc backed away, deeper into the forge.

  The raider reached for the tongs to grab them away from Jonmarc, and Jonmarc dropped his sword, taking up one of the iron bars that lay near the forge and using it to shove the raider, hard, so that he fell backwards, flailing for balance, against the furnace.

  Jonmarc dove onto the bellows. He landed hard and bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. The weight of his body on the bellows handles sent a blast of air beneath the furnace, and the fire roared to life. The raider’s beard and clothing caught like tinder and the man screamed, his bleary eyes wide in panic. He lurched from the furnace and flailed toward the doorway, all of him aflame as the smell of scorching skin and burning wool rivaled the coal smoke.

  A few more staggering steps and the raider collapsed to his knees then fell face-forward into the dirt. Painfully, Jonmarc lifted himself off the bellows, its handles stained with his blood, and stared at the dying raider. The flames receded, until the man’s clothing and what remained of his hair still smoldered, but the raider did not move.

  Jonmarc steadied himself and retrieved his sword, cautiously advancing toward the body. He could see the rise and fall of the man’s breath, the limbs twitching involuntarily. It could take the man hours to die, he knew from his father’s tales of what could happen to hapless blacksmiths when no healer was nearby. He walked carefully toward the raider, alert for a trick.

  He killed mama. He killed my brothers. He left them to die. I should let him lie.

  He looked at the forge, still set as his father had left it just a few candlemarks earlier. Jonmarc glanced toward the looted barn and the slaughter floor. His father’s admonishments rang in his ears as he looked back at the raider.

  I could, but I won’t. I won’t… be… like… him.

  He brought the sword down with both hands, point first, through the raider’s back. The man jerked and arched and a gurgle escaped his throat. In a moment that seemed to last forever, the raider stiffened and then dropped forward to lie motionless.

  Jonmarc withdrew the sword and wiped it clean on the dry grass. He looked toward the east, toward Ebbetshire. It’s only a few miles. It’ll be dawn soon. I might make it. I could warn them.

  He paused long enough to take a lantern from the forge. Forcin
g himself not to dwell on what was behind him, Jonmarc trudged up the road. Although he had walked the distance before, and ridden it in the wagon many times when he took his mother’s weaving to market, it now seemed as if the road stretched on forever, and the miles had become leagues. The adrenaline of the fight had faded, and with every step, the pain in his side worsened. By the time Ebbetshire’s dark outline was visible against the rising dawn, Jonmarc had grown lightheaded and he knew he was much colder than he should have been for the night’s mild temperatures.

  What if I get there and they don’t believe me? What if they think I had something to do with it? Goddess knows, I’m covered in blood.

  Breathing hurt. Moving sent sharp pain through his side, down his leg. He focused on the narrow path in front of him. Take a step. Take another step. Again. Again.

  His field of vision tilted, and he stumbled, nearly losing his footing. He staggered on several more steps, and fought to stay upright as his knees threatened to buckle. The sky had lightened first to indigo and then to shades of blue. He no longer needed his lantern to light the way, and in the distance, he could see lights in the windows of the village’s homes and shops as the day began.

  Jonmarc took a step, and his legs collapsed beneath him. He tried to rise, and his strength failed him. He got to his knees and managed a few more lengths before he fell hard against the dusty, rutted road.

  No way to warn them, he thought before the blackness took him. I failed.

  “DON’T STIR.” THE voice seemed to come from far away. It was a pleasant voice, though unfamiliar.

  “He’s a strong one.” The second voice was rough but not unkind. “Surprised he’s rousing so soon.”

  Jonmarc struggled to open his eyes. His vision swam for an instant, and then cleared. Two women bent over him. One was a girl close to his own age with blond hair and a shy, encouraging smile. The other was an older woman, perhaps the girl’s mother, with worried eyes and careworn features.

  Jonmarc opened his mouth to speak. His lips were dry, and his first sounds were desperate croaks.

  “Lie still,” the girl said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You’re safe. Mum’s a healer.”

  “Warn you,” Jonmarc managed to rasp. “Raiders. Coming. Ebbetshire—danger.”

  The two women exchanged a glance. “I’ll go tell Kell,” the older woman said. “Sit with him. Don’t let him get up.”

  The girl gave a brisk nod and turned back to Jonmarc with a no-nonsense expression. “You nearly died, you know,” she said when the older woman had gone. “Lucky I found you when I did.”

  “How?” Jonmarc managed. The girl helped him rise long enough to press a cup of water to his lips before gentling him down onto the mattress.

  “I’d gone out at dawn to find bark and roots for mum’s cures,” she replied. “Those are best if you take them when it’s cool out,” she added. “There you were, face down on the road. I thought you were dead at first, then I saw you breathing. I dragged you to the wagon and managed to heave you in.” She grimaced. “Might have bruised you some in the doing, but it was the best I could do.”

  She paused. “Mum said you were bad off, but she worked on you.” She shook her head. “Someone sliced you up. Then the wound went sour, in spite of everything mum did, and you took fever for a few days.”

  “Raiders came,” Jonmarc said in a hoarse voice just above a whisper. “Killed—”

  The girl’s expression sobered. “We know,” she said, laying a finger to his lips. “Our men went to Lunsbetter first thing that day. We’d seen light in the sky from that way, like a great fire.” She grew quiet. “When they got there, they saw.” After a moment she went on. “They buried your dead, and burned the raiders. Naught else to do. They salvaged what little the raiders didn’t take, since there was no one left.” Her hand touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up as if she remembered something. “Here you are, waking up among strangers. I’m Shanna.”

  “Jonmarc Vahanian.”

  She frowned, thinking. “I’ve seen you at the market. You’re the weaver’s son.”

  Jonmarc turned his head to look away and did not answer. Shanna sighed as if she guessed the cause of his silence. “Your family—”

  “Dead.”

  “Mum and I figured,” she said quietly. “Mum also said that, from your hands, she thought you’d done some smithing.”

  He nodded, but could not bring himself to speak.

  “Once you’re better, mum said she’d take you to meet the smith in town. He might have known your father. Mum thought he might want an apprentice.” She smiled encouragingly. “You’ll be all right here, Jonmarc. You’ll be safe.”

  Jonmarc met her gaze. She was not beautiful, but there was kindness in her brown eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  She gave a worried smile and helped him take another sip of water. “You’re probably starving. Mum got some broth into you, but not much more. Don’t worry,” she went on, “we’ll make sure you don’t go hungry now that you’re awake.”

  Jonmarc moved to get up. “Tell the men—” he began.

  “Mum’s gone to warn them,” Shanna said, and gently pushed him back down. “I figure Kell will be over as soon as she’ll let him talk to you. Kell’s the town mayor. You’ll have time to tell your story,” she assured him. “Probably more times than you’ll want to. When the men came back with the news, everyone heard. They’ve been buzzing about it for days.”

  Overwhelming tiredness flooded through his body, and Jonmarc felt himself fading.

  “Don’t fight sleep, Jonmarc,” Shanna said. “Mum laced the water with herbs. They’ll make you sleepy, but they’ll help you heal. You’re safe here.”

  No one’s safe, he thought, but he was too far gone to speak.

  THE NEXT TIME he awoke, he was alone. Late afternoon light filtered through the window of a small room, and he could smell food cooking. For the first time since the night of the attack, nothing hurt. Gingerly, he touched his side where the raider had stabbed him. It was tender, but the skin was healed, leaving only a raised scar. Shanna’s mum must be quite a healer, Jonmarc thought. I thought for sure I was going to die.

  He pushed back the rough-woven blanket and sat up carefully. Someone had dressed him in a worn, homespun nightshirt, and he felt a flush of embarrassment, though he knew his own clothes had been damaged beyond repair. The small room held a lamp stand and the wooden bed with its straw-filled mattress on which he sat, plus a small trunk against the far wall. Atop the trunk, lay a shirt and trews. His boots stood next to the trunk, and he realized that someone had cleaned off the blood and mud that had caked them. He dressed as quickly as he could manage, fearing that Shanna or her mother might happen in before he was finished.

  Drawing on more bravado than strength, Jonmarc managed to stand. Beyond the doorway, he could hear voices. Shanna, her mother, and a man Jonmarc thought looked vaguely familiar sat in the kitchen. Dried herbs and roots hung from the cottage’s rafters, and along one wall were shelves filled with bottles and jars which he assumed held the herbs, potions, and mixtures Shanna’s mother used to heal her patients.

  Conversation halted as they saw him in the doorway, and all three people rose from their seats. Shanna and her mother rushed toward him, while the man drew up a fourth chair and made a gesture of welcome.

  “You shouldn’t be up yet,” the healer fussed. Shanna said nothing, but gave Jonmarc a worried glance.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Jonmarc said.

  “Have a seat,” the man offered. They let Jonmarc hang onto his dignity by not insisting on helping him walk across the room, and he hoped he did not show just how happy he was to sit down.

  “Elly here has been telling me about your recovery,” the man said. “I’m Kell, the mayor, and Elly’s cousin on her mother’s side.” He paused. “I’m glad you made it.”

  Elly bustled to the hearth and returned with a cup of tea for Jonmarc and a slice of br
ead with butter. “Eat. You need your strength,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Jonmarc replied, feeling awkward under Kell’s gaze.

  “Shanna says your mother was the weaver who came to market. Is that right?”

  Jonmarc paused as he chewed a bite of bread. “She’s gone now. All of them are gone.”

  Kell nodded. “You’re Anselm’s boy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I didn’t know your father well, but I’d met him on occasion, and I knew of him,” Kell replied. “People spoke well of him, and of the things he forged. Same with your mother and her work.” He looked down at Jonmarc’s scarred hands. “Looks like you’ve done a bit of iron work yourself.”

  “I helped in the forge since I could carry the tools,” Jonmarc said, looking down so he did not have to see the pity in Kell’s eyes.

  “I thought so,” Kell replied. “Elly’s already talked to Tucker Erikson, our blacksmith. Once she says you’re patched up, he’s willing to give you a go in the forge as a helper, and he says he has a spare room in the back where you can live, if you want. Told me he can’t pay much coin, but he has enough work to keep a roof over your head and food in your belly.” He paused. “Tuck only had good things to say about your father,” he added. “They fought together in the king’s army. He wouldn’t make an offer like that to just anyone.”

  Jonmarc stared into his tea, completely overwhelmed at both the reality of his loss and the unexpected kindness. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured after a long pause.