The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Elly patted him on the arm. “Just say ‘thank you’ and then go back to bed and finish healing up so you can get on with things.”

  Jonmarc nodded and swallowed hard. He forced himself to look Kell in the eyes. “I heard the raiders say they’d come for Ebbetshire next. Are you ready?”

  Kell gave a grim smile. “We’re grateful for the warning. Elly told me straightaway, and I’ve had men doing what they can to protect the town.” He shook his head. “Not so easy, since we’re not a walled town and don’t have a charter from the king to become one.”

  “You saw what they did,” Jonmarc said, refusing to release Kell’s gaze. “It only took a few candlemarks, and everyone was dead.”

  “Aye,” Kell said, and his expression was resolute. “Not a man who helped bury your dead will ever forget that. We built watch towers, one on each corner of the town. We’ll have a man in each one overnight every night,” he said, his jaw set. “That puts two men watching the coast, and two watching the only roads in and out. The fishermen said they’d patrol the shoreline, and put a boat out each night with sentries.”

  Kell sighed. “We can’t keep it up forever, but maybe long enough that the raiders decide to go somewhere else.” He was silent for a moment. “One thing’s for damn sure: we can give them an unpleasant surprise.”

  Jonmarc nodded, and forced down a lump in his throat. “We can hope.”

  THE RAIDERS CAME by the dark of the moon. The sentries in the boat raised the alarm before the raiders’ ship angled their sails to ram the smaller craft and send its sailors to the bottom of the bay. The watchers in the tower rang bells in warning, and the town’s crier ran through the streets beating on a tin pot to rouse Ebbetshire’s citizens from their sleep.

  Jonmarc stood shoulder to shoulder with the town’s men on the shore road, between Kell and Tucker. A month of Elly’s healing had put right his injuries, though he wondered if the nightmares would ever leave him. Working with Tucker in the forge had renewed his strength. Now, he waited, his hand clenched on the grip of his father’s sword.

  “They’re taking their sweet time,” Kell growled. “They don’t seem to care that we know they’re coming.”

  “They want us to be afraid,” Jonmarc replied, feeling his heart pound. “They’re certain we’ll lose. It’s a game to them.”

  “We’ll see if the arrangements we’ve made will hold them off,” Kell said grimly. “If not, it’s been nice knowing you.”

  Five boats emerged in the faint glow the men’s torches cast across the black water. Each boat, to Jonmarc’s eye, held at least fifteen raiders, a number that could easily overpower the adult men of most small towns. One of the village’s scouts ran up behind Kell and whispered in his ear. Kell nodded.

  “Just as we thought—there’s more of them coming in from the side. They mean to flank us.” Kell reported quietly.

  “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be,” Tucker murmured. “Let’s get the waiting over with.”

  Jonmarc scanned the shadowy shapes of the raiders looking for one man: Whiskey Voice. He shifted and let his left hand fall to the knife hilt in a sheath at his side. This time, he wouldn’t be surprised. This time, he was ready.

  The townsmen held their line at the edge of the shore where the ground gave them firm footing and the forest’s edge forced the raiders up an open approach. Their torches gleamed in the darkness, lighting the way, making certain that the raiders knew they would not take this town without a fight.

  There he is, Jonmarc thought. Whiskey Voice. The leader of the raiders strode up the beach as his men fanned out beside him, shouting to his men. The sea wind shifted, and Jonmarc caught the smell of unwashed bodies, sweat, and whiskey. He fought down flashes of memory from that other night, forcing himself to focus on the enemy that was nearly upon them. Down their line of volunteer defenders, Jonmarc heard men stirring as the tension became unbearable, but every man held his position and kept to his orders.

  “Look at this,” Whiskey Voice said to the raider beside him, loud enough for his words to carry. “They’ve made it easy for us. Now we don’t have to drag them from their beds to put a knife through them.”

  Jonmarc could feel anger and adrenaline surging through his body, but he held his place, awaiting Kell’s signal.

  Whiskey Voice’s taunts grew more graphic and obscene the closer he and his men got to the villagers. Yet their silence seemed to rattle him, Jonmarc thought. Just wait…

  The raiders were almost upon them, and Jonmarc could hear murmurings among the men behind Whiskey Voice. Their stillness, their silence, and their suicidal stalwartness took the edge off the raiders’ bravado.

  They want us to fear them, Jonmarc thought. They need to see our fear.

  “I’ll give you something to make you move!” Whiskey Voice roared. He raised his sword and began to run toward the line.

  Before the raiders could take two running steps, the twang of bows filled the still night air. A hail of arrows fell from both the right and the left, where archers waited hidden in the cover of the forest.

  “Now!” Kell shouted.

  With a feral cry, Jonmarc and the others broke their line, swords raised, rushing toward the attackers. At least a dozen raiders lay bleeding in the sand, arrows protruding from their bodies.

  “With me!” Whiskey Voice rallied his surviving raiders. Rage reddened his features as he realized that he might lose both his profit and his sport.

  Ebbetshire’s men were not swordsmen, but they knew how to wield the tools of their trade. The long reach of the farmers’ scythes made it possible to keep the raiders’ swords at bay while sweeping a deadly arc at their ankles and knees. Bertrand the butcher and his five stocky sons swung their cleavers with the certainty of men who knew how to cut up animals much larger than any of the raiders in their way. Beside Jonmarc, Tucker had forgone swords for the sheer brute force of a rod of iron and a sledgehammer.

  In the distance, Jonmarc could hear more fighting, and he guessed that the men in the forest had intercepted Whiskey Voice’s reinforcements. Whiskey Voice seemed to guess it, too, because his eyes narrowed with the look of a cornered animal.

  “If we can’t have what we came for, we’ll take them all to the Crone with us!” Whiskey Voice shouted, laying about himself with his broadsword. His blade cleaved one of the townsmen from shoulder to hip, but three more villagers came at him with a ferocity that drove him back a few paces.

  Much as Jonmarc hungered for a chance to settle the score with Whiskey Voice, he had his own problems. He had drawn the attention of one of the raiders who now circled him like a cat toying with a doomed mouse.

  “I’ll kill you quick, boy, if you don’t struggle.”

  The voice sent a new surge of fury through Jonmarc as he recognized the thin raider as the reedy-toned man, Whiskey Voice’s second-in-command.

  “That’s what you said the last time,” Jonmarc said through clenched teeth.

  The raider charged at him, but Jonmarc deflected the blade. He struggled to keep himself on solid ground, doing his best to drive the raider back into the sand. The raider laughed, drawing a second blade from behind him, coming at Jonmarc in a flurry of steel.

  Jonmarc readied his sword, drawing his own knife. He caught the sword’s stroke against his own long blade, feeling the jolt shudder down his whole body. Just in time, he struck back at the raider’s second blow, missing the worst of it but taking a gash on his forearm.

  The raider was stronger than his wiry frame suggested, and the next few strikes pounded him with such speed and rage that Jonmarc was certain he was about to die. It was all he could do to beat back the blows, forcing the blades clear of his chest and belly, accepting the bloody gashes that opened on his shoulders and arms.

  Jonmarc slashed himself clear and fell back a pace, holding his sword level with his attacker’s heart, unsure he could hold off another such salvo. The wiry raider chuckled and grinned, anticipating the kill. Then to Jonmarc’s as
tonishment, there was a swish of air, a shadow there and gone, and the raider stiffened, eyes rolling back in his head. Before Jonmarc could move, the raider was hoisted into the air by a power yet unseen, and thrown with force against Jonmarc’s outstretched sword.

  Blood cascaded down the raider’s head, which looked oddly angled. More blood seeped from his chest as he slid haltingly down Jonmarc’s blade, sagging against the steel; a dead weight.

  “That’s one for you!” Tucker stood behind the raider, and raised his sledgehammer in salute.

  Jonmarc dumped the body from his sword and stepped over the dead raider. “That’s for father,” he muttered.

  Two more raiders came at them, and there was no more time to talk. Jonmarc and Tucker found themselves fighting back to back amid the bloody chaos. The sand at Jonmarc’s feet was slick with blood and bodies littered the beach. Still, it looked as if more villagers were standing than raiders, and their allies in the forest appeared to have made good on their promise to keep any reinforcements from appearing.

  Across the way, Jonmarc glimpsed Kell still on his feet, fighting off a raider who looked to be getting the worst of the match. The butcher and his sons, covered in blood, moved like a lethal wall down the beach. No new boats had come across the water from the sailing ship, and the fight had moved so that the townsmen blocked the raiders from reaching their boats had they been inclined to retreat.

  The same coldness Jonmarc felt on the night of the attack in Lunsbetter settled over him once more. It quelled his fear, hardened his heart against the cries of dying men, and narrowed his focus. Without distractions, nothing existed except the sword in his hand. Jonmarc had no illusions about his skill with a sword. He fought on sheer instinct, fueled by rage and grief, hungry for vengeance. What he lacked in technique he made up for with an unpredictability that got him inside the guard of more than one raider. Blood soaked his shirt, his own blood and that of the raiders he killed.

  “You should have stayed dead.” Whiskey Voice seemed to rise out of nowhere from the torch smoke, his blade glinting in the firelight. “I’ve already killed you once.”

  Moving before Jonmarc could react, Whiskey Voice struck, stabbing deep into Tucker’s side. Tucker gasped and swung his iron bar in a wide arc, connecting with Whiskey Voice’s shoulder hard enough that Jonmarc could hear bones snap.

  Jonmarc saw his chance in the instant before the raider could free his sword. He brought both his blades down in a ‘V’, striking with all his might, feeling his sword slice through bone and sinew and muscle. For a split second, Whiskey Voice stared at him in astonishment before his severed head toppled from his shoulders and his body landed with a wet thump at Jonmarc’s feet.

  When he looked up, the beach had cleared. Of the men still standing, none were raiders. The butcher and his sons moved among the dead, dispatching the fallen attackers with cold efficiency. Shadows moved at the edge of the forest and Jonmarc tensed, raising his bloodied swords for another onslaught before he recognized the uniforms of the soldiers from the garrison.

  “There’ll be no reinforcements coming this way,” proclaimed a man wearing the insignia of a captain in the royal army as he strode toward Kell. His uniform was spattered with blood, but he appeared to be unharmed.

  “The bulk of the raiders landed on either side, planning to cut behind you,” the captain went on as he surveyed the bodies that littered the beach. “While this group kept you distracted, the others would have had the village in their hands before you could do anything about it.”

  Distracted, Jonmarc thought, eying the dead men on the ground. That’s one word for it.

  “Thanks for your assistance, Captain Duncan,” Kell said as the soldiers gathered behind their commander. “I wasn’t sure, when we sent the runner to the garrison, whether you’d be willing to bother with a village like Ebbetshire.”

  The captain spared him a weary grin. “I dare say the king will be happy to hear that at least one pack of raiders has been dealt with.” He looked toward the water, where several teams of soldiers were rowing the raiders’ landing boats back toward the sailing ship. “When my men are done with whoever’s on board,” he said, “we’ll steer her into open water and burn her down to the waterline. That should give fair warning to anyone else who thinks to prey on the coast.”

  Kell and the captain moved away, concluding their business. Jonmarc looked down at the crimson-stained swords in his hands and the wide-eyed visage of Whiskey Voice’s severed head. He had lost track of the raiders he had killed, and his father’s voice rang in his memory.

  Will it count against me, I wonder, when the Crone reckons my fate?

  Tucker’s heavy bear-paw of a hand landed on his shoulder. “You did well tonight, m’boy.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “Maybe the goddess likes you,” Tucker replied. “We’ve had the favor of the Lady tonight, that’s sure.”

  Jonmarc thought of the raider who had cursed him with his dying words, and of his father, who feared the judgment of the Crone. I’m in too far to turn back now, he thought, looking down at his bloody hands. He raised his face to meet Tucker’s gaze.

  “If the raiders come again, I want to be ready,” he replied. “Teach me to fight.”

  CAVES OF THE DEAD

  “I’M SORRY THAT you’ll be moving on so soon. You’re a good customer.” Jonmarc Vahanian pocketed the silver coins for the load he had delivered. Forged iron and steel—bits and bridles, barrel hoops, rims for wagon wheels, and a variety of tools lay in bundles where the caravan workers had unloaded Jonmarc’s wagon. Next to them lay a smaller pile of dried herbs, bottled potions, and powders that he delivered from the village hedge witch.

  “Tucker’s a fine blacksmith—and a smart man to have such a good apprentice.” Maynard Linton, caravan master and traveling entertainer, put his velvet money bag inside his tunic. Linton eyed Jonmarc as if sizing him up. “You’re Anselm’s son, aren’t you? Sorry to hear about your father.”

  Two years had passed since raiders destroyed Jonmarc’s village, killing his family and the rest of the villagers. Jonmarc had been the sole survivor, and the thought of that awful night still put a lump in his throat. “Thanks,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

  “I used to do business with your father when we passed this way,” Linton continued. “It’s a shame what happened. You’re lucky to find a master like Tucker. And if you learned anything from your old man, Tucker’s got himself a good deal.”

  ‘Lucky’ wasn’t the word Jonmarc would have normally chosen to describe himself, but he let it go. “What will you pay for the bits I brought you?” Jonmarc asked, nodding toward a canvas sack next to the forged items.

  Linton opened the sack and poured out its contents onto the flat of the wagon. Old coins, copper jewelry tarnished with age, small carved statues, and other trinkets spilled onto the worn wood. Linton eyed them, then nodded and put them back in the sack.

  “I’ll give you twenty coppers for them,” Linton said, withdrawing the coins from his pouch. “Things like these sell well in Principality. Soldiers are a suspicious lot. They hold with charms and talismans. These’ll do just fine.” He gave a sideways glance toward Jonmarc. “Does Tucker know you’ve been going into the caves?”

  Jonmarc looked away. “Tuck’s a businessman. He knows how hard it is to get by these days.” A poor harvest for the last two seasons meant fewer travelers and fewer visits from merchant ships for the towns in Margolan’s Borderlands. “We grow what we can and barter for what we can’t, but the king wants coin for taxes.” He paused. “How long will you be staying on in these parts?”

  Linton shrugged. He was stout with broad shoulders and a restless energy about him that made people clear a path in front of him. His skin had darkened to a coppery leather tan from seasons spent out of doors. His waistcoat was brocade with velvet trim and his boots were of a sort favored by the gentry, but Jonmarc noticed both the waistcoat and boots had seen hard wear.

/>   Linton’s caravan was one of several that came through the Borderlands at odd intervals, setting up camp in a clearing on the outskirts of town. For the villagers, used to fisherman, tradesman and farmers, it was the most excitement to be had. The horses, brightly painted wagons, tents and flags, and dozens of oddly-dressed performers were quite a sight. Locals streamed in to see the acrobats and wild animals, sample unusual food, and buy trinkets from the artisans who traveled with the show. Linton’s caravan was one of the more impressive ones Jonmarc had seen, looking more like a troupe of entertainers than a pack of vagrants.

  “It all depends, m’boy,” he replied. “We’ll see how the farmers and town folk pay to see our shows and buy our wares.”

  Jonmarc grimaced. At seventeen, he was not a boy anymore, and Linton, who looked to be in his early thirties, was hardly of an age to set himself up as an elder. “And after this?”

  Linton chuckled. “Wherever the road takes us,” he said. “We had a good run in the palace city for the harvest festivals, but I’d like to be in Principality by Winterstide, if not before.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Principality is where all the mercenaries make camp when they’re not on campaign. And there’s no one who’s more like to spend gold on drink, women, and amusement than a bunch of holed-up mercs!”

  Linton paused and gave Jonmarc a sidelong glance. “You know, if you’re ever of a mind to see the world, I’ve got plenty of work for a good blacksmith. Takes one man just to keep the horses shod! My people get a tent to sleep in and food to eat, and enough coin to keep them in ale, that’s for certain.”

  Jonmarc shook his head. “I don’t think Tucker would be too pleased at that,” he said. “And besides, my wife’s due any day now with our first born. Her mother’s a hedge witch and a healer—she’d like as not put boils on me if I tried a stunt like running off with a caravan.”

  Linton clapped him on the shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the first to join under those circumstances,” he said. “But I applaud your loyalty, though I’m not a family man myself. Get on then,” he said, making a gesture with both hands meant to shoo Jonmarc back to his wagon. “I’ll see you around, if the Dark Lady brings us back to these roads again.”