The pale, robed man he had met on that dark road had not made any attempt to drain Jonmarc of his blood. Instead, he had offered a bargain Jonmarc could not refuse, one that had cost him everything he held dear. Somewhere in the night that vayash moru was still out there, likely to be unhappy because Jonmarc had not kept his part of their deal. The thought made him shudder.
“They’re not all monsters,” Trent replied. “I know most people are afraid of them, and there’s cause to be, but some of them, like Renden and his brother, just want to be left alone to go about their business.”
“If you say so,” Jonmarc replied. “I try to keep my distance.”
Trent gave the reins a snap to move the horse along a little faster. “Not a bad idea, though the couple of vayash moru who work for the caravan have never given me any cause to fear them.”
It seemed that everyone in the caravan’s company was running away from something, pretending to be someone else, or trying desperately to avoid being found. For Jonmarc, it was a desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and his memories. From what little Jonmarc knew of Trent, his friend was trying to outrun some bad debts. In the six months Jonmarc had been with the caravan, he had heard stories about what nearly everyone in the company was trying to leave behind: jilted lovers, cuckolded husbands, vengeful masters, broken promises. Linton didn’t tell tales, but that didn’t stop others from speculating.
“Why would a vayash moru want a job with the caravan— or work as a smith, like Renden?” Jonmarc asked, curiosity overcoming his reluctance to discuss the subject.
Trent never took his eyes off the road ahead of them. “Immortality lasts a long time, I guess,” he said. “Gotta do something to fill the nights. For Renden and his brother, it’s the love of their craft. Wait until you see the swords Renden forges, and his brother Eli’s silver work. They might have been master craftsmen before they were turned, but a few hundred years of practice have made their work more beautiful than anything you’ve seen before.”
“The other people—mortals—don’t bother them?” Jonmarc asked, frowning.
Trent chuckled. “For one thing, Renden and Eli aren’t the only vayash moru in the farm country where we’re heading. They’re a little off the main road, and folks out here mind their own business. Plus, family counts for a lot in farming areas like these. Renden and his brother have been the neighbors of these farmers, and their fathers, and their grandfathers and so on. It wouldn’t be neighborly for Renden and Eli to drain them, and it wouldn’t be right for the neighbors to try to kill the brothers.”
Jonmarc came from a small village where the eccentricities of long-time neighbors were overlooked so long as no one got hurt, so Trent’s comment made sense in a strange sort of way. “You said that Renden and Eli aren’t the only vayash moru. Are the others smiths, too?”
Trent shook his head. “You’ll see. We’re expecting a few of them to bring goods to trade.” he said. “Several are farmers, working the land they lived on back before they were turned. They lend a hand during the night to help out their great- great-grandchildren, who are old men themselves now.”
“What about the ones who work with the caravan?” Jonmarc had wondered about their vayash moru workers, and he had heard plenty of rumors, but Trent seemed to know what he was talking about, and Jonmarc found curiosity getting the best of him. That, and the fact that carrying on a conversation kept him from wondering whether any wolves were lurking in the shadows along the roadside.
“Linton likes them because they’re stronger and faster than the rest of us,” Trent replied. “A vayash moru can do more work in one night than a mortal man can do in two days, and he’s not going to miss work like mortals who get drunk and sick and injured.” Trent shrugged. “They’re dead—I guess undead is more the truth of it—and so they don’t take fever from the night air. If they get hurt, short of being stabbed in the heart or having their head cut off, they heal up quick, practically fast enough to see. Makes them good workers to have around.”
“How does Linton know one of them won’t get hungry one night and kill one of us?”
Trent gave him a sideways glance. “How does Linton know that any of us won’t up and kill someone? More than a few of the folks in the caravan have killed in the past, I wager, self-defense or not, you and me included.”
Jonmarc grimaced. He and Trent had been in a few tight spots when raiders and bandits had attacked the caravan, and both of them had defended themselves and the company to the death. “All right. But does it work the same way for vayash moru? After all, we didn’t want to kill anyone. We don’t kill because we’re hungry.”
Trent’s expression grew somber. “No? We didn’t kill because we wanted anyone’s blood for food, but I’ve known men who’ve stolen food they couldn’t pay for and killed the guards who caught them.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jonmarc said. “If vayash moru like Renden and the ones at the caravan don’t drink human blood, how do they survive?”
Trent shrugged again. “Cows, sheep, goats, horses, even rats, I hear. They don’t have to kill when they drink. Linton lets our vayash moru workers keep a flock of goats to feed on.”
That was a relief. Although Jonmarc had not wanted to back out of helping Trent on his errand, he had also not been comfortable with the thought of meeting several vayash moru who might decide he looked like a good meal. “People talk about them,” he said quietly. “The vayash moru with the caravan, I mean.”
Trent nodded. “Aye. Just like they talk about everyone. Talk is cheap. But Linton runs a tight camp, and you know he won’t stand for anyone making the caravan unfriendly for good workers.” He chuckled. “Truth be told, I think most folks in the caravan are more afraid of Linton than any vayash moru.”
Jonmarc was silent for a few moments. “Is there anything I need to know before I meet them?” he asked. “Anything that will keep them from eating me?”
Trent frowned. “You don’t have to worry about being eaten, but there are some courtesies, and a few safety measures. Renden and the others will make sure they feed before we arrive, which decreases the risk to us. Still, it’s best to avoid anything that makes your heart pound.” He gave a wry chuckle. “I’m told it’s a bit like waving food in front of a dog. They can’t really read your mind, no matter what the rumors say, but they are very good at reading your expression and body, so don’t do anything that might look... aggressive.” He paused. “Oh, and try not to meet their gaze.”
“Why?”
Trent shrugged. “One of their abilities is compulsion. If they capture your gaze, they can compel you to do what they want. Most vayash moru won’t use their ability except to protect themselves, but it’s best to avoid the situation.”
Trent turned the cart up a dirt path, and not long after, a couple of modest wooden houses came into view. Behind the houses was a barn and a fenced yard for sheep and goats, along with a large plowed field. Off to one side was a blacksmith’s forge. The smell of charcoal wafted on the night air, and the glow from the furnace made Jonmarc think of home. He swallowed hard, and tried to focus on the task at hand.
“We’re here,” Trent said.
The night was quiet as Trent stopped the wagon. They were in a clearing in the center of a small group of homes. The windows in several of the homes were dark, while a few glowed with lamplight, and the forge’s glow kept the area from being too dark to navigate. No one was in sight. Yet Jonmarc knew they were not alone. The hair on the back of his neck stood up with the clear sense that they were being watched, and on a primal level, he knew the watchers were predators.
Trent seemed to sense his nervousness. “Do what I do,” he murmured. Trent swung down from the driver’s seat and walked around to the front of the cart, holding the reins loosely in one hand, his other hand open and slightly away from the sword at his side. Jonmarc did the same.
“It’s Trent,” he told the darkness. “I’ve brought a helper. We’re here t
o see Renden and Eli.”
For a moment, nothing stirred. There was a movement of air, a rustling noise, and suddenly a man stood in front of them. Jonmarc jumped, and the man smiled, showing just the tips of his elongated eye teeth.
“Good to see you, Trent,” the man said. He was lanky and loose-limbed like a farm boy, with dark, short-cropped hair that stood out in a cowlick on top. In face and manner, Jonmarc guessed his age to be early twenties, but then he met the man’s eyes and revised that number to be significantly higher. The man was very pale, making his dark eyes even more prominent. He wore a leather shirt with sleeves that fell to below the elbow, and had leather riding chaps over his trews and high boots. The stranger returned his gaze directly, with an intent look as if he meant to ask a question. Jonmarc felt his skin prickle, and looked away.
“Interesting,” the man murmured. He turned his attention back to Trent. “Who did you bring us?”
His phrasing sent a chill down Jonmarc’s spine, but Trent did not react as if the comment posed a threat. “This is Jonmarc,” he said. “He came to help me load.” Trent turned back to Jonmarc. “This is Renden. You’ve never met a blacksmith who can do the kinds of forging he can.”
Renden chuckled. “Comes with lots of practice,” he said. “Follow me. My men will unload the wagon.”
They headed toward the forge. Jonmarc still had the sense that they were being watched, though no one else stepped out of the night. But he thought the tension had lifted, feeling on a gut level that he and Trent had passed some kind of test.
They stepped inside the forge building and Jonmarc let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. Just being near the furnace and anvil, smelling the charcoal smoke, hearing the rustle of the flames soothed him and made him think of his own lost home. The forge was a three-sided building, protected by the roof and walls from wind and rain, but open on one side to vent the heat. And though every blacksmith arranged the tools and set up to his own liking, Jonmarc knew that he could walk into a forge anywhere in the kingdom and it would feel familiar.
“Take a look at these swords, Jonmarc.” Trent’s voice called him back to the present. He walked over to where Trent and Renden stood next to a table. A dozen swords lay displayed, and Jonmarc caught his breath. He had seen well-crafted blades before. His father had been a skilled blacksmith who made swords for prosperous men near their village. Jonmarc’s two swords were the last his father had made, and were nicely forged and balanced perfectly.
Yet as he looked at the swords Renden set out, he could not help feeling sheer awe at the man’s craftsmanship. From the design of the grip to the perfectly forged edge, to the runes etched along the flat of the blade, each sword was a deadly work of art. One of the blades in particular caught Jonmarc’s eye. The steel looked as if it had been folded many times upon itself, forming a pattern of swirling lines.
He looked up at Renden. “That’s a damashqi blade,” he said, a hint of wonder coloring his words. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before.”
Once again, Renden met his gaze for an instant longer than normal, and Jonmarc felt... something. He looked away, back to the knife. “They’re all beautiful,” Jonmarc said, “but the damashqi is amazing.”
Renden smiled, though he looked puzzled by something. “Thank you,” the vayash moru replied. He looked to Trent. “The damashqi is a gift, for you, to thank you for the trade you do with our village. Use it in good health.”
Trent handled the blade respectfully, admiring the workmanship. “That’s quite a gift. Thank you.”
Renden turned his attention to Jonmarc. “I see you’ve done work in a forge yourself,” he added with a nod toward the tell-tale white scars on Jonmarc’s hands and arms.
“My father was a smith,” Jonmarc replied. “I worked with him until I apprenticed in the next village over.” It was the truth, as far as it went. He didn’t need to mention the circumstances that had caused the untimely deaths of his father and his new master, as well as the rest of his family, his wife, and their village.
Renden nodded. “I worked for my father as well, though I suspect that was a while longer ago.” He gestured toward the blades. “Go ahead. Handle them.” He chuckled. “You look like you know your way around a sword. I doubt you’ll lose a finger.”
Jonmarc picked up one of the swords and weighed it in his hands. As he expected, it was expertly forged and perfectly balanced. “What do the markings mean?” he asked.
Renden’s smile faded. “Just a bit of magic I put into all my swords,” he replied. “A prayer to Istra that the blade never be used on the innocent.” His gaze rose toward one wall of the forge, and Jonmarc turned to look in that direction.
The metal sculpture of a woman sat in a small shrine constructed against one of the forge walls. The woman was tall and beautiful, yet the expression on her face was grief-stricken and fierce. Her cloak billowed around her, and behind it crouched desperate figures who clung to the woman and her cloak.
“Did you make that?” Jonmarc asked, his voice hushed. Part of him was in awe of the skill required to forge the sculpture, but another part, to his surprise, reacted on a visceral level to the image. It was the first time he had ever seen that Aspect of the goddess portrayed, yet it seemed as if, somehow, he had always known her.
“You’re familiar with the Dark Lady?” Renden asked.
“A little,” Jonmarc replied, unable to tear his gaze away from the expression on the statue’s face. “Everyone knows the faces of the Lady.” The Sacred Lady of the Winter Kingdoms was a goddess with eight Aspects: Mother, Childe, Lover, Whore, Crone, Warrior, and two more forbidding presences: Nameless, the Formless One, and Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of the outcast, the damned... and the vayash moru.
“Beautiful work, Renden,” Trent said, breaking the mood. “Linton will be happy with the swords. Where’s Eli?”
Renden turned back toward Trent. “Eli went to fetch the silver pieces he made for you, and to bring the others. They’ve got the supplies you wanted.”
Jonmarc managed to look away from the shrine and glanced around the forge. His attention was caught by a pile of leather gear set to one side. Every blacksmith wore a leather apron and protective leather gloves that covered the wrist and part of the forearm. These gloves were longer, and Jonmarc realized they would meet the long sleeves of Renden’s leather shirt.
“It must get hot, if you wear all that to work the forge,” he said, thinking of how often he had stripped off his shirt when he had helped his father with tasks other than striking the hot iron.
“Heat and cold don’t bother me,” Renden replied. “But I don’t want to catch fire.”
Jonmarc’s face reddened. He’d heard the stories about how vayash moru could be destroyed with flame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” He looked up. “If it’s so dangerous, why do you still work the forge?”
Renden’s eyes grew sad. “The forge and the flame never change,” he replied. “If you’re like me, people come and go too quickly. The forge remains.”
His answer chilled Jonmarc despite the warmth of the nearby furnace. In the months since his family was murdered and he had fled his home, he had taken consolation in the simple constants of the forge, the glow of the flames, the rhythm of the hammer on iron, the smell of the coals and the hiss of steam. It was a sentiment he understood all too well.
“Would you like to see the silver now that my brother has bored you with his iron?” The voice made Trent and Jonmarc jump, as the speaker seemed to appear out of nowhere. Vayash moru speed and stealth would take some getting used to, Jonmarc thought as his heart pounded.
The man Jonmarc guessed to be Eli sauntered into the forge, looking pleased with himself for startling them. Eli had Renden’s dark hair and angular features, but he was younger in appearance, looking little older than Jonmarc.
Trent shook Eli’s hand. “Good to see you. Eli. Silver treating you well?”
Eli smiled. “Always.�
�
Jonmarc looked confused. “I didn’t think vayash moru could work silver, or even touch it,” he said.
Eli looked his way, and met his gaze. The same odd prickle tingled at the back of Jonmarc’s neck, and the same strange feeling of pressure in his temples. He blinked, and forced himself to return the stare levelly. “Interesting,” Eli replied, looking away from Jonmarc and giving Renden a meaningful glance Jonmarc could not decode.
“One of many legends about our kind that aren’t true,” Eli replied. “Fortunately for me. I think the Nargi priests started that rumor, because they wanted to make their people think we couldn’t touch the objects sacred to the Crone.” He gave a derisive snort. “The only things dangerous to us were the priests themselves.”
Unlike in Margolan, where King Bricen was tolerant, even protective of the vayash moru, Nargi’s Crone priests were known to hunt and kill vayash moru—and mages, or so Jonmarc had heard. He and Trent followed Eli out of the forge while Renden began packing up the swords.
The previously empty open space in the middle of the small gathering of houses now bustled with activity by moonlight. One man was unloading the box of pig iron, handling the heavy weight single-handedly without apparent strain. Jonmarc had helped to lift that box, and knew just how heavy it was. Two other men hoisted large boxes of produce onto their shoulders, balancing them as if they were empty, and carrying them to Trent’s wagon to replace the pig iron. Over to one side, two women were unwrapping a cloth bundle that revealed delicate jewelry, while a woman and a man set out beautifully-crafted pottery for Trent’s examination.
“Is everyone in the village vayash moru?” Jonmarc asked Trent in a low voice.
Renden heard him, and laughed. “No. Eli and I live here with our great-grandchildren, and other relatives. The craftspeople you see here come from all around. They are vayash moru, but they don’t live here.” He gestured toward the horizon. “We’re scattered all through these parts, and up into the mountains. It’s safer that way.”
The Shadowed Path Page 14