The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  “You’ve been busy,” Trent remarked, eyeing the wares. “Linton’s going to be very happy.”

  Eli shrugged. “We don’t see a lot of caravans, and even fewer like to trade with us. Tell Linton we appreciate his partnership.”

  Trent chuckled. “Linton appreciates the extra coin your workmanship brings to the caravan,” he replied. “You know that to Maynard, gold is the most sincere compliment.”

  “We’re grateful for the pig iron,” Eli said. “The nearest miners don’t like to trade with us, and the next nearest mine is several days away, which makes it difficult to move the iron by night.”

  While Eli and Trent talked, Jonmarc began to move around the small green, eyeing the wares. The vayash moru craftsmen watched him with curiosity, saying nothing but giving him a nod in greeting. After the strange reaction from Eli and Renden, Jonmarc avoided making eye contact.

  He paused at the jewelry-maker’s display. “I’ve seen these designs before,” he murmured, looking at the delicate pieces.

  The woman snorted. “I doubt it,” she replied. “Not unless you’re a whole lot older than you look.”

  “I’ve seen these in the old tombs,” Jonmarc said, fascinated by the workmanship. “Up in the mountain caves.”

  The woman eyed him. “What’s a mortal doing in the caves of the dead?”

  Jonmarc realized that his comment might have given offense. “I used to go exploring when I was a boy. I swear, I meant no disrespect.” He felt it wise to leave it unmentioned that in hard times, to feed his family, he had stolen some of those grave goods and sold them for a small profit to Linton. And he remembered the vayash moru he had met on the road, who had wanted a very specific old piece of jewelry from the caves, a talisman that had brought Jonmarc nothing but grief.

  “Dangerous places for the living,” she replied. “I’d stay away from there if I were you. Some of the old pieces had magic.”

  Indeed they did. Deadly magic . Jonmarc thought. “Your jewelry is beautiful,” he said, deciding a change of subject was best. “Did you copy the old styles?”

  The woman laughed, rocking back on her heels. “No, sonny. I didn’t copy them. I made them then, just like I make them now. Might even have made some of the pieces you saw in those tombs. Sooner or later, everything goes to the grave.”

  Shaken by her answer, Jonmarc was just starting to turn back to Trent when he heard his friend talking with Renden.

  “... is he a mage?” Renden asked.

  “Jonmarc? Not to my knowledge,” Trent replied. “Why?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc could see Renden shrug. “He has an unusual resistance to compulsion,” the vayash moru said. “Very unusual.”

  Trent chuckled. “So you can’t bargain him down on price the way you do with me?”

  Renden rolled his eyes. “You and I have an agreement. I don’t compel you, or Linton. But it’s best to know about someone new, especially when you bring them among us. I had to try. The result was... interesting.”

  They moved off then, and Jonmarc could not hear them, though he wondered whether the other vayash moru could catch every word of the hushed conversation. He was full of questions, but knew they would have to wait until the night’s business was concluded.

  After a few moments, Trent left Renden and motioned for Jonmarc to join him as they slowly circled past the wares of the artisans. True to his promise, Eli’s silverwork rivaled his brother’s for sheer skill. Rings, necklaces, earrings, belt buckles, pins, and chalices glimmered in the light of Trent’s lantern, necessary for mortal vision to inspect the intricacies of design.

  “I can’t take everything this trip,” Trent said apologetically, “and I still need to buy from the others, but I can take these pieces,” he said, gesturing toward the items he wanted. “We’ll be back through here in a while—I’ll stop in and see if you’ve got anything left for me.”

  As Eli began to wrap up the chosen items, Trent continued around the circle, occasionally asking Jonmarc’s advice as he selected jewelry, pottery, and produce. Along the way, he chatted with the artists, complimented them on their work, and jokingly flirted with the old women. One of the vayash moru came behind them, carefully wrapping the items for shipment and placing them in wooden crates. Jonmarc hoped that he and Trent could move the crates when it came time to unload.

  “A good night’s work, don’t you agree?” Trent said as he withdrew his coin purse from inside his shirt and counted out a tidy sum of gold and silver to cover what the pig iron didn’t bring in trade. He placed the coins in Renden’s hand. “I’ll leave it to you to divide it up among everyone.”

  Renden nodded. “A very good night,” he agreed. “We’re rather self-sufficient, but we do have some need to trade with the villagers, and coin comes in handy for what we can’t make ourselves.”

  Within a few minutes, the other vayash moru had packed up their goods and vanished from the village green. Renden walked back with them to the cart. With the box of pig iron gone, there was plenty of room for their purchases. “Give Linton my thanks,” he said, shaking Trent’s hand, and then extending his hand to Jonmarc. For a moment, Jonmarc met Renden’s gaze, and he waited to feel whatever the ‘compulsion’ was that Renden had spoken of, but nothing happened. Renden gave a languid blink and a nod.

  “Safe travels,” Renden said. “And may the Dark Lady bless your path,” he added, making the sign of the Lady in warding.

  Neither Jonmarc nor Trent spoke until they were well away from the village. Finally, Jonmarc got up the nerve to ask his question.

  “I know you said not to meet their gaze,” Jonmarc said. “I’m sorry—I forgot and did it anyway, and both Renden and Eli seemed to react... oddly. I hope I didn’t give offense.”

  Trent frowned, never taking his eyes from the road. “I didn’t warn you to keep you from offending them; it was for your own protection. Making eye contact can give a vayash moru who’s so inclined some measure of power over you.”

  “Is that what Renden meant by ‘compulsion’?”

  Trent nodded. “I’ve heard it varies by individual, both for the mortal and for the vayash moru.”

  “Have you ever felt the compulsion yourself?” Jonmarc asked. He was thinking about the pale stranger he had met on the road, the man whose bargain had changed his life.

  “Yes. Before I knew better, I fell under the compulsion of a vayash moru trader in another village, and nearly ended up giving him all my money.” Trent grimaced. “One of the other vayash moru stepped in and ended it, so I got my money back, with a warning and advice on how to keep it from happening again.”

  “What did it feel like?” Jonmarc pressed.

  Trent thought for a moment. “Do you know how it is when you’ve had some ale and one of your friends suggests you go do something and, at the time, it seems like a good idea, but when you sober up you realize it really wasn’t too smart?”

  Jonmarc nodded.

  “It’s a little like that. Not that someone forces you to do something, but more like it’s a suggestion that at the time seems like what you ought to do, until your head clears.”

  “I didn’t feel anything like that, either time I met their gaze,” Jonmarc said. Or before, when I met the stranger on the road.

  “Did you feel anything that seemed odd?” Trent asked.

  It was Jonmarc’s turn to pause. “There was a strange buzzing, like someone humming a long way off,” he said, searching for the right words. “And pressure in my temples, the way it feels when you’re about to get a headache on a rainy day. But I didn’t have the urge to hand over my coin purse, or anything unusual.”

  “I’d have noticed,” Trent replied with a chuckle. “And don’t take it badly that both Renden and Eli tried their compulsion on you. It’s sort of a test. They’ve never really said, but I don’t think they like to deal with humans who are very easy to compel. My guess is, that kind of person wakes up angry when they realize what’s happened and comes back
looking for trouble.”

  “I heard Renden mention something to you about me,” Jonmarc replied. “Something about compulsion.”

  Trent spared a glance to the side to look at him. “He said you were very unusual. Neither he nor Eli could compel you at all.”

  Jonmarc frowned. “He’s lived a long time. I’m sure he’s met others like me.”

  Trent shrugged. “He says not. And he said that he doesn’t mind, but that other vayash moru might take you for a mage of some sort and not be as welcoming.”

  Jonmarc laughed. “Me? I don’t have a magic bone in my body. And while I’m fine with healers and hedge witches, I don’t much fancy mages.”

  “Well, magic or not, you’ve got an unusual talent. I’ll have to remember to bring you along if I ever have cause to trade with vayash moru I don’t know. You might help me hang on to my money,” Trent said with a laugh.

  They were nearly back to the caravan’s camp, and the moon was low in the sky. Jonmarc’s attention was on the road ahead of them, and he saw something dark lying across the path.

  “Watch out,” he said, pointing. “There’s something in the roadway.”

  Trent slowed the cart, and both men drew their swords, alert for robbers. It was common for brigands to block the road in order to ambush their victims. He gave a nod to indicate that Jonmarc should climb down and investigate, and gestured with his sword that he stay alert for a trap.

  Warily, Jonmarc moved around the horse toward the two dark shapes that lay on the road. He kept his sword at the ready. They appeared to be men, one lying on his side and one splayed across the lane. There were tales of robbers who pretended to be injured, only to spring up and surprise would-be rescuers. But as Jonmarc grew closer, he saw no movement, not even the rise and fall of breath.

  He moved forward quickly, hoping to gain the edge of surprise if the figures suddenly attacked. He poked at the nearest body with the point of his sword, not enough to do harm, but with enough force to be uncomfortable if the man on the ground were faking injury. There was no response.

  Jonmarc toed the body over onto its back, sword leveled, and stared down at the man. He was unnaturally pale with a strange ashiness to his features Jonmarc had never seen, even in a corpse. Still alert for trouble, he knelt next to the man and checked for a pulse, then assured himself that the stranger was not breathing.

  “He’s dead,” Jonmarc called to Trent.

  “Check the other one,” Trent replied.

  Jonmarc crossed to the other body, the one that lay spread-eagle in the roadway. He knelt down and made the same examination, then frowned as something caught his eye. Turning the corpse’s head to one side, Jonmarc stared at the raw puncture wounds and the two bloody trails that ran down the dead man’s neck.

  “What did you find?” Trent asked impatiently.

  Jonmarc waited to answer until he checked the first body again, and found the same wounds. He looked up. “We’ve got a very big problem.”

  “WHAT IN THE name of the Crone is so important that you had to wake me up at this forsaken hour?” Maynard Linton grumbled. Still wearing his nightshirt over a pair of hastilypulled on trews, Linton stalked across the darkened camp toward the forge. He was a short, stocky man, tanned copper from a life lived outdoors, with a round face and shrewd dark eyes.

  “Trent and I found two dead men on the road—” Jonmarc began.

  “So? Leave them there. You didn’t kill them, did you?” Linton seemed determined not to let go of his pique over being awakened before dawn.

  “We didn’t kill them, but someone did.”

  “Obviously. Why is that costing me my sleep?”

  Trent stepped out of the shadows of the darkened forge. “Because whoever killed them was vayash moru.”

  Linton quickly sobered. “Are you sure? Maybe wolves, or a wild cat?”

  Trent shook his head and led Linton to the back of the forge where he and Jonmarc had laid the two bodies. Trent opened the shutters on his lantern enough to give Linton sufficient light to examine the corpses. Muttering to himself under his breath, Linton squatted next to the dead men and looked at the marks on their necks, going over their bodies to assure there were no other wounds. Finally, he turned out their pockets, and found a handsome carved pipe, flint and steel, a shell comb, and a small pack of bronze and copper coins.

  “Looting the dead, Maynard?” Trent questioned, only partly joking.

  Linton scowled. “Well, they certainly don’t need more than a coin for the Crone,” he replied. “Thought there might have been something to tell us who these blighters are.” He sighed. “Whoever killed them didn’t rob them, or took something valuable enough that he didn’t want the small stuff in the pockets.” He stood and stretched.

  “Do you agree it’s a vayash moru kill?”

  Linton nodded. “Seems to be.” He glanced over his shoulder to assure himself it was still full dark outside. “Who knows about this?”

  Trent nodded toward Jonmarc. “Just Jonmarc and me. We came here straightaway.”

  “Good. Stay here. I’m going to find our vayash moru folks and see what they make of it.”

  “How do you know that one of them—” Jonmarc began.

  “I don’t, but we’ve got to start somewhere.” Linton shook his head. “I’d hoped things wouldn’t come to this.”

  “Things?” Trent asked.

  Linton’s scowl deepened. “There’ve been some incidents in the last couple of days,” he replied. “That’s why I was eager to have you meet with Renden, so we could be on our way.”

  “What kind of things?” Trent pressed.

  “Livestock gone missing,” Linton replied. “Some of the sheep and goats from the main herd, and a horse. At first, we thought a wolf or a wild cat might have gotten into the pens, but we would have found the bodies nearby, or some trace of the animal being dragged off. Nothing.”

  Linton looked over his shoulder once more. “I’ve heard talk that the same sort of thing happened at one of the villages nearby. Some of the customers were talking about it yesterday when they walked past me. Whether or not it’s true, the vayash moru are being blamed.”

  “Did you ask our workers if they’d seen anything?” Trent asked. “After all, they handle a lot of night duty.”

  Linton nodded. “I did, and I asked the vyrkin, too.” Vyrkin were shapeshifters who could take the form of animals, often wolves. It was news to Jonmarc that the caravan had picked up some vyrkin workers since an incident with local bounty hunters had ended badly not long ago.

  “And?”

  Linton shook his head. “Nothing. So I went to the hedge witches. And I asked them to spell the barns and livestock pens. The attacks stopped.” He grimaced. “Then one of the woodcutters came to me with a tale of finding some of the carcasses in the woods a ways off. ’Course by then, it was too late to figure out what killed them, but I thought it was strange that they didn’t look chewed on. Wouldn’t be, if they were drained of blood.”

  Linton walked off to find the vayash moru workers, leaving Trent and Jonmarc guarding the dead men. They were silent for a while, then Jonmarc glanced back toward the bodies. “Should we worry about them turning into vayash moru?” he asked, eyeing the corpses warily.

  “You’re asking me?” Trent replied. “I’m no expert.” “You know more about it than I do.”

  “They won’t be rising.” The voice came from behind them, and both Trent and Jonmarc startled. They turned, swords raised, to see three men standing in the entrance to the forge, with Linton a few steps behind them. It was hard to make out their faces clearly in the dim light from the lantern, but Jonmarc thought he had seen them around the caravan at night.

  “How do you know?” Trent challenged.

  The tallest of the three men stepped closer. He had dirty blond hair that hung to his shoulders, and carried himself as if he had once been a soldier. The other men were shorter and dark haired, one slender and one stocky. All gave the appearance
of men in their late twenties or early thirties, but like Renden, looks were deceiving, and Jonmarc guessed they were at least a generation or two older than they appeared.

  Remembering what Trent had told him about compulsion, Jonmarc met the vayash moru’s gaze, and smiled as his directness seemed to startle the man. For a moment, their gaze locked. The vayash moru looked away first. Whether he did not try to compel Jonmarc or was not able to do so, Jonmarc did not know, but he felt nothing.

  “Trent, Jonmarc,” Maynard said, bustling up to stand near the corpses, “these are Hans, Jessup, and Clark,” he introduced, with a nod toward each of the men in turn. “They’ve come to see if they can help us figure out who’s doing the killing.”

  “How do you know the dead won’t rise?” Trent repeated.

  Hans, the blond man, knelt next to the corpses and turned the dead men’s heads to get a better look at the wounds on their throats. Then he looked at their faces and pulled back their lips, studying their mouths before answering.

  Hans looked up from where he knelt. “These men were drained, not turned,” he replied. “For one thing, if someone meant to turn them, they would have taken more care with the bite.” He turned the dead man’s head so that they could see the torn flesh on the neck. “This is savage, intentional or driven by hunger. A bite can be clean, almost painless.”

  He turned the head back to show the man’s mouth. “Just being bitten doesn’t turn a person. It requires intent. The vayash moru has to drain the mortal nearly to death, then feed some of his own blood to the mortal, who has to drink it—willingly or not. Neither of these men have taken blood.”

  Hans stood and faced them, his expression a mix of uneasiness and defiance. “We didn’t do this,” he said, hands on hip. “I can vouch for the others, and they for me. These kills were made earlier tonight. Since we rose at sundown, Jessup, Clark, and I have been busy with our chores. Tonight, we went to help the riggers. You can ask them. We were never gone.”

  “I didn’t call you here to accuse you,” Linton said. “If I didn’t think I could trust you, I wouldn’t have hired you on. The question is, do you know anything that could help us find out who did the killing?” He glowered at the vayash moru, but Jonmarc noticed that even Linton avoided meeting their eyes. “If word gets out, you know how it’ll be.”