The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Hans nodded soberly. “We will have to leave.” From his expression, Jonmarc guessed it was not the first time such killings had caused dangerous repercussions for other vayash moru.

  “Have you heard anything that would help us?” Linton asked. “I don’t know how much contact you’ve had with others of your kind.”

  “Very little, by design,” Jessup replied. Both Jessup and Clark also moved like soldiers, and Jonmarc wondered if the three men were, if not brothers by blood, then brothers at arms. Were they turned willingly, or against their will? he wondered. What have they—and Renden and Eli and the others—seen in their long lives?

  Hans, Jessup, and Clark exchanged glances, and Hans cleared his throat. “We try to stay clear of vayash moru broods because we haven’t ever quite gotten over feeling more mortal than not,” Hans said, uncomfortably. “As vayash moru go, we’re fairly young. We were captured and turned during the Mage War, by one of the vayash moru loyal to the Obsidian King.”

  “That war ended fifty years ago,” Linton said quietly.

  “And so did our lives,” Hans replied. “Some vayash moru are fortunate. Their families will take them back, so happy to see them that no one cares if they’re undead. Others stay close to their maker and create a family of their own. Our maker was killed when the Obsidian King fell, and we escaped leaving us with no one but each other. We feel more comfortable around mortals.”

  “Tell him about the sheep,” Clark said.

  Hans looked down. “Last night, we went out to where the animal carcasses were found. We were soldiers, prisoners... and now, vayash moru. We’re not as squeamish as mortals. We examined the carcasses. They were vayash moru kills.”

  “Why wasn’t I told?” Linton demanded.

  Hans raised his head. Linton and Trent avoided his gaze, but Jonmarc looked straight into his blue eyes. “We were afraid,” Hans said. “We like it here, and we didn’t want to have to leave because of someone else’s deeds. After the animals were taken, we started guarding the livestock when we weren’t required to be somewhere else. And we have looked for evidence to find the guilty one.” He returned Jonmarc’s direct gaze, and Jonmarc felt no attempt at compulsion.

  “And?” Trent asked.

  “We think there are rogues, trailing the caravan,” Jessup replied. “Either we just happened into their territory, or more likely, they blundered across the caravan and decided it made for some easy hunting.”

  “Rogues?” Linton pressed.

  “Most vayash moru in Margolan want to exist in peace. We want to go back to our old lives if we can, or go about our business without problems,” Hans replied. “But sometimes, the turning doesn’t go well, or the person turned is not of good character.”

  He looked from Trent to Linton to Jonmarc as if pleading his case. “Just as there are bad mortals, some see the speed and strength and stealth of being undead as an unfair advantage. They go rogue.”

  “If they’re trailing us, just packing up the caravan and moving on won’t help, will it?” Trent asked. “The rogues could just follow us.”

  Hans nodded. “And they will, if they believe they can prey on our workers or customers.”

  Linton cursed under his breath. “Can we trap them?”

  Hans, Jessup, and Clark exchanged a glance among themselves. “Possibly. We’ll help you, because we don’t want to have to leave the caravan. But it’s going to cost you some sheep.”

  Linton nodded. “Try to cost me as few as you can—they’re not cheap. But it’s better than losing my workers, or my customers.”

  “Corbin would help us,” Trent said, volunteering the head farrier who was a good friend and, as Jonmarc knew firsthand, also knew how to handle himself in a fight. “He can keep his mouth shut, and we can trust him.”

  “Let’s keep this small,” Linton replied. “I don’t want people to panic, and the more people who know about the killings, the more likely it is for there to be problems.”

  They spent the next candlemark planning the trap, until the horizon began to lighten and Trent and Jonmarc covered the vayash moru in freshly dug graves in preparation for the night.

  “It’s too bad we don’t know where the rogues go to ground,” he said. “We’d have the advantage if we could take them in the light.”

  “And stand a good chance of destroying innocent dead men,” Linton replied. He swore, shook his head as if to clear it, and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m going back to bed. I’ll be with you tonight—if no one bothers me with any foolishness.”

  Trent and Jonmarc stood alone in the forge. “What are we going to do with the bodies?” Jonmarc asked.

  Trent sighed. “I hate to do it, but we don’t have much time to make them disappear. Let’s carry them to the ravine behind the camp and pitch them down the side.”

  Jonmarc hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It doesn’t seem quite right, but there’s no time to bury them, and we don’t want to explain why there are two dead men behind the forge.”

  Trent turned to pick up the first man, and began to chuckle, shaking his head.

  “What?”

  Trent pointed to where a small pile of objects lay next to the corpse. The comb, flint, steel and pipe were set out neatly. “Linton took the damn coins,” he said with a sigh as he hefted the body over his shoulder.

  “Then again,” Jonmarc replied, lifting the other man, “this is going to cost him a couple of sheep.”

  BY THE TIME the sun set, the trap was in place. Jonmarc and Trent had recruited a few trusted friends, men who had proven themselves in a fight and who could be counted on even when those at risk were not mortal.

  Dugan, one of the young riggers, was strong, fast on his feet, and quick-witted. Zane, an entertainer, was a professional knife-thrower, a talent that was likely to come in handy. Corbin, the head farrier, was level-headed and could hold his own in a brawl, and Sayer, an apprentice carpenter, came armed with a hastily made wooden bat and enough sharpened stakes for all of the defenders.

  Linton was with them, dressed for a fight in a simple dark tunic and trews, and armed with a sword and a long knife. Trent had an iron bar and a wicked-looking machete. Jonmarc wore both his swords and had a short knife in his belt, just in case.

  “I hope this works,” Jonmarc muttered quietly from where he hid.

  “I suspect it will work just fine,” Trent replied. “I’m worried about whether or not we can kill them.”

  The trap was simple, but Hans assured them it would appeal to a hungry vayash moru looking for an easy meal. After the men who tended the caravan’s livestock had gone for the night, Linton, Trent, and Jonmarc had returned to the barns. They selected four doomed sheep and took them outside the enclosure, securing a long, slim cord to one of their hind legs. The other ends of the cords were attached to stakes pounded flat in the ground, giving the sheep the appearance of having wandered away while still keeping them—and hopefully their attackers—in a set area.

  Hans, Jessup, and Clark lay buried in shallow graves in the pasture where the sheep grazed. Hans had insisted that the three vayash moru workers be the first to confront the rogues, and warned the others to stay back so that their warm blood and beating hearts did not give them away.

  Jonmarc and the others were scattered in teams of two in nearby hiding places, obscured by brush, empty wagons, and debris. Jonmarc fingered a small amulet that hung from a leather cord around his neck.

  “Do you think the amulet will work?” he asked, watching as the sun sank lower in the sky.

  “Ada said it would,” Trent assured him. “At least, until the rogues get real close.”

  At which point, the fight is on, Jonmarc thought.

  Ada, the caravan’s lead healer, had puzzled over how to mask the vital signs of the defenders. While a number of herbs and potions could actually mimic death, they also left the user in a motionless sleep, hardly ideal for springing a surprise attack. In the end, Ada had settled for cr
eating amulets for each of the fighters.

  “She said it would make us difficult to notice, but not invisible,” Jonmarc quibbled. “And she wasn’t entirely sure the magic would work on vayash moru.”

  “Hans said it worked on him,” Trent replied.

  “I hate amulets,” Jonmarc muttered.

  The sun disappeared below the horizon, and Trent gestured for silence.

  For several candlemarks, the area behind the caravan camp was silent except for the sounds from the sheep. Behind Jonmarc and the other watchers, the camp went about its nightly routine, serving supper, making repairs, feeding the livestock, and socializing among themselves. Jonmarc had eaten an early supper, but still the smells of fresh stew and roasting pig made his stomach grumble.

  “No one is going to try to steal the sheep while there’s so much going on,” Jonmarc whispered to Trent.

  “We knew we’d have to wait for things to quiet down,” Trent replied in a barely audible voice. “But Hans believes the rogues will be watching, sizing up their chance. That’s why we had to be out here before they rose for the night.”

  Time crawled by. The camp slowly settled down for the night, until only a few rowdy souls remained awake. From their off-key, bawdy singing, those still awake were also quite drunk. Gradually, as the night wore on, even the drunkards’ songs began to wane, and as the sliver of a moon began to rise in the sky, the camp grew quiet.

  By now, Hans, Jessup, and Clark would be awake in their shallow graves. They had insisted on being buried beneath a foot of topsoil, far enough below the ground to be shielded from the sun but close enough to rise in an instant if the rogues took the bait. What would it be like, lying there, buried alive? Jonmarc wondered, and shuddered.

  Trent jabbed Jonmarc in the ribs, indicating with a nod that something was up. There was a rush of air, the frightened cry of a sheep as it was plucked off its feet, and a blur of motion in the moonlight.

  We’re on, Jonmarc thought, gripping his sword.

  Hans had also heard the commotion, rising in a spray of freshly-turned dirt. Jessup and Clark broke loose of their hiding places, one on each side and in the rear of the area where the ‘loose’ sheep grazed.

  “That’s our signal,” Trent murmured, as he and Jonmarc burst from cover. The other mortal fighters revealed themselves, blocking the way toward the camp.

  Trapped in the center were three young vayash moru. They were overdressed for a night of sheep poaching, looking like the wastrel sons of errant nobility with their velvet frock coats, high riding boots, and brocade vests. But there was no refinement in their angry expressions. Two of the intruders held tight to bleating, panicked sheep that were struggling to get loose.

  Do our amulets still make it difficult for them to sense us, or was that only when we were hidden? Jonmarc wondered. Ada had been unsure about the limits of protection, and now that they were about to put her magic to the test, Jonmarc would have felt better with a little more certainty.

  Hans, Jessup, and Clark made the first move, attacking with supernatural speed. One of the thieves dropped his sheep and pulled his sword, managing to parry Hans’s angry assault. A second thief tried to keep hold of the sheep and run, only to have the animal reach the end of its tether and bring him up short. The third thief growled in anger and launched himself at Clark, waging a full-out attack that was a blur of motion and a clatter of steel on steel as Clark fought back.

  Per their plan, Trent ran forward, sword at the ready, while Jonmarc zigzagged to the side, slicing the sheeps’ tethers from the stake in the ground to set them free. Panicked by the fight unfolding around them, the animals ran off, veering crazily between the running men.

  Trent went to back up Hans. Corbin and Linton joined Jessup, and Zane maneuvered himself into position to put a dagger into the back of the vayash moru fighting Clark. Jonmarc, Dugan, and Sayer hung back, swords drawn, forming a line of defense between the battle and the camp. The fight moved almost too quickly to follow. By prearrangement, Hans and his friends were supposed to get their opponents into position so that the mortal fighters could attack from the rear. From where Jonmarc stood, what ensued was chaos. The vayash moru fighters moved in a blur, so swiftly that it was nearly impossible to tell who was whom, or for the mortals to get off a clean strike.

  Engrossed in the action unfolding in front of them, Jonmarc almost didn’t hear the whoosh of air nearby.

  “Watch out!” he shouted hoarsely, barely able to get the words out before three new vayash moru rogues came at them.

  The new rogues were also dressed in finery like the other vampires. Gems glittered from rings on their fingers, and gold chains sparkled in the moonlight at their throats and wrists. Yet for all the speed the sheep thieves used against Hans, Jessup, and Clark, these new vayash moru slowed their attack to mortal speed, with a languid, deadly grace.

  They intend to toy with us before they kill us, Jonmarc thought, feeling a cold wave of fear clench his belly.

  Dugan’s attacker made the first move, with a lunge that nearly got inside the rigger’s guard. Dugan was fast on his feet, narrowly avoiding the strike, and returning a wild series of jabs that gained the advantage of confusion, since they followed no normal mode of attack.

  Sayer set about himself with the wooden bat, bellowing like a bull, made strong and unpredictable by his fear. He came nowhere close to hitting the vayash moru who danced away from his strikes, but his unorthodox style kept his attacker from getting close enough to do any damage.

  They’re going to tire us out, then strike, Jonmarc thought as he and his opponent circled. All they have to do is outlast us, which won’t take long.

  Jonmarc could not spare a glance for Hans and the others. The leer on his own opponent’s face made it clear that the vayash moru was enjoying the game, and most likely, looking forward to feasting on his blood.

  The vayash moru lunged, and Jonmarc narrowly escaped the worst of his sword strike, taking a cut on his thigh. His opponent gave a throaty, hungry chuckle and made a show of licking his lips as blood colored the fabric of Jonmarc’s trews. His opponent advanced once more, this time at almost mortal speed and Jonmarc parried, feeling the shock of the strike reverberate through his bones.

  That’s his game . Speed or strength. He’s got me either way, all he has to do is get me to make a mistake.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sayer’s swing slow, then stop as the carpenter stood transfixed, staring into the eyes of his opponent.

  “Don’t look in his eyes!” Jonmarc shouted, pivoting aside at the last second as his own attacker struck again.

  Sayer remained motionless, and then the wooden bat dropped from his hand. His attacker sauntered up to him with an exaggerated swagger until he stood nearly toe to toe, an ugly, taunting grin on his face. Sayer did not move, and his features were slack, as if he was completely unaware of the danger he faced.

  “Sayer!” Dugan shouted.

  “Sayer, move!” Jonmarc yelled.

  Jonmarc’s attacker drew back a step, as did Dugan’s, and it was clear that they were supposed to watch what happened next. Jonmarc dove to the right, trying to go to Sayer’s aid, but his opponent blocked him. Dugan tried to do the same, only to be hemmed in.

  Sayer’s opponent reached out and tousled the young man’s hair, then brushed a fleck of dirt from his shoulder, making a show of his power. Sheathing his sword, the vayash moru reached forward to embrace Sayer like a lover. He shot a gloating grin to his fellow attackers, and then with a snarl, bared his teeth and sank his fangs into Sayer’s neck.

  Jonmarc and Dugan tried to rush forward, and once more, their attackers blocked their way.

  Sayer’s opponent must have dropped the compulsion, because Sayer began to thrash against the iron grip that held him, and a strangled scream tore from his savaged throat. Hans had told them that a vayash moru could feed without killing, that the bite could be clean and painless, but it was clear Sayer’s assailant relished his victim
’s struggle, fear, and pain.

  The vayash moru’s pallor lessened as he gulped down the blood and Sayer’s face grew ashen as he slumped in his killer’s arms. The draining took only minutes, but when it was done, the vayash moru tossed Sayer’s limp form aside like an empty husk and made a show of wiping the blood from his mouth with his lace cuff.

  Dugan’s attacker used the moment of shock to strike, lunging forward with a savage attack that he barely evaded. Jonmarc, still stunned by Sayer’s death, felt himself go cold with killing rage. He knew this coldness. It was a skill that had served him well when raiders and monsters had attacked his village. In the coldness, there was no grief, no fear, no anger, just pure, deadly clarity.

  “Your blood is high,” his attacker whispered. “I can hear your heart. The ones who fight the hardest taste the best. Come at me. You know you want to.” The vayash moru met Jonmarc’s gaze, and Jonmarc did not look away. “Fight me,” the vayash moru goaded. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Jonmarc gripped his sword in one hand. One of Sayer’s stakes protruded from the top of his boot in easy reach. A desperate plan formed in his mind, and he hoped Trent was right about vayash moru not being able to read minds.

  He thinks he can compel me, Jonmarc thought. Let’s see how he likes getting what he asked for.

  Jonmarc’s face twisted in rage, and he dove forward with a powerful series of strikes. His attacker grinned, baring his fangs, gleefully deflecting the blows. Certain that he had Jonmarc well within his power, he kept up the barbs, baiting him, seeking to stoke his anger. But within the cold place, Jonmarc seemed to watch the battle as an emotionless observer, waiting for his chance to strike.

  “That’s it! Come at me, strike at me. Strike me down, make me pay,” the vayash moru baited.

  Jonmarc’s sword skills were cobbled together from whatever lessons he had been able to beg from Trent, Corbin, and the few itinerant soldiers who made their way through the caravan. His practice had been sporadic, but his erstwhile teachers had praised what they called ‘native talent.’