The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Not with my luck, Jonmarc thought, but said nothing.

  “I’ll go around front and pull the rope to send the quicklime into the pond,” Steen said. “Should make quite an explosion, plus some nice flames. That should get their attention. With luck, we’ll trip some of them up in the wires when they go to have a look.” He jerked his head toward the barn.

  “You get in there, cut the others loose, and lead them around the wire to the forest. Get a bucketful of hot coals from their fire and bring it with you. If they follow us, we’ll make them wish they hadn’t. I’ll lead them on a merry chase to keep them away from you, and then double back to meet up. Got it?” Steen asked.

  “Got it.” The plan was the riskiest, craziest thing Jonmarc had heard in a long time, but since he couldn’t come up with anything better, he did not argue. He doubted they would survive the night, but going down fighting sounded like a much better option than what the slavers had in mind for them.

  “Get going,” Steen said. “I’ll count to thirty, then pull the rope. Stay hidden until you hear the explosion. Be quick, because I don’t know how long I can hold them off.” The look in his eyes said Steen knew just how risky the plan was, how impossible the odds. Then Steen flashed Jonmarc a grin. “If we pull this off, it’ll be one for the legends.”

  Jonmarc headed toward the back of the barn in a crouching run. He had his hidden knife in his hand. With luck, the slavers were still sleeping and had not noticed their missing guard.

  Luck didn’t hold.

  “Out for a stroll?” The voice sounded behind Jonmarc just as he neared the loose board at the back of the barn.

  “Maybe I just needed to take a piss,” Jonmarc replied. He felt the point of a blade in his back.

  “Drop what you’ve got in your hand, and start walking,” the slaver said. “See, I did need to take a piss, and I saw that we were one slave short.”

  Thirty. Jonmarc counted silently. He moved slowly, giving Steen time, praying to the Sacred Lady for the cask to do what Steen expected.

  Just before they reached the barn door, an explosion shook the night and flames shot into the sky.

  Jonmarc wheeled. He landed a high Eastmark kick just as Steen had taught him, going for the throat and chin so that the slaver could not cry out. Momentum carried him around, and he used it to bury the knife deep in the slaver’s chest, and then slit his throat for good measure.

  Jonmarc heard a commotion at the front of the barn as the slavers went to see what had happened. He slipped through the hole in the back, wary of another surprise like the man who had caught him outside, but saw none of the slavers.

  The captives were awake, and he gestured to them for silence. He ran to grab their weapons, and scooped up hot coals from the fire in the bucket the slavers had used for water. Then he ran to where the others were tied, cutting their ropes.

  “Come on! Get up. We’ve got to get to the forest.”

  “What’s going on?” Betta asked. “That explosion—”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Jonmarc cut her off. “Follow me, and stay close. We’ve trapped the path.”

  Vitt was still shaky, so Mort slung him over his shoulder. Betta’s walking stick was not with the weapons, but Jemman offered her his arm. Jonmarc hastily distributed the knives and swords, just in case Steen’s distraction did not fool the slavers. Then they headed along the safe path Jonmarc had left, twisting back and forth between the tripwires.

  He froze as a shadow came sprinting up toward them. “Steen,” the voice hissed.

  Jonmarc did not relax until Steen was close enough for him to make out his features. “I don’t know how long the slavers will take to investigate,” Steen said. “We need to get into the forest and get ready.”

  “We’re going into the haunted forest?” Mort stopped and gave Jonmarc a look of utter amazement.

  “It’s that or Nargi,” Steen said.

  Mort grimaced, and then shrugged. “Not much choice, when you put it that way.”

  They had nearly reached the forest when they heard the slavers shouting behind them. A dead run in a straight line would get the slavers to the forest in just a few minutes, but Jonmarc had wired the open paths as best he could to make it difficult for them. Steen veered off to pick up the two items they had stashed earlier.

  As the captives cleared the trip-wired area, the slavers began to stumble and fall, cursing at the top of their lungs.

  “Keep going!” Jonmarc shouted to the others, as he and Steen stopped at the tree line, ready to hold off the slavers if they closed the gap. He grabbed Dugan by the arm. “Get the others about thirty paces behind the edge of the forest, and off to the right, so we’re not straight in front of them if the slavers make it this far.”

  “I’m coming back to fight beside you,” Dugan said, gesturing for the others to follow him.

  “Glad to have you,” Jonmarc said sincerely. As the others disappeared, Jonmarc and Steen strung the last of the wire between the trees at neck level, a stretch of at least twenty feet. A few minutes later, Dugan returned, along with Mort.

  “Watch where you walk,” Steen cautioned, pointing out the wire.

  Dugan and Mort nodded in acknowledgement. “Vitt’s not on his feet yet,” Mort said. “I left him with the healer.”

  Steen nodded. “Then let me get the second wave ready.” He ducked into the shadows, taking the bucket of hot coals from Jonmarc.

  “Do you think they’ll find us here?” Dugan murmured.

  “Probably, if they make it this far,” Jonmarc replied. But at least we die on Margolan soil.

  “What’s Steen up to?”

  Jonmarc shrugged. “No idea.”

  The slavers struggled through the wire, falling and stumbling as the snares caught their feet. If we had archers, we could’ve picked them off while they’re moving slowly, Jonmarc thought. All they had were their knives.

  “Take these,” Steen said, suddenly reappearing. He handed Jonmarc and Dugan long sticks with a fork at the end, which had a rough pocket of cloth from Steen’s cloak secured to the forks. Steen carried the bucket, but instead of hot coals, it had a strange-smelling mixture.

  “What in the name of the Crone is that?” Mort asked.

  “Fire from the Formless One,” Steen said with a dangerous grin. “Mort, you stay alert with your sword. Jonmarc and Dugan, follow me.”

  Steen took the bucket and advanced to just inside the tree line. Jonmarc knew that with the sliver of a moon, they would be able to see the slavers better than the slavers could make out their shapes in the shadow of the trees.

  The slavers were getting close. Steen motioned for them to hold off until three of the slavers were only a dozen feet from the trees. Then Steen dipped the pocket of his branch into the bucket and slammed the branch upright, catapulting the gloppy, steaming mixture toward the nearest slaver. Jonmarc and Dugan followed his example, hitting the three slavers in the face and shoulders.

  Their attackers started to scream as the mixture of hot oil and wax hit and stuck. One of the slavers dug at his eyes, dropping to his knees. The others tore at their clothing, trying to rid themselves of the burning goo. Skin peeled from their faces and fluid, not tears, wept from their ruined eyes. They were out of the fight.

  The rest of the slavers were closing, fast. Jonmarc and the others held their fire, waiting for the slavers to come into range. They got off another volley, stopping the new wave of attackers as the first group started forward again, angrier than before.

  There was only enough of the oil and wax mixture for one more round of shots. “Make it count, boys,” Steen muttered.

  Their aim held true, though this time the slavers were able to avoid catching the burning mixture in the face. Jonmarc and the others drew their weapons, and fell back behind the wire.

  “Stay where they can see you,” Jonmarc murmured. “Make them run at you.”

  A cold draft gusted around them from deep in the forest. Jonmarc shuddered, wondering w
hether the Ruune Vidaya’s infamous ghosts knew they were there. The slavers spotted them among the trees and came at them at a dead run, swords raised. Eleven against four. Jonmarc and the others hesitated just long enough to make sure they were seen, then backed further into the shadows.

  The first of the slavers hit the wire. It caught him on the throat, and he fell back, strangling, tearing at his crushed larynx with his hands. Two more crashed into the wire, dropping to their knees and gasping for breath as they gargled and spat blood.

  The next group ducked underneath, and found Jonmarc and the others waiting for them.

  “I don’t care what the boss says,” the pox-faced man said. “We’re going to kill you right here, and leave you for the crows.”

  “You can try,” Steen replied.

  Ten slavers left. Anger fueled the slavers’ swings, while Jonmarc and his companions were fighting for their lives. One of the slavers, a brawny, bald-headed man, came at Jonmarc, scything a wicked curved blade. Jonmarc held his sword two-handed against the force of the swing, and felt it reverberate up his arm, jarring his teeth.

  “I’m going to kill you slowly,” his opponent taunted. “I’m going to skin you alive, then hack you apart piece by piece, nice and slow. Cut out your tongue. Gouge out your eyes. Cut off your manhood. Even then, after all that, I can keep stabbing for quite a while before you finally die, drowning in your own blood.”

  After what Jonmarc had witnessed, between the raiders and the monsters, the slaver’s words did not frighten him. He felt a familiar coldness settle over him. It distanced him from the fear, blocked out the pain, and made his attention snap into sharp focus.

  Keep talking, Jonmarc thought. I’m not listening, and if you’re talking, you’re not paying full attention.

  Jonmarc parried the slaver’s blow, then blocked another swing that would have taken off his arm. A second slaver joined in the fight, as all around Jonmarc the rest of the slavers caught up.

  “Think you can hold off all of us?” the newcomer asked.

  Jonmarc had his knife in his left hand, his sword in his right. The new slaver thrust, and Jonmarc knocked the blow aside, and pivoted into a high kick, landing his strike on the first slaver’s sword-wrist.

  “I will slit you chin to nuts for that,” the slaver howled, coming at him with a dagger in his left hand, poised for a downward slash.

  “Dark Lady take your soul!” Jonmarc muttered, barely evading the death strike as the other slaver tried to get inside his guard, landing a deep gash on his left shoulder.

  Howls like enraged wolves sounded from the forest. Betta and Jemman burst from among the trees, each swinging long, solid branches. Betta smashed one slaver in the head, and he dropped like a stone, bleeding from his ears, his scalp opened and his head crushed. Jemman rammed another slaver in the gut, driving him back against a tree and pinning him, hitting so hard that the branch severed his spine.

  Jonmarc took advantage of the distraction to drop and roll, coming up behind the slaver who had been taunting him and running him through with his sword. The second slaver came at him with a snarl, and it was all Jonmarc could do to hold the man off. One powerful strike caught him on the hand, and his sword dropped from his numbed fingers. Jonmarc ducked a killing blow, slashing with the dagger in his left. He grabbed for a branch and swung hard, barely blocking another strike. His fallen sword lay just behind the slaver, but it might as well have been leagues away for all the good it did him.

  Steen had felled another opponent, and Mort was holding his own. Jemman and Dugan had teamed up, a good thing since Dugan was fading fast. Betta’s temper and the length of the branch she wielded was still keeping the slavers at bay, but the odds were in the attackers’ favor.

  Six slavers were still on their feet, and only five of the caravan crew were able to fight, though for how much longer, Jonmarc was not sure. He was growing lightheaded from hunger and blood loss. Steen looked like he was running on sheer willpower, bleeding from a score of wounds.

  From deep in the forest came a moan like a dying man. The mournful sound came again, from elsewhere in the darkness. Jonmarc glimpsed a flash of foxfire, then another and another, bits of glowing green phosphorescence suspended against the blackness of the deep forest.

  “Looks like the ghosts are waking up,” Jonmarc said with a nasty grin. “They don’t like slavers.”

  More moans sounded, as if from everywhere at once, and new glimpses of eerie green light danced in the darkness. The slaver looked rattled, and his momentary lapse was all Jonmarc needed to dive forward, slashing the attacker with his knife, opening up his belly and spilling out his guts onto the loam beneath their feet.

  Jonmarc never saw the slaver behind him until the knife was in his side. He gasped, falling to his knees. The slaver withdrew the knife, and Jonmarc lunged for his sword, rolling to bring the blade up through the man’s groin and into his body. The slaver screamed in pain, impaled on the blade, unable to move and unwilling to fall. Jonmarc brought up one foot and kicked as hard as he could, biting back a scream of his own from the pain. The slaver fell free from Jonmarc’s sword, and Jonmarc collapsed, breathing hard, trying not to pass out.

  “Let’s get a look at your ‘ghosts’,” one of the slavers growled, dodging into the shadows and emerging with Kegan and Vitt. Both held bits of rotting log, alight with glowing fungus. Vitt was recovered enough to hurl his log toward the slaver’s head, clipping him on the temple. The slaver punched Vitt in the shoulder, opening up his barelyhealed wound. Kegan brought his free hand up, striking the slaver with his open palm full in the chest as he chanted a word of power. The slaver stiffened and clutched for his heart, his hold on Kegan forgotten, then collapsed.

  Betta was caught, kicking and screaming. Dugan was down, bleeding from the mouth. Jemman swung his bloodied branch like a scythe, but he would not be able to hold off the slaver for long. Steen and Mort were fighting back to back to hold off their attacker.

  A new sound came from deep in the forest’s darkness. The moans had sounded human. The shrieks that carried from the depths of the Ruune Vidaya did not. Orbs of blue-white light careened from between the trees, dodging and weaving over their heads. Tendrils of cold fog seeped from the heart of the forest, cold and damp, gathering over the wet ground.

  “Another trick, like your explosion?” the pox-faced slaver demanded.

  “What was that?” A gray figure slid past the slaver who was trying to keep a hold on Betta. The cook’s assistant got in a vicious bite to the slaver’s arm, and scrambled backwards as the man dropped her.

  “I’ll get you for that,” he muttered, coming at Betta with his sword.

  The shrieking reached a crescendo, wailing so loudly that Jonmarc clapped his hands over his ears. Fog covered the ground as high as a man’s knees, and Jonmarc dragged himself to stand, clinging to one of the trees, unwilling to be overtaken by the unnatural mist.

  Just as the slaver lunged forward to strike Betta, the fog rose like a tide, no longer mist but figures with grasping hands and gaping maws. More of the nightmare figures coalesced from the mist. Jonmarc had seen ghosts and barrow wights, but he had never seen spirits like these. The ghosts that rose between Betta and the slaver had sharp teeth and bony fingers, their bodies twisted into hideous shapes with glowing eyes.

  As Jonmarc watched in horror, the ghosts set on the slaver, raking him with their long fingers, opening up trails of blood on his skin. The slaver screamed, but the ghosts hemmed him in, slashing at his body, tearing out his hair, gouging at his eyes. Betta backed away, eyes wide with terror.

  The howling was so loud that it was impossible to think. The orbs no longer danced in the air. Now, they took on a more sinister purpose, diving at the slavers from all sides, burning them with cold fire. Hands reached up from the mist along the ground, snatching at the slavers’ clothing, tearing it from their bodies, rending their flesh.

  “Come on.” Betta helped Vitt get to his feet, while Kegan helped Jonma
rc walk, one hand pressed against the deep cut in his side. “Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  The pox-faced slaver was caught in the middle of a glowing whirlwind, screaming as the ghosts slashed at him with teeth and bone, until the whirlwind was crimson with the spray of blood. The forest was freezing cold, and their breath fogged in the air. The edge of the forest was no more than ten feet away.

  Droplets of blood fell like rain, spattering them with gore. The slavers shrieked and cursed, begging for their lives, squealing like badly butchered sows. Jonmarc had no magic, but it did not require a mage to sense the hunger for revenge, the anger and the long-denied vengeance of the spirits.

  The revenants ignored the prisoners as they hobbled their way toward the tree line. Jemman slung Dugan over one shoulder, while Mort and Steen managed to stumble forward on their own. All the caravaners were covered in blood, some of it from the slavers, much of it their own. Vitt looked the worst. His skin had a grayish pallor, and his lips were turning blue. He leaned heavily on Betta, barely able to move.

  Just a few steps separated them from the edge of the forest when one of the slavers dove toward Jonmarc, grabbing him from behind. Jonmarc glimpsed the slaver’s face, skin torn in strips down to muscle and bone, hands a bloody mass of sinew. The ghosts of the forest surged forward to drag the slaver back with them, and the slaver grappled to hold onto Jonmarc, screaming incoherently.

  Instinct took over. Jonmarc plunged his dagger deep into the slaver’s gut, jerking it upward, cutting off the slaver’s scream with a gasp. Dugan pulled Jonmarc back, tearing him free of the slaver’s grip as the spirits swarmed around the slaver and drew him back into the darkness.

  Jonmarc was leaning hard on Dugan. He stumbled, struggling to breathe, trying not to lose consciousness until they were free of the forest and its sentinel spirits. The last thing he remembered, as they left the trees behind, was the sight of a dozen silhouettes striding toward them, and the certainty that they had lost.

  “YOU’RE A HARD man to kill.” The voice was Trent’s, and Jonmarc opened his eyes to see the blacksmith leaning over him with a concerned look beneath the jovial tone.