The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  Not long after daybreak, the others left the tavern, and Jonmarc managed a candlemark or two of sleep before being roused by the tavernmaster and shooed downstairs. Although it was still early morning, a couple of florid-faced, rough-looking men were already happily drinking their ale at a table beside the fireplace. Jonmarc took a seat as far away as he could and spent a few more coins on a breakfast of cheese and sausage, a hard roll, and a cup of hot, bitter kerif.

  Harrtuck returned a little after noon. “Things have been busy,” he said abruptly. “Some trouble brewing. I told Valjan it couldn’t wait, but he’s likely to be plenty distracted, so expect that.”

  Jonmarc could see a difference in Harrtuck’s manner. The mercenary was wary and on edge, and while Jonmarc did not press him for information, given Hagen’s comments the night before, he was not completely surprised.

  “All right,” Harrtuck said. “Changed your mind?” When Jonmarc shook his head, Harrtuck rolled his eyes. “Gave you a chance. Remember that. Come with me.”

  Jonmarc debated whether or not to mention Hagen, and finally decided to see what Harrtuck would make of the conversation. “Ever heard of a man named Hagen?” Jonmarc asked, trying to sound off-handed.

  Harrtuck made a rude noise followed by a few obscene and descriptive curses. He stopped in his tracks. “Best tell me how you know that name right now,” he said, and his expression had grown unfriendly.

  Jonmarc shrugged. “He came over to my table after you left, invited himself to sit down, and tried to warn me off of joining the War Dogs.”

  “Did you tell him that’s what you meant to do?” Harrtuck asked sharply.

  Jonmarc rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I told him nothing, but I tried to get him to talk. Lot of garbage, nothing substantial.” He looked at Harrtuck. “So what’s he got against Valjan? And are the War Dogs in danger from other merc groups?”

  This time, Harrtuck’s outburst was loud and lengthy, and inventively crude enough to draw a censorious glare from one of the king’s guards. Harrtuck and Jonmarc hurried on their way, and Harrtuck waited until they were out of the guard’s hearing to reply.

  “Hagen was trouble. That’s why he doesn’t like Valjan. Valjan doesn’t put up with lying, double-crossing scum. He stole from his bunkmate, lied about it, tried to pin it on someone else, and showed up drunk for night watch. Valjan threw him out on his ear.”

  Sounded fair enough to Jonmarc. “Linton wouldn’t have put up with that either, and we were just a caravan,” he said.

  “Damn right!” Harrtuck replied. “You join the Dogs, you are family. Now there are all kinds of families,” he said with a note of distaste, “but Valjan runs a good one. We have to be able to trust each other. Don’t like all the Dogs, and they don’t all like me, but I trust them with my life.”

  The narrow walkways beside the rutted, muddy streets were cheek and jowl. Elbows and shoulders cleared a path through the press of bodies, shoving their way through to wherever they were going. Jonmarc had been enough places with the caravan to keep his small purse of coins hidden beneath his shirt, and his hands close to his swords, not only to draw them if necessary, but to keep someone from trying to make off with them.

  He tried not to look around himself, not to give away that he was a newcomer, but Principality City was much bigger than anywhere he had been before. Far larger than his home village of Lunsbetter, or any of the towns where Linton’s caravan had put on their show. He heard a babble of languages from the strangers in the street. From the way they were dressed, he guessed they came from nearly all of the seven lands of the Winter Kingdoms. A few of the people around him spoke Margolense, but many spoke the Common tongue here in a kingdom that cautiously welcomed merchants and mercenaries within its boundaries. He even glimpsed a few ebony-skinned men he guessed to be from Eastmark, Principality’s neighboring kingdom, a place that had once seemed too far distant to be real.

  “King Staden’s ancestor invited the mercenaries to winter here to keep the peace,” Harrtuck said as they walked. “Because of the gem mines, to keep all the other kingdoms from trying to invade. So the mercs can shelter here on neutral territory, so long as they swear never to raise their swords against Staden or his kin.”

  “What about the nobles?” Jonmarc asked.

  Harrtuck gave a cold smile. “They’re fair game, as long as their squabbles are with each other and don’t threaten the king’s power. Actually, I imagine it’s to the king’s benefit if his nobles spend their blood and gold fighting each other. Weakens them all, and keeps them from getting any dangerous ideas.”

  Jonmarc kept his wits about him as they took several turns away from the main road. Steen had said he could trust Harrtuck, but much as Jonmarc trusted Steen, he had no history yet to extend that faith to Harrtuck. Traffic thinned out as they left the bustle of the city’s thoroughfare behind them. A glance down the alleys made it clear that seedy as The Wobbly Goat had been, Principality City had worse to show.

  He quickened his step to keep up with Harrtuck, who strode down the narrow alley as if he owned it. Rats skittered away from garbage heaps, and beggars cursed them or begged for alms as they passed. Pedestrians of a worse sort hustled past them, more numerous here than on the main road. Some of them had the look of men who had been soldiers and left when it scarred them too much to do anything but kill. Others had a thin, hungry look that told Jonmarc they had one foot over the abyss and would do anything to keep from sliding the rest of the way. If this was the path to the War Dogs’ headquarters, than the mercenaries had done nothing to secure the area. And if their way was not leading them to the War Dogs, then Jonmarc readied himself for the possibility that his trust—and Steen’s—might have been betrayed.

  We’re being watched. Jonmarc knew in his bones that their presence had attracted attention, although there was nothing he could call to Harrtuck’s attention. Just the gut instinct that had served him well for so long. The alley was narrow enough that it would be folly to draw his swords if there was trouble, so Jonmarc made certain that his two long knives were handy, just in case. He had a shiv in his boot and a few dirks in his belt as well. With luck, he would not need them. That all depends, he thought wryly, on whether it’s my luck or somebody else’s.

  Smoke rose from a building up ahead. Harrtuck’s pace quickened. “Look sharp,” he cautioned. “Something’s wrong.”

  They rounded a corner at just under a dead run, only to find the smoking ruins of a building, burned nearly to the ground. Its blackened chimneys still stood, leaning precariously without the walls that supported them. In some places, the roughhewn stones of the foundation could be seen, and darkness gaped where floorboards had fallen into a cellar beneath. Smoke was heavy on the air, stinging Jonmarc’s eyes and making him choke.

  Harrtuck let out a string of curses.

  “Where are the others?” Jonmarc asked, drawing his knives. He saw a splatter of blood on the paving stones near where the burned house’s doorway had been, and a pool of blood a little farther on.

  “Not here, Dark Lady take my soul!” Harrtuck replied, drawing his sword as well. “We were supposed to meet in that house. It was standing just a candlemark ago.” He muttered a curse. “There aren’t many who would dare make a move like this against us.” Harrtuck looked at Jonmarc. “Go back to the inn. This isn’t your affair.”

  Jonmarc shook his head. “No. I came to be a War Dog. Well, it looks like you could use a spare.” He had taken a fighting stance, and scanned the alley for threats. I’m hardly going to turn tail and run to shelter, if there’s work to be done, he thought. And frankly, I feel safer in a fight beside Harrtuck than back at the tavern by myself in a strange kingdom.

  “Suit yourself,” Harrtuck said with a shrug. “But don’t expect me to protect you, if it comes to a fight.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Jonmarc replied. “So—you got enemies that might have done this?”

  Harrtuck barked a harsh laugh. “Yeah, the W
ar Dogs have enemies. Can’t help it. But torching one of our buildings is asking for retribution. We don’t start those kinds of fights, but we finish them. Have to. Bad for business. I want to know what happened to Valjan and the others.”

  “I think we’re likely to find out,” Jonmarc murmured. He caught a glimpse of motion, and saw something else move off to the side. A dozen armed men ran toward them, shouting and hollering war cries and threats.

  Jonmarc fell into a defensive crouch, as two of the attackers came right at him. He shouted an oath as he beat back a flurry of knife strokes, and one of the blades skidded down the vambrace on his arm. He was glad Steen had insisted that he wear a padded leather breastplate beneath his clothing, and leather cuffs on both wrists. Can’t be too careful in a strange place, Steen said. Guess he knew better than I did what to expect.

  Harrtuck waded into battle cursing and shouting. Three men ran at him, but Jonmarc was too busy fighting off his own assailants to keep a careful eye on Harrtuck’s battle. Jonmarc’s second attacker made a vicious swipe at his midsection. Jonmarc dodged, then dove forward to score a gash on the man’s shoulder, drawing blood. The first fighter ran at him, but this time, Jonmarc swung into a high Eastmark kick, sending the man hurtling backward to slam against a stone wall and slide to the ground.

  Whoever the attackers were, they came well-armored. Jonmarc managed to land blows at the weak points of their protections, but their vambraces and cuirasses deflected the worst of his strikes, and helmets hid their faces.

  More fighters swarmed into the street. Harrtuck downed two of his three opponents, but others ran forward to take their places. Jonmarc had never fought beside Harrtuck before, but they had both seen enough of battle to fall into a rhythm, and after taking out two more opponents each, they found themselves fighting back to back.

  A shrill whistle sounded in a distinctive pattern, and all at once, the attack ceased. The fighters stopped where they were, but did not lower their weapons. Jonmarc and Harrtuck remained poised.

  “We only want the mercenary,” a voice called from the shadows of the alley nearest the burned out building. “Our business is with the War Dogs. This is none of your concern, stranger. Go your way, before you have reason to regret staying.”

  “Screw that,” Jonmarc muttered.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Harrtuck said. “This isn’t your fight. Get out while you can.”

  Jonmarc knew that Harrtuck was probably right. Still, there was no way he was going to walk out on the fight, not when the odds were so terribly skewed, or when the fate of the rest of the War Dogs was uncertain. “Shut up,” he said. “I’m staying.”

  “You’re mad,” Harrtuck said. “This is not about proving yourself.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jonmarc replied, “I don’t break my word.” In the next breath he let out a feral cry and launched himself at the two closest attackers.

  Long ago, the night his family died, Jonmarc had learned to close out his fear and pain and feel nothing in a fight, nothing at all except clear, cold purpose. It seemed to him that time slowed down, everything came into a sharp focus, and he moved with deadly confidence. Live or die, there was a rough joy in fighting, in the way his body and blades moved together, in the satisfaction of seeing his enemies fall to his strikes. Jonmarc’s high kicks struck his opponents down and broke bone. His knives slashed their chests and arms, scoring hits that would have killed had it not been for the enemy’s protections. Harrtuck muttered a curse at Jonmarc’s headstrong refusal to give up, and then bellowed as he attacked, wading into a group of four men who were stouter and taller than he was.

  Together they felled half of their attackers before the others crowded in on them, swarming around them so thickly that there was no more room to fight. Trapped in the press of bodies, Jonmarc could not pivot to kick or do more than jab with his knives. One of the soldiers brought the baton down on Harrtuck’s head, and the beefy mercenary dropped to his knees. Jonmarc continued to struggle until men pinned his arms and legs and wrested his knives from his grip.

  “We gave you a chance,” their leader said, regarding Jonmarc as he still fought against his captors.

  “Go to the Formless One,” Jonmarc spat.

  The leader chuckled nastily. “That’s very likely,” he replied. “But not any time soon.” Jonmarc met his gaze, looking right into their attacker’s mismatched eyes. A sharp pain exploded in Jonmarc’s head as he was struck from behind. His vision darkened, his knees gave out on him, and he fell to the ground.

  JONMARC AWOKE WITH a groan. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and tasted of blood, and one attempt at moving let him know he was bound at the wrists and ankles.

  What a wonderful mercenary I make. Didn’t last a day in Principality. Not even long enough to get hired on by the War Dogs. How could I have been so wrong?

  A groan nearby ended his recriminations. He struggled to roll onto his side, and saw Harrtuck lying not far from him. The back of Harrtuck’s head was bloody, and his dark hair was matted around where he had been hit. Jonmarc suspected he did not look any better himself. “Harrtuck,” Jonmarc hissed. “Are you awake?”

  He forced himself to ignore the headache, and looked around the room that was their prison. For now, they were alone. Jonmarc tried to sit up, to see if he could work at the knots that held his ankles, but the effort nearly made him pass out as the pain in his head flared with the movement. He grunted as he eased back, willing himself to remain conscious.

  “Aye,” Harrtuck managed groggily. “And a pox on the one who hit me. Damn, that hurts!”

  “They’ve left us alone for now,” Jonmarc whispered.

  “Probably because we didn’t seem like much of a threat,” Harrtuck muttered.

  “Pretty sure one of them was Hagen,” Jonmarc said. “The one giving orders. Had the same eyes.”

  Harrtuck’s tirade this time managed to include phrases in Markian and Crofter, for good measure. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Well, then he was either the one who torched the building or he knows who did it. We’ll get him. He’ll pay.” He tried to move and gave a grunt as he struggled against the ropes.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Jonmarc said quietly. He could feel the shiv in his boot pressing against his calf. Their captors had obviously not taken the time to search them thoroughly. It took him a few tries before he could manage the stretch required to reach his boot. He swore as he twisted, but he managed to get his fingertips to nudge the knife out of its scabbard and it fell into his hand.

  “Stay where you are,” Jonmarc added, grasping the knife with his numb fingers and sawing at the ropes. “I’ll have you out as soon as I’m free.”

  A few minutes later, he had cut their ropes, and they sat rubbing at their wrists and ankles to restore the circulation. “We’ve got trouble,” Harrtuck said.

  Jonmarc glared at him. “Did you only just figure that out?”

  Harrtuck swore and shook his head. “No. Someone from the War Dogs should have been with the burning building, protecting the ruins, in case we could retrieve valuables. Since there was no one around, I’ve got to figure there are bigger problems—and that no one is going to notice I’m missing for a while.” He regarded Jonmarc. “You fought like a dimonn. I hadn’t believed Steen when he said you were a natural fighter, but he was right.”

  “So who attacked us?” Jonmarc said, moving cautiously around the small room. “And why did they pick now to go after the War Dogs?”

  “We’ve been having some trouble with the Black Wolves, another merc company,” Harrtuck replied. “There’s been talk that some of the Wolves think we get too many of the plum contracts.” He snorted. “’Course, there’s a reason for that—we’re damn good at what we do.”

  “We need to get out of here before someone comes back,” Jonmarc said. He had regained the feeling in his hands, and his legs were steady enough to walk without stumbling.

  “It’s not your fight.”

  “It is now.”
>
  After a moment, Harrtuck swore and turned away. “Suit yourself.” He eased the door open to the next room, with a knife in his hand that had appeared from somewhere in his clothing. Jonmarc held his shiv at the ready. The room where they had been held was mostly empty except for a washstand and a small bed. Jonmarc managed to pick the lock on the door. Beyond it was an outer room that held a table and two chairs, a chest, and a fireplace.

  Harrtuck looked around the room, went to the chest, and gave a grim smile as he opened it. “Our weapons, at least,” he said, bending to retrieve their blades. Jonmarc nodded his thanks as he returned his swords to their scabbards, and once he had his long knives back, he returned the shiv to his boot.

  Harrtuck headed for the door. “This is your last chance to turn away,” he warned.

  “Get moving,” Jonmarc said. “We’ve got to find your people.”

  Principality City’s dodgier quarters were a warren of narrow alleys and tight ginnels, but Harrtuck moved through them like a native. Only a few blocks over, the sound of fighting carried on the air, down near the waterfront in a section of the city that looked like it had seen far better days.

  The open area might once have been a grand square, but its beauty had been sullied long ago. A cracked, broken fountain sat dry and filled with refuse along one side of the space. The large stone buildings that flanked the square were covered in soot, their columns scarred and covered with vandals’ messages, their steps smelling of urine. Any vagrants that had made their lodgings there were smart enough to scatter at the first sign of trouble.

  Two small armed gangs fought their way back and forth across the soiled paving stones, swords clanging, blades flashing in the sun. Given the neighborhood, Jonmarc doubted the king’s guards would care what happened down here, so long as it did not burn down the city. The two warring sides pushed each other back and forth through the open courtyard, and to Jonmarc’s eyes, they appeared evenly matched.