The Shadowed Path (10 page)

“Why would anyone send magic like that against the caravan?” Trent asked, sitting back on his heels.

Ada shrugged. “Might not be about us. Could be a curse on this barn, or on the farmer who owns it. We might have just blundered into it.”

Jonmarc looked away, sure his guilt was clear in his face.
Or it could be an angry undead mage with a score to settle
, he thought.
By the Dark Lady! I don’t want to put the rest of the caravan in danger for my mistake.

“What kind of a mage would it take to summon a beast like that?” Trent asked.

Ada considered his question for a moment. “I don’t think it would take someone with a lot of power, or even a lot of knowledge. With magic, often it’s not the difficulty that stops a mage from doing a working. It’s the mage’s honor— or lack of it.”

“Why send that kind of beast against the guards?”

Ada grimaced. “If the intention was to cause panic, maybe whoever it was didn’t expect us to post a guard. I doubt either of you were the target.” She looked out across the caravan workers who were gathering up their belongings from the night before so they could get back on the road.

“Can Jonmarc travel?” Trent asked with a worried glance.

“I’ve cleared a spot for him in one of the wagons,” Ada replied. She interpreted the look on Jonmarc’s face and smiled. “Just for a while, until I’m sure the poultice took care of the poison. By tomorrow, you’ll be good as new.”

B
Y LATE MORNING
, Jonmarc insisted on walking. His arm was still sore, but nothing like the pain right after the attack. Within a candlemark of rejoining Trent, so many of his curious companions had asked Jonmarc to tell his story that Trent finally pulled him to a different part of the line and silenced inquiries with a dark glance.

A steady rain fell, though without the wind that had made the previous day’s journey so treacherous. “We’re coming to a fork in the road up ahead,” Trent told Jonmarc. “Linton says we can get back on the road toward Huntwood, maybe even make up lost time if this damned rain lets up.”

Abruptly, the procession stopped. Jonmarc and Trent were in the middle of the long line of caravan workers, too far from the front to see what had brought them to a halt. The wet and miserable travelers exchanged questioning glances, then began to speculate on the cause for their sudden stop.

“Stay here,” Trent said, and began to slip up through the line. After a while, he returned with a worried look on his face.

“Trees are down across the route Linton wanted to take,” Trent said. “We’re going to have to go a different way. Linton sent scouts to take a look ahead.”

“I don’t like this,” Jonmarc said quietly, with a glance over his shoulder to assure he would not be overheard. “First, unusually bad weather. Then what happened last night, and now this?”

“I don’t like it either, but Linton’s got to get us off the road, and if the route’s blocked, we’ll have to find another way,” Trent said. He signaled for Jonmarc to stay where he was, and wove through the procession once more, but this time, Jonmarc saw Trent stop to talk with Corbin, Russ and several other men. They were too far away for Jonmarc to make out what they said, but the other men nodded, their expressions serious. Trent wound his way back, pausing to exchange a few words with Ada, who turned to make a comment to the other healers.

“What’s going on?” Jonmarc asked.

“Nothing—yet. But we’re all agreed that there are too many coincidences. We won’t be the only ones keeping our eyes open.”

They slogged on, eating a cold lunch from rations that had been distributed before they left the barn: dried sausage, a hunk of cheese, a piece of hard bread. Jonmarc forced himself to eat, finding that he had little appetite. He could not shake a sense of foreboding, and from the grim look on Trent’s face and Corbin’s terse manner, Jonmarc guessed that at least some of the others found cause for concern.

“There’s a bridge up ahead, over the creek,” Trent said as they hiked along the muddy, rutted road. The rain had stopped, but a cold dampness hung in the air, and the ground was slick and covered with puddles deep enough to challenge all but the highest boots.

“Then what?” Jonmarc asked. He had seen maps of Margolan once or twice, but he remembered few of the details, save that the Borderlands where he grew up was quite a distance from the palace, and even further from the border with Principality.

Trent looked around them, taking in the low rolling hills and the lengthening shadows. “On the other side of the creek, the land flattens out. There should be a town where we can resupply, and then Linton still means to make for Huntwood to set up the festival for the lord of the manor.”

The group gathered along the banks of the creek, a swollen, rushing body of water Jonmarc would have called a small river. Given how badly their last attempt at fording a stream had gone, he was grateful for the security of a sturdy log bridge.

“If we’re quick about crossing, we should reach Colshott before nightfall,” Linton said. “We can replace what we lost in the flood, stock up on provisions, and get back on the road to Huntwood.”

Jonmarc thought Linton looked ill at ease. The road they had traveled from the barn forked just ahead. One branch crossed the creek; the other headed into a stretch of forest. Many of the caravaners eyed the forest with suspicion. Thus far, the route Linton had chosen skirted the deep woods. While that meant they traveled in the open, it also made for wider roads, handy for the wagons and livestock. Open land also meant they could see if there were travelers or animals coming toward them. The forest might shelter them from the rain, but it also gave an advantage to wolves and other predators.

Linton called for the men who were not handling carts or livestock to go first across the bridge, and Jonmarc wondered if the caravan master was thinking of the attack the night before, hoping to secure the far bank before the wagons, women, and animals crossed. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonmarc saw that Trent and Corbin had drawn back their cloaks to make it easier to draw their knives, and he did the same.

The bridge was as wide as the road, made of thick planks. The wood was gray with time and the bed of the bridge was worn with the passage of many travelers. Jonmarc’s sense of foreboding grew as he stepped onto the bridge. Beneath them, the creek swirled past the bridge supports, carrying with it flotsam from the headwaters.

He took one cautious step and then another, but the bridge held. He and Trent and Corbin were in the rear of the group of nearly a dozen men selected to go first. Jonmarc glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the caravan that were awaiting their signal from the other side.

The bridge looked sturdy enough, but the men fanned out, spreading their weight equally across the span. Jonmarc paused, then chided himself when the others did not seem to hesitate.

With every step, the bridge felt more unsteady. He was almost a third of the way across when a loud snap reverberated in the air. He heard the wood groan as the planks underfoot began to buckle. Nails popped from the planks, and the timber railing broke off and tumbled down into the creek. Two men, and then three more, ran across to safety.

“It’s gonna go!” Corbin yelled. Jonmarc, Trent and Corbin were closer to the caravan than to the other side of the bridge, and Jonmarc could see Linton shouting at them, fear clear in his expression.

“Run!” Trent shouted.

Some of the remaining men ran forward, intent on reaching the other side of the creek. The bridge twisted in the middle, wrenching the planks loose, and as the center gave, men fell screaming into the water below.

Trent grabbed Jonmarc’s shoulder and pushed him back toward the way they had come. Corbin was behind them, still shouting to rally the survivors and jar the panicked into movement. Another section collapsed, sending a sudden shock through the bridge that made Jonmarc stumble, nearly knocking him off his feet. Corbin grabbed his arm, propelling him toward shore.

Unteathered, the remaining structure began to wobble and sway as the current tore at the supports. Men crowded forward to stay clear of the ragged edge of the bridge platform. They neared the bank, as the horrified onlookers called for them to hurry.

With a rumble like thunder, the bridge dropped from under Jonmarc’s boots. Corbin leaped to safety, with Trent an instant behind him. The bridge collapsed with a roar. Jonmarc hurled himself toward the bank, and his hands scrabbled for purchase on the splintered boards that had, moments before, been the edge of the bridge platform. Behind him, he heard Russ scream as he fell into the swift waters below.

Jonmarc caught himself, but a stab of pain through his wounded arm nearly made him lose his grip. He was dangling, and his boots scraped against the rocks, trying to get a toehold.

“Got you!” Trent grabbed one arm, while Corbin grabbed the other, hauling Jonmarc to safety. His palms were filled with splinters and he was covered with mud and dust, but he had never been so grateful to lie on the wet, solid ground.

“By the Crone’s tits!” Linton roared. “How in the name of the Formless One did that happen?”

Jonmarc sat up and stared into the stream. Shattered timbers bobbed in the current, and broken planks littered the sides of the lower banks. A small portion of the far side of the bridge still remained standing, but the rest was gone. Out of the twelve who had started across the bridge, Jonmarc could see only eight remaining. Three were on the broken portion of the bridge, while five of their men were on the other side of the creek.

The crowd talked in nervous whispers, gathering close to the banks to see the damage. Ada and the healers pushed to the front, seeing to the survivors’ injuries. Jonmarc glanced around and spotted the riggers on the fringe of the crowd, and with them the tall, thin man. He seemed to be staring right at Jonmarc, and glanced sharply away as Jonmarc returned the gaze.

“We’ve got no choice,” Linton’s voice carried over the noise. “We’ll have to take the fork through the forest, at least until we reach another road.”

“What about the men who got to the other side of the bridge?” Ada asked.

Linton sighed. “They’ll have to meet up with us at the next crossing.”

Linton bustled from one end of the caravan procession to the other, giving orders, fussing at wagon drivers and encouraging a few performers who looked too rattled to go on. Eventually, he found his way to where Ada and the healers were caring for those who had been injured. Jonmarc was too far away to hear their conversation, but Linton spoke in quiet tones to Ada, who nodded and then called over several of the other healers. At one point, Linton glanced toward Jonmarc and gave a nod, then turned back to finish his discussion before stalking away, hailing another member of the caravan.

Ada walked over and checked Jonmarc’s palms. The splinters were gone, and between the healer’s magic and the ointment she had used on his cuts, his hands were nearly healed.

“What’s going on?” Jonmarc asked and Ada turned to head back to the others.

“What do you mean?”

Jonmarc met her gaze. “Linton looked pretty intent about something, and he glanced at me like I had something to do with it.”

Ada chuckled. “Actually, he’s a little worried with how dangerous the route has been so far. He asked me if we had enough herbs for potions, in case we have any more bad luck.” She sighed. “I told him we’d gone through a lot of our stock, and he suggested we harvest whatever plants we can since we’ve got to go through the forest.”

Ada gave him a sidelong glance. “Linton said I could ask you to help. Said something about you having worked for a hedge witch.”

Jonmarc looked down. Few people in the caravan asked about a person’s past, and fewer people gave true answers when asked. Linton knew Jonmarc’s story, or at least most of it. If it were anyone else asking, he might not have answered, but Ada had been kind to him, and sometimes she reminded him of Elly, Shanna’s mother. “My wife’s mother was a hedge witch and healer. A good one,” he said quietly, still not looking at Ada.

“I didn’t know you were married,” she said.

Jonmarc swallowed hard. “I’m not anymore. She died.”

Ada knew him well enough to let the comment go without a fuss. “Right then,” she said. “I could use your help. Trent can manage without you for a candlemark or two. I’m going to ask each of the healers to look for one or two medicinal plants, and hopefully we’ll end up with a little bit of everything.” She took two pouches from her belt.

“Do you recognize these?” she asked, pouring a little of the contents of each into her hand.

“Willow bark,” Jonmarc said, pointing to one of the piles of dried material. “I’m not sure what the other is.”

“Wormroot,” Ada said. “I don’t need it often, but it comes in handy sometimes.” He listened as she described the plant to him. “When you find it, use your knife to remove the leaves and twigs. I just need the roots, stem and bark. Try not to lose the sap—I’ll need that.” She paused. “Oh, and keep your hands out of your mouth when you’re handling it. It can give you a nasty upset stomach.”

Usually, days when the caravan was on the move seemed light-hearted. Moving the wagons, animals, people and supplies was hard work, but a certain vagabond freedom infused the journey with goodwill. Often, performers would break into song as the group traveled, pranksters played tricks and the caravan’s other members traded jokes and tales that became taller with the telling.

This day’s journey had begun warily after the storms and the attack. The bridge collapse defeated even the most resolute optimists, and as the group moved into the forest, everyone seemed skittish and ill-humored. Jonmarc kept a watchful eye on the riggers, but had to admit he saw nothing to support his suspicions. Trent and Corbin had fallen back to talk in low tones with several of the other farriers and blacksmiths.

Jonmarc was just as glad to have a task to take his mind off the bad luck of the last few days. He was lucky enough to come upon a few willows before they had ventured far into the forest, and quickly gathered more than enough bark for Ada’s needs. The wormroot was more difficult to find. It was a small, woody plant that grew knee-height at its tallest, and only its unusual, triangular leaves set it apart from the other scrub that grew beneath the trees.