The Shadowed Path (17 page)

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.”

“W
HAT 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.”

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.”