The Shadowed Path (32 page)

“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 Jonmarc 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.

“Y
OU
’
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.

“I’m dead—aren’t I?” Jonmarc managed through dry lips. “No, but it’s not for lack of trying.” Anger warred with worry in Trent’s voice. “By the Dark Lady, Jonmarc! What did you think you were doing going into the Ruune Vidaya forest?” “Trying to get free of the slavers. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Talking took far too much energy, but if he wasn’t dead, Jonmarc had questions. “How did you—”

“Alyzza came thundering into Linton’s tent shouting about omens and portents. You were all overdue by that time, so it wasn’t a stretch to figure something had gone wrong, but we thought it was just the storms that held you up.” Trent shook his head.

“There’s always talk about slavers when you get closer to the Nu River, but most of the time, it’s just brigands,” he added. “King Bricen’s soldiers make short work of slavers when they catch them. Hang them from the trees, leave the bodies to rot as a warning to others.” He cursed again under his breath. “Linton would never have sent you out if he’d really thought there were slaver gangs nearby.”

J
ONMARC RECOGNIZED THE
healers’ tent back at the caravan, but how he got from the edge of the forest to here, he did not remember. Kegan walked by, then stopped when he saw Jonmarc was awake, and stood behind Trent who was seated next to Jonmarc’s cot.

“Good to see you awake,” Kegan said. “With luck, you’ve got most of the blood back that you lost, and the gashes are mostly healed, though I can’t say you won’t have scars.” He grinned. “Thank Ada and the senior healers. You gave them a run for their money.”

Kegan moved on, but Trent regarded Jonmarc darkly. “He means you almost died,” the blacksmith said curtly. “We found all of you outside the forest—thank Alyzza for that— but we weren’t sure you’d make it back. Vitt didn’t. You were too close for comfort.”

Trent grimaced, and Jonmarc knew he and Steen had words about Jonmarc’s future soldiering. “He’ll live, but he’s cut up in more places than you are, just not as deep. Betta and Jemman got away with some bruises, so they’ll be limping for a few days, but nothing serious. Dugan was banged up pretty badly, but he’s coming around. Mort managed to get out of it with some broken ribs and a few cuts, but nothing that won’t heal.”

Trent looked away. “No one came out of the forest. We found their things in the barn. No doubt that they were working for the Nargi, given the coins and bounty warrants they were carrying.” He paused. “We heard them,” he said quietly. “Heard them screaming in the forest, and we heard the howling of the ghosts. Not a man among us was going to set foot in there, and no one doubts the legends about the Ruune Vidaya, if they ever did.”

“You didn’t see them die.” Jonmarc’s voice was just above a whisper.

Trent met his gaze, and saw the horror there. “No. I didn’t. The others won’t talk about it at all. It must have been bad.”

“Bad” did not begin to cover it, but Jonmarc could not find words to explain. “Yeah. It was bad. Real bad.”

“Steen said you held your own, that you fought well,” Trent said, straightening. “Maybe you’re right about going with the mercs, once we get to Principality. Sweet Mother and Childe, it’s not like we’ve kept you safe here.”

“Thank you,” Jonmarc said quietly.

Trent laid a hand on his shoulder. “You say that now. I don’t know that you’ll feel the same way a year from now.” He stood. “I’ll see you back in the forge once you’re ready.”

Jonmarc closed his eyes and laid back.
The sooner I’m gone, the safer they’ll be,
he thought
. And once I’m gone, I’ll take the curse with me. There’s nothing else I can do. Dark Lady take my soul.

“H
E
’
S BEEN POISONED
.” Ada, the caravan healer, said. She knelt next to the dead man and shook her head. “Looks like he ate something that didn’t agree with him.” She nodded toward a basket partly filled with crisp green stalks.

The corpse at her feet was all the warning anyone needed to resist the appeal of the crunchy treat. Petran, one of the tent riggers, lay in his own vomit, his body contorted from convulsions. Spittle flecked his lips. The pupils in his staring eyes were so wide that the irises were just thin rims.

Ada sighed and rose to her feet, straightening her robes. “Who found him?”

Dugan, a young man with straight, dark hair stepped forward from the small crowd that had gathered near the dead man’s tent. “I did. He was late for work, and I was sent to get him when he didn’t show up.” He shrugged. “Sometimes he drinks too much and forgets.”

“Was this how you found him?” Ada asked, still staring at the corpse as if gazing at the body might shed some light on the circumstances of his death.

Dugan gulped and nodded nervously. “Yes, ma’am. I yelled for him at the tent flap, and when he didn’t curse me—like he usually does—I poked my head inside, expecting a cuff on the ear. He was just lyin’ there, splayedlike, and not moving.”

Ada nodded. “Do you know any reason why he might have decided to go off eating strange plants?”

Dugan swallowed and nodded again. “Petran always complained of stomach problems. He went on and on about how certain foods didn’t set well, how he couldn’t sleep for the burn in his throat, that kind of thing. To shut him up, people were always giving him things to try. Sometimes they worked; usually they didn’t.”

“I see,” Ada replied drily. “He didn’t come to the healers for help?”

Dugan looked uncomfortable. “Aye, ma’am. Too often. I heard him complaining loudly to his mates that the healers had run him off for bothering them.”

Ada’s cheeks flushed. “I’ll look into that.” She drew a deep breath and looked up at the crew gathered around the tent flap. “Time to get back to work,” she said tiredly. “Nothing more to see here.”

Jonmarc Vahanian was waiting outside the tent for Dugan. “You all right?” Jonmarc asked, taking in Dugan’s pallor.

Dugan nodded. “Not like I haven’t seen dead men before,” he said with uncertain bravado. “It’s just, twisted up like that, Petran didn’t look like himself.” He shivered although it was warm in the sun. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that a ghost might stick around when a man ends that way.”

“We’ve seen worse.” At eighteen, Jonmarc stood a little taller than Dugan, and his work in the forge as the blacksmith’s apprentice had broadened his shoulders and thickened his arms. Dugan was wiry and strong, quick at climbing up the poles that supported the caravan’s large tents and fearless about heights. In the year Jonmarc had been with Maynard Linton’s caravan of wonders, he and Dugan had seen plenty of dead men when they had helped defend the traveling company. They had killed some of those men themselves.

Jonmarc pushed a length of chestnut brown hair behind one ear. It almost covered the jagged scar that ran from his ear to below his collar bone, a reminder, as if he needed one, of the night his family was killed. “Karov won’t be happy to lose another rigger.”

Dugan swore under his breath. “Petran was a grouchy bastard, but he knew how to rig and he was fast. I won’t miss him cursing me, but we’ll all have more work to do without him.”

They fell into step as they headed back across the field that the caravan had temporarily claimed as its own. Maynard Linton ran one of the biggest, best traveling shows in the kingdom of Margolan, complete with artisans, acrobats, exotic animals, musicians, and oddities. Behind the scenes, a crew of cooks, riggers, healers, blacksmiths, farriers, and others kept the caravan moving and functioning.

“Seems we’ve had nothing but trouble since we’ve come east,” Dugan muttered. “I hope Linton changes his mind about crossing the river.” When the current performance wrapped up, Linton had announced plans to take the show across the Nu River into neighboring Principality. The wealthy kingdom might make for a prosperous tour, but many among the caravan’s crew grumbled their nervousness about leaving Margolan.

“I’m crossing one way or the other,” Jonmarc said with a shrug.

Dugan gave him a sidelong glance. “Still planning to join up with a merc group?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Steen thinks I’m ready.” Karl Steen, one of the caravan guards and a former soldier, had agreed to train Jonmarc in sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat.

“And what does Trent think?” Dugan asked with a knowing look.

Jonmarc looked away. “He’s not pleased with the idea, but he’s stopped fighting me on it.”

“I’d try to tell you that it was safer here than with the mercs, but the way the last few months have gone, that would be a lie,” Dugan said dryly. “I guess if you change your mind, you know how to find us.”

Jonmarc nodded. “I’m not leaving for a while, so let’s talk about something else, huh?”

“Do you think Petran’s death has anything to do with the other man who died?” Dugan asked, obligingly switching topics.

“The animal trainer’s assistant?” Jonmarc asked.

Dugan nodded. “Aye. He was pretty young to just fall over dead. They said that he clutched his heart a moment before he died, and his body went all a-tremble.”

“Bad heart,” Jonmarc replied. “It happens.” He glanced at Dugan. “Why? You think they’re connected?”

Dugan shrugged. “Just seems odd, that’s all.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “There’s a rumor he might have gotten a bottle of bad wine.”

“Oh?”

“Just telling you what I’ve heard,” Dugan said, raising a hand to forestall protest. “I wasn’t there, thank the goddess. But I heard a couple of the men talking, and one of them was friends with the man who found the body. He said that there was an open bottle and a glass of wine spilled on the ground, like it had been dropped when the man fell over.”

“Could be a coincidence,” Jonmarc replied. “People fall over dead in the middle of all kinds of things.”

Dugan chuckled. “True enough. Remember when that one fellow died on top of one of the whores, in the midst of the action? I think you could have heard her screaming all the way to Trevath!”

Jonmarc rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to bring that up, but you just made my point. And there was the cook’s assistant who died using the latrine and fell in.”

Dugan wrinkled his nose. “Of the two of them, at least the fellow with the whore went out with a smile on his face.”

“My point is, people fall over dead doing all kinds of things without anything being amiss,” Jonmarc pointed out with labored patience.

“You’re probably right,” Dugan admitted, “but that won’t stop people from talking, and the tales get larger with the retelling.”

Jonmarc and Dugan parted company at the big tent, and Jonmarc headed on toward the forge. Karl Steen met him midway. “I heard you were there when Dugan found the body,” Steen said. Steen was a former soldier who had signed on as a caravan guard. He had rapidly earned the trust of Linton and his inner circle. When Jonmarc wasn’t working in the forge with Trent, the caravan’s blacksmith, he was usually helping Steen and serving as an extra guard.

“Not exactly, but soon after,” Jonmarc replied. “Word travels fast.” He paused. “Does Linton know?”

“If he doesn’t yet, he will soon,” Steen said, nodding toward the open area between the tents. Maynard Linton was striding toward them, jaw set and brow creased in a frown. Linton was short and stocky, with a coppery tan from a life lived outdoors. He was a skilled impresario, a shrewd businessman, and when times got tough, a savvy smuggler. Linton’s temper was as quick as his wit, and his usual bombast disguised the fact that he would face down the Crone herself for his people.

“Steen. Glad I found you. I’ve been robbed.”

Jonmarc and Steen exchanged glances. That was not what either of them had expected. “What’s missing?” Steen asked.

Linton scowled. “A basket of vegetables and a bottle of wine.”

Steen gave Linton a wary look. “What kind of vegetables? Where did the basket and wine come from?”

The expression on Linton’s face suggested that he thought the guard had taken leave of his senses. “Why does it matter what kind of vegetables they were?” Linton roared. “They’re missing.”

“The thief might have saved your life,” Jonmarc said. “There’s a good chance the items were poisoned.”

That brought Linton up short, and his bluster disappeared. “Poisoned? What in the name of the Dark Lady are you talking about?”

“Come on,” Steen said, gesturing for Linton to follow. “We’ll show you.”

Linton trudged after them as Jonmarc retraced his steps to the tent where the dead man had been found. Ada and the healers were still there, and Jonmarc spotted Kegan, one of the apprentice healers, standing near the back.

“Linton. Glad you’re here. I was just about to send someone.” Ada walked over to where Linton and Steen were standing. Petran’s body lay where he had fallen, with ashenskin and blue-tinged lips.

Linton was staring in horror at the basket and its halfeaten bounty of green stalks. “What happened?” he asked, his voice oddly subdued.

Ada sighed. “Petran might have thought the stalks were celery, but they are water hemlock. Nasty poison—awful way to die, and no antidote. Even if we’d have found him sooner, we couldn’t have done anything except put him out of his misery. At least, not unless we had a mage of some power, and I’m not sure even that would have helped.”

She noticed that Linton had paled. “What’s the matter?”

“That’s my basket,” Linton said, pointing at the deadly bounty. “Whatever was in it was meant for me.”

T
WO CANDLEMARKS LATER
, a small group convened in Linton’s tent. Steen was there, along with Trent, Corbin the farrier and Zane, the caravan’s knife-thrower, plus Jonmarc, Ada, and Linton himself.

“We hadn’t thought much about the animal handler’s assistant until Petran’s death,” Ada said. “But after we were able to confirm Petran was poisoned, we went back and dug up the other poor man.” She looked grim. “He was also poisoned. Something in the wine. We think it might have been yew. It’s a sneaky poison: sometimes there aren’t any symptoms at all and the person just falls down, dead. And if there are signs, it’s easy to mistake for a bad heart: trembling, weak pulse, that sort of thing.

“There was wine in his stomach,” Ada continued, with a pointed look at Linton. “And the man the animal handler’s assistant shared a tent with said he remembered seeing a bottle right before the man died and wondering where it came from.”

“It came from my tent,” Linton said soberly. “And if those items hadn’t been stolen, that would have been me lying in my puke, curled up in a ball.”

Trent sighed. “Normally, I’d ask if you had any enemies, but we already know the answer to that one, and that leaves a lot of suspects.”

Jonmarc said nothing, but he knew Trent was right. Just in the time Jonmarc had been with the caravan, they had faced bounty hunters and vengeful
vayash moru
, murderous ghosts and treacherous slavers, bandit gangs and corrupt town officials. Those were just the people Jonmarc knew about.

“Can you think of anyone who might have a recent grudge, or someone with an old grudge who’s near where we’ve pitched camp?” Corbin asked.

Linton thought for a moment and shook his head. “There are always business rivals, local merchants who don’t like the competition from the caravan even though we’re only around for a week or two.”

“Have you dismissed anyone from the caravan recently?” Zane asked. “Disciplined someone? Or, maybe, run into an old lover?”

Linton gave a snort. “No, no and most definitely not. Since that run-in with the slavers, it’s been quiet. I should have known that meant trouble was coming.”

“Where did you get the basket?” Ada asked.

“I sent a messenger into town to do some shopping for me,” Linton said. “I was hungry for a meat pie recipe that I’m quite fond of, and cook told me he didn’t have some of the ingredients on hand, but that he’d bake one for me if I could supply what he needed. Since the messenger was going into town, I had him pick up a couple of bottles of wine for me as well.”

“Did you see the messenger when he returned?” Corbin asked, frowning.

Linton shook his head. “No. But that didn’t surprise me. I had asked him to leave the basket by my tent. I saw it was there when I walked past on my way to talk with the merchants, but I didn’t stop to put it inside. When I came back, it was gone.”

He paused. “I looked inside my tent, thinking someone had set it on the other side of the flap, but it wasn’t there, so I went to see if cook had picked it up. When he hadn’t seen it, I figured someone had stolen it, which is when I ran into Jonmarc and Steen.” The attempted poisoning had dented Linton’s usual bravado. Tonight, he seemed uncharacteristically sober.

“Has there been anything else unusual?” Ada pressed. “Anything at all?”

Linton thought for a moment. “I had a bad night a few days ago—felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. Thought maybe I’d just been working too hard. I was terribly thirsty—nothing seemed to satisfy me. And that night, my dreams were disturbing, and so real I doubted my senses.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “If I had to guess, I’d say someone put some belladonna in something you ate. Lucky for you, that’s what they picked.”

“Lucky?” Trent challenged. “I know that weed. Some call it Widow’s Heart. Mussa poison. It’s a witch’s tool. What’s lucky about that?”

Linton managed a dry chuckle. “What Ada means is I’ve managed to build up a tolerance for that particular weed, since I take a bit of it every day for a bad stomach. So I can handle a dose that might harm someone who wasn’t used to it.”

“You didn’t think about belladonna when you had the bad night?” Corbin asked.

Linton shrugged. “If you mean, was I on the lookout for someone trying to poison me, the answer is no. I just wasn’t thinking that way. Getting a bad bit of rabbit from the stew or just having a touch of ill humours seemed likely at the time.” He frowned. “Although I’ll admit looking back on it, all the signs were there.”