Authors: Gail Z. Martin
“G
ET UP
. I
T
’
S
time.” Trent shook Jonmarc awake. Jonmarc blinked and yawned, trying to shake off drowsiness. He stuffed his blanket back in his bag and reluctantly followed Trent out to the barn doors, pulling his hat and gloves on as he went.
Most of the caravan’s performers were sleeping. One of the animal trainers tended to his restless charges. A few of the riggers and crew were playing cards. The skinny man Jonmarc had spotted earlier was among them, and he seemed to regard Jonmarc and Trent with bored curiosity as they picked their way across the crowded barn floor. They stopped long enough to exchange a few words with the guards who were coming off watch, and to take two shuttered lanterns with them into the night.
Outside, the storm had waned. The ground was soaked and water dripped from the barn’s roof, but the rain had stopped and the wind stilled. Out here, far from any town, there were no bells to mark the passage of time. Wherever the farmer who owned the barn lived, it was not so close that they could see a house, or that the farmer noticed lights and movement around his barn.
“How long have the riggers been with us?” Jonmarc asked. Trent gave him a sideways look, as if wondering where that question had come from. “A few have been around for a while. Several came on at the last stop.” He shrugged. “It’s tough work, and dangerous business. Riggers always come and go, if they don’t get killed in the meantime. Why?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “It’s just, there’s one of the riggers who just seems... odd.”
Trent barked a laugh. “It would be stranger to find a rigger who wasn’t odd. They have to be crazy to work the poles and the ropes, and it seems to draw a peculiar type. I mean, caravaners are a strange lot to begin with. Most of us took up with this to get away from something else. There’s a reason a lot of folks make themselves scarce if the king’s guard show up. I’d dare say more than a few are wanted by someone for something.”
“Maybe,” Jonmarc replied. “But something seems off.” He paused. “Would someone want to harm the caravan, or Linton?”
Trent chuckled. “More than a few folks, I warrant. Linton runs a tight ship. He’s had to get rid of people who caused problems—fights, stealing, that sort of thing. Made a few enemies that way, I’m sure.”
Trent scanned the horizon. Nothing stirred. “There are always rivals. I’ve heard grumbling sometimes from the local merchants that when the caravan comes to town, local traders and shopkeepers lose business.” He shook his head. “That might account for damage if we were camped near a village, but out here? Doesn’t seem likely.”
They fell silent, watching and listening. Jonmarc glanced behind them, into the barn. Most people were sleeping. A small group still played cards in the corner, including the skinny man, who appeared to be counting his earnings under his breath as he fingered the small pile of coins in front of him.
A low snarl carried on the night air. “Did you hear that?” Jonmarc said with a sudden glance toward Trent.
Trent drew a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt. Jonmarc drew his sword. Trent gestured in one direction, indicating with a nod for Jonmarc to head the opposite way. Cautiously, Jonmarc moved as silently as the wet ground would allow. He kept his lantern shuttered, using the faint glow that escaped to light his way, hoping it did not give him away.
Another growl sounded, closer than before. It sounded more like a wolf than like one of the large wild cats that roamed the lowlands. Jonmarc really did not want to meet either predator alone at night. Yet something in the low snarl seemed off, not quite right. Slowly, Jonmarc took another step.
He froze as he made out movement in the shadows ahead of him. The clouds parted overhead, allowing enough moonlight to stream down for Jonmarc to make out the form of whatever was watching him. It was big, too big for a dog, and too large even for a wolf. The shape was wrong for a big cat.
The shadow shifted, and a pair of glowing red eyes fixed their gaze on Jonmarc in the instant before the darkness moved.
Jonmarc’s sword cut an arc through the night, but met only air. He heard the beast snarl, heard the snick of teeth, and felt claws tear through the sleeve of his coat. He dropped and rolled, coming up with his sword poised defensively, ready to gut the beast if it came at him.
The red eyes regarded him for a moment, then the beast sprang forward and a massive paw swiped for his throat. Jonmarc ducked, throwing up his left arm, and bit back a cry as claws raked across his skin. He could smell the beast’s breath, a mixture of an old grave and a kill left too long in the sun. Footsteps sounded, and Jonmarc heard Trent calling his name.
“Over here! Watch yourself—there’s a wild animal!” Jonmarc warned.
In the moonlight, Jonmarc could make out the beast clearly. It had the build of a wolf, but much larger than any wolf Jonmarc had ever seen. Baleful red eyes stared at him, and the snarl became a deep rumble.
The beast advanced, and Jonmarc swung again. To his horror, the blade sliced through the beast without meeting flesh or bone.
A howl echoed in the night air, more chilling than anything Jonmarc had ever heard. Jonmarc held his sword defiantly, knowing that if the blade couldn’t slow the beast, there was nothing to keep it from attacking again. His arm throbbed from the gashes, pulsing with his heartbeat.
Trent rounded the corner of the barn, and the beast’s huge head swung to stare at him in the instant before Trent opened the shutters on his lantern, flooding the area with light.
The beast vanished.
Jonmarc did not move, staring into the darkness where the beast had been just an instant before, his wounded arm clutched close against his body.
“What in the name of the Crone was that?” Trent asked, shaken. He took in Jonmarc’s bloody sleeve. “Sweet Chenne, are you hurt?”
“What’s going on out here?” Linton stomped up, splashing mud with every footstep. Behind him were Corbin and two of the wagon drivers, each carrying sturdy wooden poles.
Jonmarc struggled to his feet, still breathing hard. “We heard a growl, and saw something moving in the shadows,” he said, scanning the darkness. “Trent and I split up to circle the barn.”
“Did you see anything?” Linton demanded.
“I saw movement, but I never got a look at whatever was out there,” Trent said.
Jonmarc hesitated, wondering if they would believe him.
“Whatever it was came after a piece of you, m’boy,” Linton said, eyeing Jonmarc’s wounded arm. “You must have seen something.”
“It was big, and dark,” Jonmarc said. “Like a wolf, but more powerful. And it had red eyes.”
“Red eyes?” Linton mused. He looked down at Jonmarc’s sword. “It got close enough to do that to you, and you didn’t get in a good strike?”
Jonmarc met Linton’s gaze. “My blade went right through it, like shadow.”
“He needs to see a healer,” Trent said, stepping up beside Jonmarc. “Whatever it was is gone now.”
Linton stared a moment longer at the bloody gashes on Jonmarc’s arm, and nodded. “Aye. Let’s get that treated before it goes bad.” He turned to Corbin and the other men.
“I want four men out here until morning. Two teams of two. Each pair stays together. Open the shutters on your lanterns. I don’t care who sees us here. I’ll answer to an angry farmer, but I don’t want whatever did that,” he said with a nod toward Jonmarc, “coming around again and bringing its pack.”
Trent steered Jonmarc into the barn and fended off the press of curious gawkers. It seemed as if everyone was awake now, and a buzz of nervous excitement hummed through the crowd.
They picked their way across the crowded floor toward where the healers had set up a place to treat the injured from their sodden trek through the storm.
“What do we have here?” The woman was in her middle years, young enough that most of her hair was still dark and old enough for it to be liberally flecked with gray. Her green robe meant she was a trained healer, not just a hedge witch with a talent for herbs and potions.
“Something attacked him while we were on watch,” Trent said, nudging Jonmarc to have a seat on a large piece of firewood.
The healer bent over Jonmarc and tore his ripped sleeve open to expose four ragged cuts. “You’re lucky whatever it was only got your arm,” she said, frowning as he looked at his bloody sleeve.
“Can you help him, Ada?” Trent asked. “It’s bad, but I’ve shown up looking worse.”
Ada chuckled. “That you have, and we’ve put you right. Give me a moment to put an ointment together. That should keep it from going bad, and take away some of the pain.”
The healer bustled off, rummaging in her packs. She withdrew several packs of dried herbs, a few seedpods, and a cruet of oil, as well as a mortar and pestle. “Go fetch me some water, Trent,” she said in a tone that implied she was old friends with the blacksmith. “Something clean enough to drink, if you please. We’ll not want the cuts to go sour.”
Jonmarc felt flushed, and his heart pounded in his ears. Before he had taken his turn at watch, he would have said that the inside of the drafty barn was only somewhat warmer than outside, despite the press of bodies. Now, he was sweating as if it were summer. His throat was dry, and he felt lightheaded. The gashes in his arm sent stabbing pain up into his shoulder and chest, and it was getting harder to breathe.
He saw Ada turn toward him, and saw her lips move as if she were speaking, but he heard nothing. The world spun, and he toppled to the floor.
Nightmare images seized Jonmarc as he descended into unconsciousness. Flames surrounded him, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. The memories took him, like they did most nights. He glimpsed faces in the smoke, the images of those he loved, and those who took them from him. His father, lying dead in the street with the other village men and the gloating raiders who had killed them. The first raider he killed—the first man he had ever killed—and the sound of the man’s dying rasp:
May you lose everyone you love to the flames and the Dark Lady take your soul!
The smoke shifted, and newer memories, fresher pain, replaced what had gone before. He saw the corpse-pale face of a
vayash moru
mage, heard his voice offering gold for a simple errand, and shivered, knowing what came next. Flames and death, streets littered with the bodies of his friends and neighbors, and glimpses of the gray-skinned monsters that killed them. He saw Shanna lying in a pool of blood, felt the dead weight as he turned her over in his arms, and in her unfocused eyes, he saw the acknowledgement of the raider’s curse. Then the darkness and the monsters closed in around him, and he fought to free himself...
“Easy now!” Someone caught his wrists in a strong grip, keeping him from landing a punch. Jonmarc struggled to awaken, dragged back toward the nightmares from the potions that dulled the pain.
“Does he wake like this often?” A woman’s voice sounded close at hand. Not his mother. Not Shanna. But someone familiar, maybe even safe.
“More times than you’d want to know,” a man replied. “He’s woken up fighting so many times that he’s thrashed most of the other apprentices before he comes back to himself. That’s why he’s got a tent to himself, with the supplies. No one fancies getting a black eye or bruises just for sharing a tent.” Jonmarc recognized Trent’s voice, and focused on slowing his breathing, letting go of the panic that always remained after the dreams had gone.
“Do you know what he sees in his dreams?” the woman asked, a note of concern in her voice. Ada, Jonmarc thought, grasping the name from his feverish memories.
“I don’t ask, and he won’t say,” Trent said. “Linton might know, but Linton keeps a lot of secrets. Whatever happened must have been pretty bad.”
Ada sighed. “A mind-healer might help, but you won’t find one of those—a real one—outside a palace or one of the big manors.”
“He’s still young,” Trent said. “Time heals a lot of wounds.”
“Unless they’re poisoned,” Ada said. “Poison lingers.”
They might have said more, but the potions pulled Jonmarc back into the darkness. This time, the nightmares stayed at bay, though Jonmarc could sense the dreams were there, beyond the threshold, ready to overwhelm him.
“D
ON
’
T MOVE
.” T
RENT
’
S
voice cut through the fog in Jonmarc’s mind. Jonmarc still felt feverish, but the stabbing pain was gone. It hurt to breathe, as if he had taken in great lungfuls of frigid air, and his whole body felt leaden.
“You’re lucky that Linton hires good healers,” Ada said. “If he didn’t, you’d be dead.”
“Cuts... weren’t that deep,” Jonmarc managed through parched lips.
“Don’t have to be deep when they’re poisoned,” Ada replied.
“Why would they be poisoned?” Jonmarc paused as Trent lifted him up enough to sip water from a cup.
Ada came over to check on Jonmarc’s bandages. He realized that he was lying on a cot, and that daylight glowed from between the boards in the barn’s walls.
“Whatever got you wasn’t natural,” she said, spreading more ointment on his wounds. The mixture smelled like licorice and rotted fruit. Jonmarc caught a glimpse of his skin beneath the ointment, and saw that the gashes were closing into raised, pink scars.
“What do you mean, ‘natural’?”
Ada met his gaze matter-of-factly. “That thing in the darkness, it was magic. A rather nasty piece of work.”
Immediately, Jonmarc thought of the red-robed mage who had hired him to find a cursed talisman, a bargain he had failed to keep, but one that had cost him everything he held dear. That mage was out there somewhere, and likely to be quite unhappy with him.
“Magic?”
Ada nodded. “If it hadn’t been for the poison, I would have accepted the idea that it was a wolf or a cat and that the darkness played a trick on your eyes. But the men have been over the land outside the barn since sunup, and there aren’t any tracks, none at all.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Something tore up your arm with poisoned claws. Linton said you told him that your sword went through it like a shadow. The beast didn’t leave tracks.” She shook her head. “Sounds like magic to me.”