The Shadowed Path by Gail Z. Martin Read Free Book Online

had they been inclined to retreat.
    The same coldness Jonmarc felt on the night of the attack in Lunsbetter settled over him once more. It quelled his fear, hardened his heart against the cries of dying men, and narrowed his focus. Without distractions, nothing existed except the sword in his hand. Jonmarc had no illusions about his skill with a sword. He fought on sheer instinct, fueled by rage and grief, hungry for vengeance. What he lacked in technique he made up for with an unpredictability that got him inside the guard of more than one raider. Blood soaked his shirt, his own blood and that of the raiders he killed.
    “You should have stayed dead.” Whiskey Voice seemed to rise out of nowhere from the torch smoke, his blade glinting in the firelight. “I’ve already killed you once.”
    Moving before Jonmarc could react, Whiskey Voice struck, stabbing deep into Tucker’s side. Tucker gasped and swung his iron bar in a wide arc, connecting with Whiskey Voice’s shoulder hard enough that Jonmarc could hear bones snap.
    Jonmarc saw his chance in the instant before the raider could free his sword. He brought both his blades down in a ‘V’, striking with all his might, feeling his sword slice through bone and sinew and muscle. For a split second, Whiskey Voice stared at him in astonishment before his severed head toppled from his shoulders and his body landed with a wet thump at Jonmarc’s feet.
    When he looked up, the beach had cleared. Of the men still standing, none were raiders. The butcher and his sons moved among the dead, dispatching the fallen attackers with cold efficiency. Shadows moved at the edge of the forest and Jonmarc tensed, raising his bloodied swords for another onslaught before he recognized the uniforms of the soldiers from the garrison.
    “There’ll be no reinforcements coming this way,” proclaimed a man wearing the insignia of a captain in the royal army as he strode toward Kell. His uniform was spattered with blood, but he appeared to be unharmed.
    “The bulk of the raiders landed on either side, planning to cut behind you,” the captain went on as he surveyed the bodies that littered the beach. “While this group kept you distracted, the others would have had the village in their hands before you could do anything about it.”
    Distracted, Jonmarc thought, eying the dead men on the ground. That’s one word for it.
    “Thanks for your assistance, Captain Duncan,” Kell said as the soldiers gathered behind their commander. “I wasn’t sure, when we sent the runner to the garrison, whether you’d be willing to bother with a village like Ebbetshire.”
    The captain spared him a weary grin. “I dare say the king will be happy to hear that at least one pack of raiders has been dealt with.” He looked toward the water, where several teams of soldiers were rowing the raiders’ landing boats back toward the sailing ship. “When my men are done with whoever’s on board,” he said, “we’ll steer her into open water and burn her down to the waterline. That should give fair warning to anyone else who thinks to prey on the coast.”
    Kell and the captain moved away, concluding their business. Jonmarc looked down at the crimson-stained swords in his hands and the wide-eyed visage of Whiskey Voice’s severed head. He had lost track of the raiders he had killed, and his father’s voice rang in his memory.
    Will it count against me, I wonder, when the Crone reckons my fate?
    Tucker’s heavy bear-paw of a hand landed on his shoulder. “You did well tonight, m’boy.”
    “I got lucky.”
    “Maybe the goddess likes you,” Tucker replied. “We’ve had the favor of the Lady tonight, that’s sure.”
    Jonmarc thought of the raider who had cursed him with his dying words, and of his father, who feared the judgment of the Crone. I’m in too far to turn back now, he thought, looking down at his bloody hands. He raised his face to meet Tucker’s gaze.
    “If the raiders come again, I