Contents

  Title Page

  Stormgard

  More from Gail Z. Martin

  About the Author

  Stormgard

  A Jonmarc Vahanian Adventure

  by Gail Z. Martin

  ISBN: 978-1-939704-12-2

  © 2013 Gail Z. Martin. All rights reserved. This story may not be retransmitted, posted or reused in any way without the written permission of the author.

  “Keep your wits about you,” Maynard Linton warned. “There will be pickpockets at the market.”

  The two wagons bumped and rattled their way toward Kerrton, the nearest town that might offer fresh supplies for Linton’s traveling caravan of wonders. Their wheels sent clouds of dust into the air on the dry, rutted road, leaving grit on everything. In a futile effort, Linton brushed the dirt from the sleeves of his shirt

  “Just remember: Strength counts in fistfights, but thieves use knives.” Linton said, glancing at his companions.

  Maynard Linton was a short, stocky man in his early thirties, his skin turned a coppery tan from a life lived outdoors. He had shrewd eyes and a quick wit, and while he was ferociously protective of the caravan’s crew, his ethics in other areas could be rather flexible. Linton was the shortest of the four men who had set off for Kerrton, and while he could hold his own in a fight, he had neither the height nor the brawn of the three men who accompanied him.

  From his seat in the second wagon, Jonmarc Vahanian glanced at his companions. Trent, the caravan’s head blacksmith, had broad shoulders and powerful arms from a lifetime in the forge. Corbin, the fourth member of their group, was the lead farrier, and the daily work of wrestling uncooperative draft horses into being shod had given him both strength and speed.

  Although Jonmarc was not yet eighteen, he was on his way to a similar build, having worked in the forge for several smiths from the time he could carry the iron bars. Jonmarc was Trent’s apprentice, and on this outing, was quite sure he’d been brought along for extra hands and a sturdy back. There was likely to be a lot of loading involved.

  “We should be done loading supplies by the noon bells. By the time we get back to the caravan, things should be pretty well set up.” Trent said. He flicked the reins, directing the wagon horse to turn left.

  “I’ve got a bit of business to transact. While you, Corbin, and Jonmarc load the supplies, I'll go see to that and meet you at the brewery.” Linton replied.

  Usually, Linton preferred flamboyant colors and elaborate fabrics that suited his role as grand master of one of the largest caravans in the Winter Kingdoms. Today, he had chosen muted colors in brown and black; for Linton it was a fairly somber outfit. On the other hand, the dust didn’t show as badly with Linton’s outfit as it might on his usual choice of silks or brocade.

  “You and Jonmarc can get started,” Corbin directed as the wagons drew up to the Pheasant and Quail, the only brewery within a league of Kerrton. “I’ll see to loading the barrels of ale.” He grinned. “And if you take too long, I may see to drinking some of it, too.”

  Jonmarc and Trent stayed in the driver’s bench of the second wagon. “We’ll head over to the market,” Trent said, twitching the reins once more to move their horse along, farther down the road toward the heart of the village. “The head cook gave me a list of provisions he’ll need to keep the caravan fed for the next week, and Maynard told me to be on the lookout for any good pottery, wood carving or jewelry the artisans might be able to resell.”

  Maynard Linton ran one of Margolan’s many traveling caravans. The motley assemblage of acrobats, dancers, artisans, craftspeople, workers, musicians, and roustabouts was part freak show, part entertainment, and part merchant faire. With Linton as caravan master and impresario extraordinaire, the caravan had made a name for itself as it traveled the length and breadth of Margolan and its neighboring kingdoms.

  “What's up there?” Jonmarc asked, nodding his head toward the hillside above Kerrton. Thick walls of white stone ran across the crest of the hill, with rounded turrets at intervals along the wall, and crenellations along the length. The walls flared out at the bottom, the better to keep potential invaders from easily scaling them with ladders. Whoever had built that fort had obviously expected trouble.

  “That's Stormgard,” Trent replied with barely a glance. “It was built as an outpost back when this part of Margolan was considered to be the wilderness. There are tales about the battles fought there and the marauders turned away, but it’s been decades since there’s been any fighting in these parts. King Bricen tries to keep it that way.”

  Stormgard seemed to loom over the small farming town. The massive walls and tall towers might make the townsfolk feel protected, but something about its hulking size silhouetted against the sky made Jonmarc feel watched.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Trent said to Jonmarc as they jostled along the rutted road.

  “You expect trouble?”

  Trent shrugged. “No reason to, but Maynard seems a little jumpy. He said a messenger came to the caravan last night when we made camp and invited him to meet the head of the merchants’ guild.” He grimaced.

  “Those kinds of meetings can go sour pretty quickly,” he added. “On occasion, the merchants want to sell their wares to the caravan. But more likely than not, they don’t like having competition, even if it’s only for a week or two, and they do their best to get the caravan run out of town.”

  “My money’s on Maynard,” Jonmarc said.

  The market bustled with activity as they rode up. Trent pulled the wagon up to a hitching rail, and Jonmarc jumped down to tie the horse’s reins to the post. Stalls and carts lined the village square, filled with fresh vegetables and fruits. Under the shade of a portable awning, a butcher had set up his wagon. Freshly slaughtered geese, sheep, calves, and pigs hung from the side of his cart.

  Across the way, a spice merchant offered her wares. Dozens of baskets overflowed with fragrant seasonings from every corner of the Winter Kingdoms. Flower vendors set out cut blooms in a patchwork of colors, while further down the row, a fishmonger spilled out a basket of his fresh catch onto a table for shoppers to examine.

  Jonmarc was a few inches taller than Trent, and about ten to fifteen years younger. The wind picked up, and Jonmarc pushed a lock of shoulder-length chestnut brown hair out of his brown eyes. Often, he wore his hair tied back in a queue, but today, among strangers, he let it fall loose, the better to hide the scar that ran from his left ear down below his collar, the reminder of a battle that had cost him his family.

  “Keep a hand on your money. Maynard’s right: The market’s the best spot for thieves,” Trent warned in a low voice. “And that includes the vendors. Make sure you count your change.”

  So many people jostled through the crowded, narrow walkways that it would be impossible to tell whether the collision was intentional or accidental. Jonmarc wasn’t too worried. Trent carried the bag of silver for the provisions. Jonmarc’s small stash of silver from his wages was hidden at the forge. He had brought a few coppers to buy some candied fruit, a bit of bread, meat and cheese for lunch, and some ale at the end of the day.

  Jonmarc drew a deep breath, taking in the jumble of colors, the mix of aromas and the babble of accents. The caravan had traveled halfway across Margolan from his home in the Borderlands and the forsaken remains of the village where he had buried his loved ones. Every stop on the caravan's journey was a new set of smells, tastes, and sights—and far too often, dangers.

  Trent had begun bargaining with one of the wood-carvers in the marketplace. “Two pieces of silver for these items,” he said, gesturing to the majority of what the carver had laid out on a blanket for sale.

  “You wound me!” the wood-carver cried, dramatically clutching at his heart. “Two silver coins for my life’s work? I’ve poured my blood and sweat into these pieces!”

  Trent leveled his gaze at the man. “Oh? Then how is it I saw four more bags of the same pieces behind the fishmonger’s stall?”

  “You do not appreciate what it takes to create these pieces,” the carver protested. “Two silver coins! My family would starve if I took your offer.”

  Trent rolled his eyes. Jonmarc had seen him negotiate these bargains before, and the blacksmith usually came out ahead, although the process could be lengthy.

  “Three coins, but I get the rest of what’s displayed,” Trent said, his eyes narrowing shrewdly.

  “I should report you to the constable! What you want is theft!” The woodcarver was giving quite an impassioned performance, but it seemed to Jonmarc that both he and Trent were actually enjoying the process of coming to an agreement.

  Knowing from experience that the bargaining could last for half a candlemark or more, Jonmarc wandered a few steps away to the next stalls. One vendor offered skeins of yarns died in a variety of hues. The next called out to passers-by to look at her selection of woven shawls and scarves.

  Jonmarc paused at the spice trader’s stall. His late wife’s mother had been a hedge witch and a healer, and her home had smelled of dried flowers and medicinal herbs. Jonmarc let himself take a deep breath, savoring the familiar scents, as the old sadness coursed over him.

  A glimpse of someone familiar in the crowd roused Jonmarc from his thoughts. He caught sight of the top of a head of greasy blond hair, and while he could not see the man’s face, the gait reminded him of someone he had no desire to see.

  “Trent—”

  Trent flicked his hand from his side to indicate that he did not want to be bothered. Jonmarc frowned, and turned to see if he could catch another look at the man he had seen.

  The crowd around him ebbed and flowed like the tide. Market-goers bunched together in a knot, then spread apart, offering a better view of the square further down the aisle between vendors.

  Jonmarc spotted the blond man again. This time, he got a look at the squat figure and rounded shoulders, the pock-marked face and the flattened nose. There was no mistaking it. That had to be Chessis. And if so, then Jonmarc knew they had a big problem.

  Chessis was a bounty hunter.

  Jonmarc retraced his steps to where Trent was still arguing with the wood carver. Although their conversation had gained volume, it appeared that Trent was winning concessions, though the carver had gotten the price raised by another coin.

  We could be here all day, Jonmarc thought. He shot another glance in Chessis’ direction.

  “Trent, I’m going to walk down the row,” Jonmarc said.

  “Don’t go far. We need to load the wagon,” Trent replied, distracted, and returned immediately to his bargaining.

  It was clear that Jonmarc was not going to pry Trent loose when he was so close to achieving victory, but by then, Chessis would be lost in the market day crowds. Jonmarc worked his way through the press of people, glad he stood taller than many of the market-goers so that he could glimpse Chessis through the crowd.

  The last time Jonmarc had seen Chessis, the circumstances had cost a good friend his life. Jonmarc had not forgotten that, nor had he—or Trent—forgiven Chessis and his partners Vakkis and Tarren for Conall’s murder.

  Chessis was just ahead in the crowd. Jonmarc had no desire to confront the bounty hunter, but he itched to see what the greasy little man was up to. By now, Chessis, Tarren, and Vakkis were probably tracking down another quarry, on their way to creating someone else’s tragedy. It was likely none of Jonmarc’s business, he knew. But still, he couldn't shake the feeling that it would be prudent to know just what Chessis was doing.

  A hand came down heavy on his shoulder. Jonmarc jumped and pivoted, expecting to have somehow drawn the eye of the local guard. Instead, Trent gave him a questioning look.

  “Where are you going? I’m going to need you to help me load what I buy at the market.”

  “I saw Chessis,” Jonmarc said, trying to pitch his voice so that no one else would hear. At Trent’s momentary confusion, Jonmarc added, “The bounty hunter. One of the men who killed Conall.”

  The look in Trent’s eyes grew hard. “Where?”

  Jonmarc nodded toward the lower end of the market. “I caught a glimpse of him a few moments ago, but you were busy. I didn't think I should let him out of my sight until we’re sure he isn't looking for someone in the caravan.”

  Trent seemed to debate the idea for a moment, then nodded. “Agreed. Follow him for a little bit, but don’t go too far, and don’t let him see you. Come right back and let me know what you find out. I’ve got a few more vendors to haggle with.”

  Jonmarc nodded and was about to set off when Trent’s hand caught his shoulder once more.

  “Be careful, Jonmarc. Chessis and his friends are killers. They won’t have forgotten that you, Corbin, and I tried to keep Conall from them. And Vakkis will be sure to remember the crease your knife blade put in his face.” Trent’s expression was somber. “If they catch you unawares, they’ll kill you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Jonmarc replied. He headed off down the crowded aisle, dodging between shoppers, anxious to catch sight once more of Chessis.

  It had been a few months since the bounty hunters had come to the caravan, hunting a man who had done them no harm. Memories of that night still haunted Jonmarc’s dreams, which were already disquieted. He could still remember the look on Conall’s face as he fell, still remember the blood pooling under his friend’s body, and the triumphant—gloating—looks on the faces of the bounty hunters as the dead man’s widow wailed and his child screamed.

  Jonmarc shook off the memories. Trent was right: Chessis was dangerous, and if Jonmarc was going to shadow him, then he needed to approach it the way he would if he were hunting a wild animal. He would need all the skill he had gained from his recent sword training with Trent and the other military men in the caravan who had an inclination to teach him what they knew. It was more training than he had before, but still far less than what he would likely need to hold his own against professional killers.

  All around Jonmarc, shoppers talked with friends and familiar vendors, jostled for position to buy the best and freshest items, and browsed the market’s treasures, oblivious to the danger. But Jonmarc doubted that Chessis had come for provisions. The furtive way the man moved through the throng proved that he had more on his mind than finding some fresh fish or a good-luck talisman from the seer hawking her amulets on the thoroughfare.

  No, Jonmarc thought. Chessis was looking for someone. And the odds were good that if Chessis was seeking a specific person, that man had a bounty on his head—whether he knew it or not.

  Jonmarc had lost sight of Chessis for a few moments as the crowd surged. Chessis was short, making it easy for him to disappear in the press of bodies. But Jonmarc was tall, and his height gave him the advantage, enabling him to catch another glimpse of the bounty hunter’s greasy yellow hair.

  Unwilling to lose his quarry, Jonmarc jostled and pushed his way clear of the crowd, paying no attention to the annoyed comments and curses that greeted his progress.

  Chessis had reached the far end of the market square. On one side of the courtyard, a trio of minstrels played for the crowd with a hat set out to collect a coin or two from grateful listeners. On the other side, a man had set up a cook fire in a large iron cauldron mounted on a metal wagon and was simmering a kettle of soup over the coals. Patrons were lined up, cups at the ready. The soup smelled of cabbage and pork, with an undertone of something that reminded Jonmarc of the odor of wash water.

  Just as Chessis dodged around a corner into a narrow lane between buildings, Jonmarc caught a glimpse of him. He sprinted through an open space to get closer, but not so close that the bounty hunter might realize that for once, he was the pursued instead of the pursuer.

  Jonmarc cast a backward glance toward the bustle of the marketplace. Here in the crowd, he was relatively safe. He might lose his wallet to a cutpurse, but it was unlikely that Chessis would murder him in front of so many people. Jonmarc had lost track of which lord ruled the area in which he found himself, but few if any of the lords of Margolan permitted murder to go unpunished—at least, when committed with a crowd of witnesses.

  In the winding streets of Kerrton, however, the rules were likely to be different. Jonmarc moved forward, into the alley, making sure to stay far enough behind Chessis that the bounty hunter would not hear his steps and turn around.

  Even the alleys thronged with people. Jonmarc smiled grimly. It was in his favor that the market crowds hustled through the narrow alleys. Most were laden with packages, either taking their purchases back home or bringing wares to sell. Here and there, food vendors hawked their offerings from small tables that further constricted the passageway. Men and women stood in the shallow recesses of doorways, offering jewelry, perfumes, and in some cases, more ‘personal’ services for sale.

  Jonmarc bustled past the vendors, paying no heed to their offers. He sidestepped puddles and tried not to gag on the smell from the press of unwashed bodies, or the gutter that stank of emptied chamber pots. Chessis seemed to know where he was going, but Jonmarc made mental note of the names of the streets and the turns he took so he could find his way back to the marketplace. Chessis was likely to lead him to an unsavory part of town, and Jonmarc wanted to be able to make a quick escape.

  The sheath that held his long knife slapped comfortingly against his leg as he moved through the crowd. It might have drawn attention to wear a sword, and neither Jonmarc nor the other men had any desire to raise suspicion among the town guards. But most freemen carried knives, and while Jonmarc’s was well-forged, nothing about the sheath or the grip looked remarkable. A small dirk in his boot was strapped to his calf. Now, on the track of a killer, having the knives close at hand gave Jonmarc a measure of reassurance.

 

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