We’ve been so lucky to get an exclusive excerpt from Gail Z. Martin’s The Shadowed Path to share with our readers. The Shadwoed Path is Gail Z. Martin’s new epic fantasy collection of Jonmarc Vahanian short stories from Solaris Books.
“I’m going to take you down.” Jonmarc Vahanian muttered between gritted teeth as he swung his sword. Steel clanged against steel as their blades hit, with a jolt that shuddered down Jonmarc’s arm.
His attacker disengaged and lunged, forcing Jonmarc into a series of desperate parries. One of the blows got inside his guard, slicing down his forearm.
He gave an angry roar and took the offensive, delivering blow after blow that rang out as their swords clashed. He scored a hit on his attacker’s shoulder, only to be driven back with strikes that nearly took him off his feet.
His attacker wheeled into a high kick, and his boot connected hard with Jonmarc’s sword arm, sending his blade flying and numbing his hand beyond use. In the next instant, a sword’s point nicked the underside of Jonmarc’s chin.
“I win.”
Jonmarc’s attacker lowered his sword and let it swing away, laughing. “That was a good run, Jonmarc. You’re getting better.”
Jonmarc swore and shook his numb hand. “Thanks, but I’d be dead by now if you’d meant any of that.”
Karl Steen pushed a lock of dark red hair out of his eyes. “Maybe, maybe not. After all, you weren’t going for the kill, either. It makes a difference, when you know it really matters.” He met Jonmarc’s gaze. “I think you know that.”
Jonmarc looked away. At nearly eighteen years old, he was as tall as Karl, who was ten years his senior. Years of working with blacksmith’s tools had made Jonmarc strong, and the tragedies of the last few years had given him reason to sharpen his sword skills. So far, he had been lucky enough to survive the fights that had come looking for him. But the closer the caravan got to the border with Principality, the less Jonmarc was willing to rely on luck.
“Can you show me how to do that kick?” Jonmarc asked.
Karl chuckled. “It’s called an Eastmark kick for a reason. Eastmark’s got one of the best armies in the Winter Kingdoms. They fight like dimonns, and I think they start training from the time they can walk.”
“I heard they hire a lot of Principality mercs,” Jonmarc said, following Karl over to a stump where a bucket of water and a tin cup awaited them. All around them, the regular bustle of the caravan continued, as the small group of onlookers to their sparring match drifted away.
Karl’s expression darkened. “Oh, they hire plenty of Principality mercs. But never forget—if you’re not of Eastmark, you’re good enough to die for them, but never good enough to promote.”
“Were you a merc?”
Karl looked away. “Yeah. For a while. Not anymore.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Jonmarc. “That’s what you’re planning? Joining up once the caravan gets to the Principality border?”
Jonmarc shrugged. “If they’ll take me. I heard it pays better than signing up for King Bricen’s army.”
Karl finished his water and handed the cup to Jonmarc. “Maybe. ’Course you’ve gotta live long enough to spend it. And your odds of that are much better serving the king.”
“There’s nothing to fight in Margolan except some highwaymen and the raiders near the coast.”
“Exactly,” Karl said, stabbing a finger into Jonmarc’s chest to make his point. “So you get paid to march from here to there and there to here without being attacked. You draw your pay and spend it on ale and wenches in taverns where you’re not likely to be killed before morning.”
“Is that what you’re planning to do?” Jonmarc asked, watching his sparring partner closely. Karl had joined up with the caravan a few weeks before, since the traveling show always needed guards. Jonmarc had been with the show for nearly a year as an apprentice blacksmith, ever since the night everything he loved went up in flames.
***
If you want to see more stories about Jonmarc Vahanian, check out The Chronicles of the Necromancer series and The Fallen Kings Cycle books, as well as the Jonmarc Vahanian Adventures on ebook.
©2016 Gail Z. Martin all rights reserved. No duplication or reprint without written permission.
