The Shadowed Path by Gail Z. Martin Page B

along with the child he would never know, and rocked back and forth, utterly lost.
    May you lose all you love to the flame and sword, and the Dark Lady take your soul! The dying raider’s curse echoed in Jonmarc’s mind.
    Sweet Mother and Childe , Jonmarc beseeched Margolan’s patron aspects of the Lady, you’ve taken everything from me. Why not take me, too?
    No reply was forthcoming, and Jonmarc felt the coldness saturate his being, numbing his fear, pain, and grief. He lifted Shanna and the baby in his arms and placed them on the bed, spreading the coverlet over them and closing their eyes. I can’t just leave them here for the scavengers , he thought, swallowing down the lump that threatened to close his throat.
    Jonmarc retrieved his swords and cloak, and laid them outside the shop, grabbing a lantern and fresh candles, and the small bag of coins Elly kept in a chest under the bed. He threw the coins into a sack along with his clothing, and then tucked a small scrimshaw comb, Shanna’s prized possession, into the bag as well and put the sack with his sword. Then he moved around the hedge witch’s shop, using herbs and powders and a bit of water for a salve to cleanse the gash on his face and neck. The wound had clotted, but it hurt like a hot poker, and Jonmarc wondered if the beasts’ claws were poisoned. If so, then I’ll join Shanna and the others before long.
    He went to the front and returned with Elly’s corpse, laying it on the floor beside the bed. Time and again he went into the street, bringing back as many of the bodies as he could until the back room and shop were stacked shoulder to shoulder with the bodies of his neighbors. Always, he was alert for a sign that the creatures had returned, but the night was utterly still.
    When the small rooms would hold no more, Jonmarc took one of his remaining torches and lit it from the embers in the fireplace. He took a last look around himself, and once more murmured the prayer for the dead before he moved through the rooms, setting the building on fire.
    Jonmarc stood in the street, watching the building burn as tears streamed down his cheeks. Despair urged him to hurl himself onto the pyre, but a shred of self-preservation held him back. His skin felt hot from the blaze, except for where the talisman hung on his chest. Somehow, this damned amulet and Foor Arontala are responsible for this , he thought. He said he’d be back on the third night. Probably to finish me off if the creatures didn’t do it for him.
    The sky lightened with the dawn, and Jonmarc turned to look at the cliffs. I never should have taken the amulet from the caves. I’d best send it back to the pit where it belongs.
    Jonmarc gathered his meager belongings and headed toward the cliffs. His body ached and he was bone weary, but the conviction that he had to rid himself of the talisman grew with every painful step. He was reckless climbing the narrow ledges, no longer caring for his own safety, tempting the Formless One to take him. The rocks scraped and cut his hands, leaving a bloody trail. He felt nothing but cold, inside and out. Sheer resolve kept him moving. If I survive, someday, somehow I will find that mage and make him pay, Jonmarc thought.
    He reached the mouth of the cave as the dawn brightened to full daylight. From the ledge, he could see the smoke still rising from the ruins of Ebbetshire. Jonmarc tore the amulet’s strap over his head and flung the cold silver as deep into the cave as his rage gave him strength to hurl it. There was no way he was going to make the dangerous trek to the deep places; something warned him that this time, he would not escape the shadows. Ridding himself of the talisman would not bring back the dead, nor would it absolve him of his guilt over drawing the monsters to the village. But if it would cheat Arontala of his prize, it gave him a measure of cold consolation.
    He sat for a few moments on the ledge. The same despair that had tempted him to