by Ty Johnston
***
The place was little more than rubble by the time the riders got to it. They had watched the smoke from a distance rising up to the heavens like a dying snake curling in upon itself, but the actual sight of the temple’s destruction was enough to shake all of their nerves. Not all were the most devout worshipers of Ashal, but each had spent his life under the church’s thrall and more than respected it.
“Damn this wizard,” Werner muttered from horseback.
Guthrie glanced aside at the captain. The man’s feelings were understandable. It was unthought of to attack a church and bring harm to the priesthood, the dead robed figures now piled before what had been the entrance to the main building. The temple before them was toppled, but at one point had held a spiraling tower, which Guthrie remembered. It had not been the largest of churches, the region being remote and the local populace not overly large, but still it had served its purposes in tending to those needing physical and spiritual aid, and in spreading the word of Ashal. Now there was nothing here but ashes and broken stone. The fire had burned down to little more than a heated glow, but the smoke continued to wind its way up the bright sky, a field of white stretching beyond in all directions, the local road that brought mendicants and adorers to the temple now covered with snow.
The sergeant shifted his gaze to stare over the destruction and the dead. He had known this place, these men. Guthrie was not a questioning man, nor did he consider himself a strong worshiper, but still, this was his church, not only this particular location but the church in a broader scope. He had been brought up believing in the God Who Had Walked Among Men, the Holy Ashal who had given his life at the end of a noose as an example to all and as the savior of all. Guthrie had never bothered with the hate some held against those who did not believe, but he could feel it niggling away at the back of his thoughts. This before him, it was heresy, sacrilege of the worst sort. You did not attack a man’s religion. It was beyond wrong.
More surprising to Guthrie than the destruction, however, was the faint golden flow that flickered among the dying flames and embers. There was magic here. Whatever the ice witch had done to him still held. To him there was evidence enough magic had been involved in this temple’s doom.
Werner slipped out of his saddle and landed on the cold, hard ground. “No sign of this wizard.”
“No, sir,” Pindle said as he, too, dropped from his saddle to join his commander.
Werner looked to the man. “Get three men and begin the burials.”
“Yes, sir.” Pindle pointed at three riders who climbed down from their steeds. Soon wooden shovels were retrieved from a small barn off to one side, the building miraculously not destroyed. Digging work then began off to one side next to the flattened remains of what had once been the bishop’s house, the slate roof now laying shattered upon the fallen timber of the structure.
As Guthrie dropped to the ground, the captain came over to him. “I see no signs of marching warriors,” Werner said, motioning toward the landscape.
Guthrie glanced about. “Ours is the only sign of a sizable group.”
“Makes me think there were no Dartague here,” Werner said.
“That complies with what your man Amerus told us,” Guthrie said.
“It makes me wonder.”
“What?” Guthrie asked.
“Is this wizard working with the Dartague?” Werner asked. “Or did he simply use the invasion as an opportunity to spread a little vengeance against the church?”
The sergeant shrugged. There was no simple way to answer such questions. Either or both of Werner’s suppositions could be true to some extent or another. The church did not stand for magic, stamping it out in the most brutal fashions whenever magic was found. Because of this, wizards and their like held no love for the church. It was generally believed there were not many magic users within the lands of Ursia, but it was also not unheard of for some minor mage to be hidden away somewhere, much like Tack’s former master. Also, foreign wizards and witches sometimes snooped their way into Ursia for one reason or other, their fate sealed if discovered. The church’s influence spread far, thousands of miles in all directions, and it was not unheard of for those using magic to be pulled from beyond the borders to suffer at the hands of Ursians. This, Guthrie realized, was one of the chief complaints of the Dartague. For decades the Ashalic church had been reaching into Dartague, seeking converts and finding some few, and every now and then taking away one of the skalds or weird women. The fate of such captured individuals was certain. If not actually captured by members of the Order of the Gauntlet themselves, the users of magic would be slain or be turned over directly to the Order. Some few mages received life imprisonment, these usually only students such as poor Tack, but most faced death.
“I sense not Dartague involvement here,” Guthrie finally said. “It just doesn’t feel like something in which they would be involved.”
“I agree,” Werner said. “Dartague would ride up in a large group. Only if they couldn’t batter their way in would they turn to magic.”
“But where has this wizard gone?” Guthrie asked.
“Good question.” Werner turned to face one of his men still on horseback. “Towlin, I want you and Hammer riding at a mile perimeter around us. Any sign of anything, you get back here on the double. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” The man called Towlin slapped another fellow on the shoulder and soon they were galloping off from their comrades and the church’s remains.
They did not go far.
“Captain!” Towlin shouted out less than fifty yards away.
Every head turned toward the shouting rider and his companion.
“What is it, Towlin?” Werner hollered out.
The rider pointed, as did Hammer at his side.
The captain’s gaze followed the fingers, as did the eyes of the sergeant and the rest of the men.
Far away on the horizon there was movement beneath the shadows of the mountains. It must have been at least a mile away, perhaps a little further.
“Anyone make it out?” Werner called.
There were several shakes of the head, then Towlin piped up. “I think it’s a solitary person, captain. Can’t tell if they’re on horseback or not.”
“Think it’s our wizard?” Guthrie asked at the captain’s side. The sergeant could tell little with the distance, but for a moment he thought he had seen a sheen of light about the distant figure. If so, did that mean the person ahead was a user of magic?
“Only one way to find out.” Werner pulled himself back in his saddle. Guthrie did the same on his own steed.
“Perhaps you should remain here,” Guthrie suggested to the captain.
Werner glared at the man.
The sergeant lifted a hand as if to ward off any hard feelings. “Near as I can tell, you’re the only leader these men really have. I wouldn’t want to think of what happens to the militia here if something should happen to you.”
Werner’s stern gaze softened and he glanced to the ground in shame at his attitude of a moment earlier. “I suppose you are right.”
“I’ll ride out with Towlin and Hammer, if it pleases you,” Guthrie said.
“Aye, very well.” Werner slapped the sergeant on the back. “You return, though. I’ll need you in the coming days.”
Guthrie nodded, then spurred his horse forward. The animal carried him ahead of the main pack to where Towlin and Hammer stood in their stirrups trying to get a better view along the horizon.
“Can you tell anything yet?” the sergeant asked as he rode up.
“Not yet,” Towlin said, easing back down in his saddle.
Guthrie gestured toward their distant target. “I’ll ride point. You two flank me, but not too close. If this is our mage, we don’t want to give him a big, easy target. You two got bows?”
Hammer grinned as he lifted a large crossbow in his hands. Towlin did much the same on the other side.
Guthrie looked down an
d saw a similar weapon strapped to the side of his riding beast. Reaching down, he untied the crossbow and cradled it in his arms while retrieving a short arrow from a small leather quiver behind his right leg. “No time like the present,” he said, arming his bow and kneeing his animal ahead.
As planned, the other two riders rode out to the sergeant’s sides, Towlin on the left and Hammer on the right. Behind them, the remnants of the church continued to crackle and snap as the fire began its slow death. Werner and the other militiamen watched in silence, more than a few of them preparing their own bows.
