by Ty Johnston
“But why?”
“That I do not know, and frankly, I’m not sure I care. I was to be discharged from the army this very day. As soon as I see my commanding officer, I can take off my sword.”
The woman’s eyes grew wide with surprise. “A veteran, then. All the better.”
“I have told you, I will not do your bidding.”
“Perhaps,” the witch said, “but what would you say if I told you it was the Dartague who drove off the villagers?”
Guthrie glanced around at the empty buildings with the broken doors and busted window shutters. “I would say you are wrong. I was here after the Dartague raid. There were a number of villagers dead and many wounded, but they were not ready to run.”
“They would and did when a larger force came upon them from the mountains.”
Guthrie’s face screwed up in confusion. “Witch, do you even know of what you speak? I’ve just returned from hunting the very raiding party that struck here.”
“Yes, and while you were traipsing through the mountains on a fool’s errand, a small army descended here. If not for the snow, you would see the obvious signs of the march.”
“This makes no sense.”
“You were deceived, sergeant, lured into a trap. You and your men. All along the border, for hundreds of miles, there were minor skirmishes and raids. All on the same day at approximately the same time. A dozen or more villages were raided, but not too harshly, not enough to cause the locals to flee nor seek the protection of larger forces. Your own men were only involved because of the nearness of your fortifications to this village. Elsewhere, local sheriffs rounded up small groups of men and went hunting for revenge. Most of them likely have found death, though some few might have been allowed to survive, like yourself.”
“What are you saying?” Guthrie asked, his weapon lowering, nearly forgotten. “Why would the Dartague do this?”
“To lure out small groups of your men, to make sure your villages were left without protectors.”
What she said made some sense. It was an old tactic, but not one familiar to the Dartague. A small force attacks before pulling back, then when hunters are sent out, a larger group of warriors drives in to finish off an unprotected village, all the while an ambush is laid for the hunters themselves. Such strategies had worked in wars of the past. But the Dartague did not fight this way. They were not treacherous.
“I see by the look in your eyes you are still not quite believing,” the witch said.
“It does not seem like something the Dartague would do,” Guthrie said.
“Oh, how little you know of the Dartague.”
“I have lived within their reach for several years now.”
“And you have learned nothing,” the witch said. “You know only what you have seen, what some few prisoners or slaves have told you. All of it lies. All of it meant to lull the senses of you Ursians.”
“Are you saying some kind of major attack has been in the works for years?”
“The Dartague always have plans for an attack against foreign enemies. Always. It is why they fight among themselves so often, to strengthen their arms and their stomachs against the ferocity of war.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I still don’t understand. Why would the Dartague attack here a second time? Why would they lure out the fighting men all along the border?”
“Because they seek annihilation of your kind,” the woman said, adding, “at least along the border, within their own grasp. They have no desire to fight a war all the way to your capital of Mas Ober, but they will no longer tolerate the interference of your priests and your soldiers at the very steps of their homeland.”
“Then ... the villagers here, they fled a second wave of attack?”
She nodded. “Yes, a much larger attack, hundreds of bulky warriors in their furs and carrying their swords and spears.”
“Then where is this Dartague army?”
“They have moved on.”
“To where?”
“To your fort.”
“What?”
“My guess would be by now the Ursian stronghold at the crossroads has already been taken, the soldiers slain and the officers tortured. Some few might have been fortunate enough to escape.”
Guthrie stood up straighter, his voice rising. “When did this happen?”
“Likely within the last day or so,” the ice witch said. “I have been here, waiting for you, so I have not been following the marching Dartague.”
Ignoring any danger the woman might represent, Guthrie turned away from her, facing the cold flatlands once more. He stood there motionless, his eyes staring across the ocean of white to the mountains. If what she said was true, then there would be hundreds, possibly thousands, of his countrymen dead all across northern Ursia. The Dartague plan, as the sergeant understood it, made some sense. The barbarians took out the local men of fighting age without drawing the immediate threat of the army, then once rested and furnished with supplies from the very villages they had assaulted, the Dartague moved in to wage war on the local troops. It was not actually the plan of a genius, but it was more complex than any strategy Guthrie had witnessed from the uncouth barbarians. His mind was already altering, changing how he thought of these men and women who had been his foe for years.
“Do you know the outcome of the battles along the border?” he asked
“No,” she said, “at least not yet. I have my ways of discovering such information, but at the moment I am more concerned with you.”
“Me?”
“I was drawn to you after Ildra allowed you to live.”
“The wyrd woman?”
“Yes, that is her. I have had my sights on her for some time, which is why my gaze fell upon you.”
“What do you have to do with any of this?”
“Little,” the witch said. “I am no friend to the Dartague and, despite your own countrymen’s wrath against my kind, I have never done harm to one of your own.”
Guthrie thrust up his hands. “Then why are we here? Why am I here?”
“You are here because your captain sent you forth to hunt down a small party of raiders,” the woman said, “but the truth is you were played a fool and your Ursia will suffer along with you. You came to this village to seek aid, but instead you find me. I am here because I have been awaiting you. For my safety, the weather is my own doing. Once your stronghold has been taken, the Dartague are more likely to remain there for a few days if there is a storm blowing across the land. I wanted to keep them there long enough for us to meet.”
His shoulders slumping, hope fled from Guthrie’s features. His country attacked, many dead, and him miles from any safe haven. And still he was not out of the army. Most likely he would never be discharged now, not if the witch was right that a major border conflict had now erupted. The sergeant had no hatred for the army, but he had done his ten years and was ready to move on to a more simple, less dangerous life. But now that was not likely to happen.
Still, he did not know what the witch wanted with him. He turned to face her once more, placing his back against the wide expanse of the snow-covered realm.
“Why have you sought me out?” he asked.
She grinned yet again. “Finally we are getting to the heart of the matter.”
“Which is?”
“I have seen the years to come,” the witch said. “I have seen my own fate. My kind live for many of your lifetimes, for thousands of years, but we can be killed. My doom lies within the wyrd woman Ildra.”
“She is to slay you?”
“No, it is her grandson.”
“Her grandson?”
“Yes, he will use a weapon of flame to burn me alive. I have seen this with my ancient sight. It will come true many years from now unless I do something to subvert the future, to change the path of fate.”
Guthrie’s eyes narrowed once more. “If you think I am going to hunt down and kill this woman for you, then you are a fool.”
/> The witch cackled. “You will have no choice in the matter. Your military leaders will not give you a choice. They will make you go forth to kill. It is Ildra who is behind this uprising of the Dartague. The wyrd women play a unique role in the society of the northern tribes, part priestess, part witch, but one who can master true power can rise above her station and take the reins of control, becoming master of even the chieftains themselves, including the High Chief.”
The sergeant nodded. “I won’t disagree with you about my future. When I find a garrison or a marching regiment, I’m sure I’ll be pulled into duty regardless of my years of service. But that would have happened anyway. None of this explains why you have chosen me for your needs.”
“Because you know Ildra by sight, for one thing,” the woman said. “She allowed you to live to spread the message of the Dartague might and wrath, but what she does not know is the situation will be turned upon her. You will deliver a message of death to her.”
“And why should I do this?”
“Because I will present you a gift, one that will allow you to hunt her down. Would you not want to use such to end the hostilities as soon as possible?”
“I might,” Guthrie said, “but I would be a fool to take a present from you.”
One of the witch’s slim hands disappeared within the folds of her thin garb, a moment later showing itself again and stretching out toward the Ursian. Within the palm of that blue hand was a bauble, a gem glinting of gold and light. “It is yours. Take it.”
“I think not.”
“Take it!”
“No.” He turned away from her once more. “I will fight the Dartague again, but I will do so on my own terms, as a man and as a soldier. Most importantly, I will fight as an Ursian, without the help of your ... magic.”
There was a rush of movement behind the sergeant. He swung around, expecting an attack from the angered woman, and swatted out with his mace.
She was too fast for him. Her slender frame sidestepped his blow as easy as a snake sliding away from a stomping boot. Now in front of him, practically on top of him with her height, she thrust out a boney hand, the long fingers wrapping around the soldier’s throat.
Guthrie choked and tried to pull back, but the grip holding him was like that of an iron vice. Not able to retreat, he slashed up with his weapon, hoping his iron-headed club would break her hold on him.
But his blow was weak. There had been little room for a proper swing. The ice witch barely registered as the iron head of his mace glanced across her thin but strong arm.
Then it was he saw her other hand held in a fist against her jaw next to her eyes that bore into him.
“I will not be denied!” she called out.
Her fist struck forward, slamming into his face. The blow was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Guthrie Hackett had seen his share of combat over the years, and he had experienced more than a few brawls, but never had he been struck so hard, not even by men twice the girth of this witch.
His head snapped back and a numbness rolled over him. For a moment he feared his neck broken, but then the woman dropped him, allowing him to fall back onto the snow, and despite the pain now blazing away in his jaw, he was relieved to feel that pain and the cold and damp on his back.
Before he could roll away or prepare to ward off an attack, the witch woman was upon him. She planted her reed-like legs on either side of his chest and sat atop him as if they were lovers. One hand grabbed him by the jaw and tugged, causing him to scream out in pain. Her other hand rushed forward, still a fist. But that fist opened at the last moment before connecting with him and Guthrie felt something cold and hard land on his tongue.
He tried to scream and spit, but the witch shoved up on his jaw, clamping closed his mouth. His mace dropped, his hands flailed away at his opponent, hoping to grab anything, to break anything, to cause her pain, to shove her aside, anything.
A faint warmth rolled over him then and Guthrie felt his head go light. His fingers continued to claw at the woman, but they did no good and were only growing weaker. He felt the strength flooding from his body, draining away like water in a sieve. His fighting arms soon lost all their strength and fell atop his chest. The witch withdrew her hands and sat there watching him.
Guthrie groaned, then darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.
“When you awake, you will be a different man,” the woman said, “and your destiny will have altered forever.”
She had other words, many words, but they were lost to the sergeant. The darkness swamped him and his eyes fluttered closed. He knew no more for some while.
Chapter 3
“You think he’s alive?”
Guthrie bolted upright into a sitting position, his lungs gasping for air, his vision swimming. He shook as if fevered, a chill running along his body. What had happened? The witch had forced him to the ground, then thrust something into his mouth. After that ... he was not sure. Darkness. Dreams of wading through a black pool. No. Yes. Maybe. He did not know.
What he did know, however, was that someone had spoken and those words had broken the spell under which he had lain. As he eyes began to focus, he could make out a dim room, light filtering through a window in which the shutters had been pulled from the wall. Leaning in front of him was a ragged-looking fellow, a man in wool leggings and a heavy coat of wolf fur. The stranger’s nose was hooked, his face marked with pocks of some long ago illness, yet there seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes.
Guthrie sensed other figures in the room, and soon enough he could make out two more men, burly fellows in fur wrappings, swords at their waists.
One of those chuckled. “It would seem he lives, Pindle.”
The man leaning forward, his face not far from Guthrie’s own, stood straight with his hands on his hips. “It’s a miracle he didn’t freeze to death.”
Glancing down at himself, Guthrie found he was still garbed and his weapons were on his belt. He was sitting on a ramshackle bed, a covering of some kind of gray pelts now bunched together at his knees, obviously having fallen from him when he had lifted up. He glanced around again and realized he was still in Herkaig, nestled away in one of the stone houses.
“Who are you?” Guthrie felt his throat was dry as he croaked out the words.
The two men with swords chuckled together.
The fellow in front of the sergeant grinned. “My name is Pindle. These other two are Sagurd and Roranth. I’m guessing you’re a survivor from the stronghold, from the looks of you one of the soldiers.”
Guthrie shook his head as if to clear away the last of the cobwebs in his thoughts. “No. Yes. I mean, not exactly. I was not there during the attack.”
Pindle looked to the others, then back to Guthrie. “Then how do you know there was an attack? Were you there afterward?”
“It is a rather complicated story.” Guthrie rolled to one side, planting his feet on the floor but remaining seated for the moment. “My thanks for your tending to me.”
“We didn’t do anything,” one of the swordsman said, “just found you here. Surprised you’re alive, to be honest.”
Guthrie ran his gloved fingers through his hair to brush back the dark locks from above his eyes. He felt around behind him and discovered his helmet had been removed from his back, the steel object now resting near the head of the bed. Retrieving the salet helm, he snapped it atop his head and tied its straps beneath his chin. “How long since the keep was attacked?”
Pindle looked to the others again, confusion clear on his face. “Three days ago. Why?”
The sergeant cursed.
“What is it?” a swordsman asked.
Guthrie pushed himself off the bed until he was standing, swaying on his booted feet before steadying himself. “I’ve been out for at least those three days, maybe longer.”
“This is a story we’d like to hear,” a swordsman said.
Now on his feet, Guthrie ignored the last speaker’s prodding f
or the moment and took in a better look at the three in the chamber with him. The door to the hovel was open and he could spy movement out there, men rushing back and forth. The sound of work came to his ears, men hammering and moving about, talking, orders being yelled. Looking at his new companions again, Guthrie noted they wore not uniforms nor bore official sigils or colors of any kind.
“Militia?” he asked.
Pindle nodded. “Yes, sir. We came up from further south after word reached us about the Dartague.”
“My thanks again, Pindle,” Guthrie said, then nodded to the others, “and to you Sagurd and Roranth.”
“What be your name?” one of the two asked.
“Guthrie. Guthrie Hackett.”
“You wear a soldier’s cloak,” Pindle said.
Guthrie nodded. “I’m a sergeant with His Holiness’ army.”
“Then why weren’t you at the stronghold when it was hit?” a swordsman asked.
“Sagurd?” Guthrie said to the man.
“No, I’m Roranth,” the fellow said.
Guthrie nodded again. “I was sent with a squad into Dartague before the attack occurred. This village was struck by a raid, and we were to exact His Holiness’ vengeance.”
“Where’s the rest of your squad?” Roranth asked.
“Dead,” Guthrie said. “All of them. The Dartague only let me survive because they wanted someone to tell the tale.”
The two swordsmen clucked at the misfortune.
“Seems it’s not a good week for the army,” Sagurd said.
“Were there any survivors from the keep?” Guthrie asked.
“Few,” Pindle said. “Some of the servants managed to run away before the worst of the fighting.”
“What about the soldiers?”
“A couple,” Pindle said. “Both men are in bad shape. They were left for dead, but somehow they lived through it.”
“Their names?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Pindle said. “Our captain likely does, or we can point you to the hospitalers. They’d know.”
“Where are these two men now?” Guthrie asked.
Pindle jabbed a thumb toward the door. “One of the larger buildings on the edge of town has been taken for use as a shelter.”
