by Ty Johnston
Turning, Guthrie found Pindle sticking his head into the chamber, a look of concern on the man’s features.
“My apologies, sir,” Pindle said with a nod toward his leader.
“What is it?” Captain Werner asked.
“A pair of riders, sir,” Pindle said, “they’ve just come in.”
“What do they have to report?” Werner asked.
“Not sure yet, sir,” Pindle said, “but they’re both in bad shape. Look as if they’ve seen recent action.”
The captain glanced to Guthrie then back to Pindle. “Let us see these men,” he said as he strode forward.
The three wasted no time returning to the winter air of the encampment. The captain’s pair of guards still stood their posts outside the tent entrance, but a sizable number of the militiamen were gathered to one side just outside the camp’s perimeter. The group was mobbing around a pair of tired horses, more than a few curses and angry shouts being thrown up by the mob.
Werner gave Guthrie a curious glance of concern, then rushed forward, the sergeant and Pindle in his wake.
“Make way for the captain!” Pindle shouted out as they neared.
The group of militia turned nearly as a whole to stare at their approaching commander, many of their faces ugly with anger but not toward their leader. As commanded, they parted, allowing Werner and Guthrie and Pindle to march through to the horses.
The sight was one Guthrie had witnessed on some few occasions, one he realized was probably to become more familiar to him in the weeks to come. The horses were nearly dead, froth streaming from their noses and mouths as their chests heaved. The sergeant was surprised the poor beasts were still standing. Worse yet, next to one of the animals and leaning against it was a young man in soft leathers who appeared just as tired as the horses. The fellow’s situation was not improved by a blackened left leg, his high boot and pantaloons there having turned nearly to crisped char. Another man lay at his feet, this man slightly older, though it was difficult to tell since half his face had been caved in and covered with blood; if not for the gentle rising and falling of his chest, the downed man would have appeared dead.
Pindle gasped at the sight as his group came to a halt.
Werner pointed to a pair of militiamen, then to the man laying on the ground. “Carry him to a healer, quick.”
The two men did as they were told, rushing forward, one taking the legs and the other gently lifting from behind the top end of the man seriously wounded. They carried away their obviously doomed comrade, the cold eyes of the crowd watching.
Werner’s words were soft as he turned to the youth leaning against the horse. “Amerus, report.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man nodded with a cringe of pain. “The local temple has been hit, sir.”
Gasps and murmurs sprang forth from the crowd. Werner gritted his teeth. Ursia was a nation led by its church. An assault upon a temple was the highest of sacrileges.
“That must be St. Pedrague’s,” Guthrie stated, identifying the church.
“Beneficence will rage about this,” the captain said. “Go on, Amerus.”
“Me and Winchell were riding patrol just as we’re supposed to,” the young man continued, “when we spotted smoke in the distance. We knew the church lay in that direction, so we went hell bent for leather riding there. When we got there, the place was full of fire, top to bottom. We found the bishop and a few other priests just outside the door.”
“Their condition?” Werner asked.
“Dead, sir. All of them.”
“How were they slain?” the captain asked.
“It looked like the fire had done it,” Amerus said, “but it wasn’t a natural fire, sir.”
“Go on,” from the captain.
“There was a wizard there, sir,” Amerus said. “I know he was a wizard because he was dressed in black robes and the like. And then he started throwing around magic spells and such at Winchell and me. Waves of fire rolled forth from the bastard’s fingers, sir, catching my leg before I could turn my steed away. Poor Winchell, he tried to charge the wizard, but some kind of light shot forth from that monster’s hands and struck Winchell right in the face. It was all I could do to grab his horse’s lead and get him out of there. We rode back here as fast as we could.”
“This man was a Dartague?” Werner asked.
“Didn’t look like it, sir,” Amerus said. “He wore no furs and wasn’t all that big. His head was as bald as a melon, sir. I’ve never seen the like before. Never even seen magic before today. Can’t say I wants to see it again.”
Werner looked to Guthrie. “Do you recognize this mage?”
“Never heard of him,” Guthrie admitted.
The captain sighed. “What new hell is this being visited upon us?”
“Maybe he’s working with the Dartague, sir,” Amerus suggested. “He sure seemed intent upon attacking that church. While we were riding away, I looked back and saw he was sending more of his magic at the temple. Fire and lightning and all kinds of hellish stuff.”
Werner looked to Guthrie again. “You know this church?”
“It’s the only temple for miles,” Guthrie said. “Bishop Bowner was in charge. I’ve attended services there for years.”
“Good, you know the way, then.” The captain turned and pointed to another member of the crowd. “You, Phogol, get Amerus to a healer.”
Phogol rushed forward to do as he was told, wrapping an arm around the wounded man’s shoulders and helping him to limp away.
Werner looked to the sergeant once more. “We’ll take a dozen men. Lead us to the church.” It was not a question, but very much a command even though the captain had no official authority over Guthrie.
But Guthrie would not fight the order. “Yes, sir.”
Turning to Pindle, Werner said, “Round up a dozen of our best, and get us horses.”
“Yes, sir.” Pindle ran off to fulfill his orders.
“And somebody put those poor beasts down,” the captain said, nodding to the horses. “The sad things won’t last another hour.”
***
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 di
d 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 and 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.
Chapter 6
Before the three riders stretched a desert of cold white. The harsh music of the burning church soon dissipated upon the wind, its replacement the heavy breathing of the horses and the chuffing sounds of hooves stomping along through the snow.
For some while the mountains lining the horizon seemed to grow no nearer, and Guthrie realized they were several miles from that particular range that separated Ursia and Dartague. Their prey was not so far, then, though still a ways off.
As they grew nearer, it became apparent their target was a single person and he or she was not upon a riding beast but wading through the ankle-deep white powder. Each of the riders glanced down and ahead, but there was no evidence of someone having tracked through on foot.
Guthrie received a slightly different view from the others, one he kept to himself. As he had drawn nearer the distant person, it had become apparent the figure was indeed glowing. More than that, there was a line of weak light stretching from the person back toward the church. This wizard or whomever it was might be able to hide his or her tracks from the sight of the average person, but Guthrie could pick up the trail with the special vision afforded him by the ice witch. Not for the first time, he wondered if what the blue-hued woman had forced upon him was a gift or a curse.
He was soon to find out.
When t
he riders were only a few dozen yards away, the figure in the black cloak spun about. His head was bald but for wisps of dark hair flying about above his ears. His face was haggard and worn like old leather. His hands stretched from his robes like claws, the arms pale and thin as the legs of a stork. Upon his features was a look of rage, but such a vision vanished, replaced by curiosity.
As the riders pulled their steeds to a halt and fingered their crossbows, the dark mage thrust forward a hand, pointing to Guthrie in the middle of the three. “You!”
The sergeant leaned forward in his saddle and stared across the head of his riding beast. The wizard was no one he knew, yet the person seemed to recognize him.
Twang!
From the right. Hammer had launched an arrow, the big man obviously taking no chances, giving the wizard no time to summon a spell. The black dart skated across the distance between the big warrior and the wizard, then snapped in mid-air and crumbled to the ground just before hitting its target.
The wizard tossed back his head and cackled.
Tomlin on Guthrie’s left raised his crossbow and loosed a bolt, the arrow diving true and straight for the dark-robed figure. Again the flying javelin burst apart before striking the mage, turning to splinters and falling to the snow.
Guthrie did not waste his arrow. Instead, he snapped his reins and trotted his beast ahead.
“Sergeant, stay back!” Tomlin yelled, but Guthrie paid him no attention.
The horse fully obeyed its rider at first, but the closer it got to the wizard, the more the animal slowed as if it sensed something unnatural and disturbing. Guthrie could not blame the animal. That now familiar sheen of golden light was blossoming larger and larger as he neared the wizard.
Eventually the horse would go no further, coming to a standstill and snorting a dozen yards from the dark mage. All the while, Guthrie had been expecting an attack, but it had not come. He glanced over his shoulders and found Tomlin and Hammer had not ridden forward but were busy loading arrows into their bows once again.
