by Ty Johnston
But the fight did not come. At least not yet.
It was as if the Dartague stood in awe of the Ursian who had screamed his way through melee, hacking away and slaying at least a half dozen men while receiving no serious wounds himself.
Guthrie glanced about himself at the carnage he had wrought. His mind and body filled with a growing tiredness, he could not remember exactly how many he had killed nor how he had done so. At least six lay dead in his general vicinity, broken bodies and blood spread out around him, his boots planted up to the ankles in crimson snow as he stood facing the ravine and his enemies.
He leaned back his head, sucking in air and breathing out mist while sheathing his dagger. Giving himself precious moments of rest for the onrushing assault, which he was sure to come.
But only one man stepped forward.
The fellow came from far to Guthrie’s right, down where the copse of trees ended and white ground rested beyond. This barbarian was tall and well built, much like many of the Dartague, but about him was a princely aura, his chin back and his head held high as if he knew himself to be better, stronger, more powerful and of more import than other men. Yet there was nothing snobbish in the fellow’s affectations. He had a role to perform and would fill it. Guthrie had to admit the Dartague did a solid job at this, presenting a haughty but excellent opponent in his almost regal, flowing robe of wolf furs hanging beneath his jutting chin covered with dark hair hanging to his chest. The sword the fellow held was large enough for two hands, yet he gripped it in only one, as if the strength in his one arm was equal to that of any other man’s two.
None of the other Dartague moved as their comrade strode forward one slow but solid step at a time. All eyes watched the barbarian figure approach the Ursian sergeant, but none whispered a word.
It was then, given a few moments of recollection, Guthrie realized these men were not of the same clan he had faced but a week or so earlier. The men of the wyrd woman had been from Clan Bear. These here were of Clan Wolf, as evidenced by their garb, and they had no magic among them. Typically the clans fought amongst one another, but rumor had it the wyrd woman had pulled the Dartague together, forging alliances in the assault against northern Ursia. It seemed Ildra had done her work well.
The barbarian came to a halt mere yards away from Guthrie, the big, shaggy fellow’s eyes hooded as he stared into the tired gaze of the sergeant.
“You have proven yourself worthy today,” the Dartague stated in a stilted Ursian tongue.
Tilting his head slightly to one side as if to question the other man’s words, Guthrie said nothing. Either he was to be attacked or not, to live or not, and nothing he could say would change this.
Then the Dartague cried out, screaming to the heavens, and charged forward, his big sword lifted high above his head and now grasped in both hands.
Guthrie had expected the move or something similar. He had been prepared for it, and was trained for such. He waited until the last possible moment, as the thick steel blade barreled down at his head, then dove to one side, rolling through the snow and coming up on his feet, his sword flashing out behind him to offer some protection.
The Dartague spun, his sword swinging wildly at the sergeant. Guthrie attempted to knock aside his opponent’s blade with his own, but the barbarian was too strong. With a loud ringing din, Dartague steel hammered aside its borrowed kin, leaving a heavy nick in the metal of Guthrie’s sword. The sergeant nearly fell back, the blow ringing in his hands, but managed to remain on his feet.
The enemy did not let up. Another cry sprang from that beard, a scream to wake the heavens, and the big man charged again, his sword swiping crossways in hopes up cutting the sergeant from shoulder to groin. Realizing he could not block such a blow due to his opponent’s brute force, Guthrie rushed backward, avoiding the blow altogether.
As the Dartague sword whipped past, the barbarian was slightly off balance. Guthrie saw this and used it to his advantage. He darted in, stabbing with his sword. The tip of the weapon jabbed into the bigger man’s left thigh just above the fur wrappings of his boots. Howling, the Dartague threw up his arms, his sword now hanging from one hand.
Guthrie brought back his sword, ready for another stab, this one aimed at his foe’s stomach, but a mighty fist came crashing down upon the sergeant’s shoulder, jarring him and forcing him to his knees.
The Dartague towered over the Ursian, bringing his sword up for another two-handed blow. There was almost no way he could miss, the sergeant practically kneeling before him. Guthrie realized his position was too awkward for any kind of forceful stab with his own weapon.
There was nothing to be done but close further.
Guthrie pushed up on his knees and scrambled forward, grasping his opponent around the waist. The Dartague grunted in surprise as the smaller man tried to tackle him, but then he laughed at the weak assault and brought the hilt of his sword down upon the helmet in front of his groin.
Within the helm, Guthrie’s brain rattled and his vision blurred. This would be a stupid way to die, he conceded, but he would not give up the fight.
Leaning back as far as he could, the sergeant lowered his chin and rammed his head forward as hard as he could, the top of his salet hammering into the crotch of the barbarian.
A howl went up then, a howl like that of a dying beast. The Dartague’s arms went up again, this time his huge sword flung from his fingertips as he grasped at his hair in anguish.
Guthrie forced himself up on his feet and landed a punch against his larger foe’s chin. The blow rocked the big man’s head back but otherwise seemed to do little. The Dartague’s narrowed eyes blinked and suddenly seemed to focus again, staring with rage at the Ursian.
Another fist lashed out, this one from the barbarian. Guthrie was struck across his own chin hanging beneath his helmet, the blow one of the strongest he had ever felt, knocking him off his feet to one side. Landing in snow that covered his lower face and helmet, Guthrie lay panting, too tired and beaten to fight much longer.
His opponent sensed weakness and moved in for the kill, planting his legs on either side of the Ursian, reaching down for the sergeant either to choke him or throttle him.
Guthrie would never know what his foe intended, nor would any of the others present. Beneath the snow at his side, Guthrie wrapped a hand around the shaft of the mace looped to his belt. Just as the Dartague’s face was looming above his own, Guthrie jammed up with the mace, the large spiked head of black iron crunching into the barbarian’s jaw. There was a cracking sound and a brief scream, then the Dartague rolled to one side, landing in the white powder next to the sergeant.
His own rage still not allowing him to surrender yet, Guthrie saw his chance and launched himself on his foe. The Dartague thrust up his hands to ward off his enemy, but Guthrie was having none of it. He lifted his mace and brought it crashing down upon those flailing hands. The Dartague flinched at the pain as two fingers snapped and a wrist was broken. Guthrie did not let up. His mace flashed again and again, hammering at the arms, crushing bones and wading through to punch into the barbarian’s bearded face. The mace kept flying, coming up and crashing down, over and over and over. Blood splattered and stringy bits of hair flew.
Until Guthrie was truly exhausted. He sat back on top of the chest of the man now dead beneath him. There was little more than red pulp remaining to the Dartague’s features, looking like jelly. The sergeant breathed in heavily, his mace falling from his fingers, then he pushed himself away from his dead foe.
Trying to stand, Guthrie found he could not. His legs gave out beneath him and he dropped to one side of the dead man. Everything went black.
He lay there for he knew not how long. When he finally looked up, the sky was darkening toward evening.
He was alone.
The Dartague were gone, even their dead having been carried off.
Guthrie glanced down and found the man he had last slain was also missing. Guthrie had not even felt the fell
ow being taken away.
Sitting up, he glanced up and down the ravine. There were still plenty of signs of the fight. Blood slicked the snow here and there. His own countrymen lay unmoving where they had fallen. At least there had been no new snow. He could still tell the scene of the combat, the traces before him revealing that which he had been too busy to witness during the actual fighting.
There lay poor Pindle, the man’s dying grin one filled with blood. Not far away was the stiffened body of Hammer, his eyes closed in pain, a sword still protruding from his chest above his heart. There were others, most of whom were not known by name to the sergeant.
He leaned back, his hands in the snow holding him up as he breathed in cold air. He was amazed at being alive. Why hadn’t the Dartague finished him? Was it because he had bested their champion there at the end? Or had they believed Guthrie to be dead?
He did not know.
Looking around himself, he found there were no horses to be seen in any direction. Either the beasts had fled or the remaining Dartague had rounded them up. Either way, it would be a long walk back to Herkaig. The distant remains of the church no longer smoked, the heat there apparently dead. With night coming on, him having no food nor water nor source of cover or warmth, Guthrie wondered if he could even survive such a long trek on foot.
There was only one way to find out.
He forced himself to stand, grunting at the bruises now covering his body, and retrieved his fallen mace, sliding it back into the loop on his belt.
Chapter 3
Guthrie made it only a few steps before the gentle winds brought the sound of a groan to his ears. He paused, twisting his head to one side as if that would allow him to hear better.
For a moment he picked up nothing out of the ordinary. The breeze was chill, weak, almost soothing as it played about on the flatlands. Then that groan again, weak and off toward the creek bed where his dead mates lay.
“Is anyone there?” the sergeant called out.
No response.
Was someone still alive? A fellow Ursian?
So as not to be caught unawares, Guthrie drew his dagger and marched toward the ravine. He stood on the lip looking down at the freezing corpses. The carnage was enough to churn many a man’s stomach, but being a soldier Guthrie had witnessed his fair share of atrocity over the years, though rarely to this extent. He had never been in a war until now.
A groan again, a little further to his right.
Guthrie moved along the edge of the creek bed, his eyes snapping from one dead face to another, faces he recognized even if he had not known them well. The Dartague were not well trained in military tactics, but they did not lack in personal skill nor in numbers. It was no wonder his fellow countrymen had fallen. He was not sure a detachment of hardened veterans would have fared much better.
A hand moved.
Guthrie stopped. Stared.
There. The hand moved again. Just a finger, twitching.
Dropping into the pit, Guthrie landed with his feet spread apart atop a corpse, not wanting to walk on the dead. “Is someone alive in there?” he asked with a soft voice.
Another finger twitched, pointing, pointing at the sergeant. The hand was sticking out from beneath a pile of dead militiamen.
Guthrie rushed forward, grabbing a dead man by the belt and pulling him away. Then he shoved aside another body.
He found himself staring into a set of wide, round eyes, eyes that belonged to someone far too young to have scene such carnage as today. Guthrie recognized the young man, likely the most youthful of all the militia who had ridden out with Captain Werner and the sergeant. Guthrie did not know his name, but that mattered little. The lad was alive.
Guthrie dropped to a knee next to the youth and looked over his body. There were no obvious wounds other than a trickle of dried, crusty red along the right side of the face.
“Can you speak?” he asked.
The lips parted, a croaking sound coming forth. The lad closed his eyes and inhaled, then his eyes popped open and he blurted, “Thank Ashal!”
Guthrie chuckled. “Do you think you can move?”
“I ... I think so,” the youth said. He shifted around a little, moving his arms and legs. Looking down at his feet he found a corpse still spread across his legs. He gasped and fear rolled across his features.
Grimacing, Guthrie pulled away the last of the bodies laying across the younger man. “There. Now do you think you can stand?”
A look of relief filled the youth’s face and he pushed himself to a sitting position in the mixture of snow and freezing blood. He sat there for a moment, catching his breath and shaking his head, and Guthrie could see a long red gash along the side of the lad’s face. That wound had already closed, the cold stilling the flow of blood and clotting at the opening, but the sergeant recognized a future scar in the boy’s future.
“I can’t believe I’m still alive,” the youth said. With shaky legs he climbed to his feet, swaying for a moment until a hand from his fellow countryman steadied him.
“Are you all right to walk?” Guthrie asked
The youth winced and put a hand to the side of his head where he had been wounded. “I think so, but my jaw ... it’s killing me. And I’ve such a headache.”
“Better that than being dead,” Guthrie said.
The youth grinned. “I suppose so.”
“What’s your name?
“They call me Manif.”
“Fine. I’m --”
“I know who you are, Sergeant Hackett,” the youth interrupted. “Everybody in camp knows your name. You were the only survivor of the northern invasion.”
Taking a step back, Guthrie glanced around at the dead. “And nearly the only survivor today.”
Manif also looked around, perhaps hoping to find or not find the face of a loved one or friend. “Where’s the captain?”
“What’s that?” Guthrie asked.
“The captain,” Manif said. “He was fighting right beside me when I was struck.”
Guthrie’s gaze sharpened upon the faces he saw, darting from man to man, searching. “You are sure he was near you?”
“Yes, sir. Captain Werner had wanted me next to him because ... well, because I was so inexperienced. This was my first fight.” The youth’s face sank.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Guthrie said, placing a gentle hand on one of Manif’s shoulders. “Every fighting man had to face his first combat at some point. Even myself.”
When Manif looked up, there were tears in his eyes. “But I failed them. All of them. Especially the captain.”
Guthrie slapped the lad. It was a stinging blow. There was no real weight behind it, but enough to rock the youth’s head back and to open his eyes wide with no more tears.
“Enough of that!” the sergeant shouted. “You are not to blame for any of this. Do you understand me?”
Manif nodded.
“Good,” Guthrie said. “I want that fixed in your skull. We stood and fought as men, as best we could. We were outnumbered. There was nothing could be done about it. Don’t dishonor those who fell here by feeling sorry for yourself. Live on and tell their tale, how they stood against an overpowering force, how they fought to a man.”
Manif nodded again.
“Good,” Guthrie repeated, then gestured to the dead at their feet. “Now help me find the captain.”
The search did not take long. Eleven men had ridden into the trees and planted themselves in the gulley, waiting for the Dartague attack. Now there were eight bodies and two living men, Guthrie and Manif. Of Captain Werner, there was no sign.
Taking a knee again, Guthrie scoured the area where Manif had last seen the captain standing. He cursed and stood. “I’m no tracker, but it looks as if a body was dragged away through the snow. The fight left such a mess, it is difficult to tell.”
“Do you think he could still be alive?” Manif asked.
Guthrie shook his head. “Doubtful. Though I suppose anyth
ing is possible. You and I survived, and I’m surprised at that. Except during raids, the Dartague aren’t known for leaving behind living enemies.”
“They probably thought I was dead,” Manif suggested, “what with me being under a pile of bodies and all.”
“Likely, though I’m still not sure why they didn’t finish with me.”
Manif looked the sergeant over from head to foot. “Sir, to be honest, you don’t even look as if you have been hurt.”
Guthrie chuckled. “I’ve some bruises and maybe a few cracked ribs. There’s also probably a bump or two on my head. But you’re right. I was lucky. You were down and didn’t see it, but I was the last one standing. Instead of rushing in to finish me off, a great big Dartague came forward, I suppose a champion or maybe a chief. He and I fought. It was a close thing, but I managed to best him in the end. Then I passed out. I think it was exhaustion that took me as much as anything. I woke just a while ago and found you.”
Manif shrugged. “Weird, that. I’m surprised they didn’t kill you. Guess they thought you were dead, too.”
“Or perhaps it was some show of respect,” Guthrie said. “Maybe they figured I had beaten their best, and left me to my own ends.”
“Perhaps.”
The sergeant grumbled and used the toe of his left boot to tip back a corpse at his feet. He stared into the blank, flat eyes. “They deserve to be buried properly, but we don’t have the time.”
“What are we going to do?” Manif asked. He looked around, taking in the scarcity of their surroundings. “There’s not even a tent, and no food.”
Guthrie made up his mind on the spot. He had considered the long trek back to the village where the main force of the militia was now encamped. He might be able to make it by morning, maybe, as likely would Manif, especially as Manif was younger and lighter. But the militia were without a leader. Oh, Guthrie was sure Werner had left someone in charge temporarily until his return, but now that return seemed unlikely. And other than Werner himself and a handful of his personal guards, the sergeant had not witnessed what he considered experienced men at the camp. No, the militia would be in dire straits without a proper leader, and though Guthrie himself was likely the most experienced man among them and the only official member of the Ursian military, he did not consider himself the man for the job. The men needed their leader. They needed Werner.
