by Ty Johnston
“You’re going back to Herkaig,” Guthrie said to the youth. “You should be there by morning. Make sure to tell whomever is in charge about what happened here. I’m sure they’ll send back a party to bury the dead, but make sure it’s a sizable party. It’s bad enough they don’t have many horses, but they’ll manage.”
Manif looked to the sergeant. “But what about you? Aren’t you coming with me?”
“No.” Guthrie stared off into the distance, past the dead men and the dead trees and the dead church to the line of gray crags rising along the northern horizon. “I’m going after the Dartague. Perhaps Captain Werner is still alive. Perhaps I can find him.”
Chapter 4
Even in the dark it was no difficult task to follow the Dartague trail. The barbarians were the warlords of all northern Ursia now that the regional army had been wiped out, and there was little reason for them to hide their tracks. They had nothing to fear, not even when they had ridden forth from their own lands. It would be a week or longer before another Ursian force of any size could be mustered up from the warmer climes nearer the capital.
Sergeant Hackett plodded through the snow, no longer able to feel his toes within his boots. The night had finally fallen and he was glad to have grabbed one of the heavy wolf furs dropped by a Dartague in the ravine where the fight had taken place, but he was still cold. Originally from further south himself, Guthrie had never fully acclimated to the cold of the north, despite his having been stationed there several years. His stomach was also rumbling and his mouth was dry. At least there was plenty of snow to slake his thirst, but he could not remember the last time he had eaten. Had it been days? A week? No, it couldn’t have been that long since he had last had food. Could a man survive that long without proper nourishment?
If it came to hunting, at least he was armed with his mace and dagger, and a crossbow and quiver retrieved from one of his fallen countrymen. But Guthrie was no experienced hunter. Food would not come easy to him, especially in the winter when many animals lay low until warmer weather returned.
Holding his belly with one arm while the other gripped the thick fur around him, his gaze was straight ahead, chasing the snow’s destruction where the Dartague had ridden. At least there was enough moonlight to see by. He only hoped his foes would have a meal ready when he got to them.
That thought brought a low laugh to his lips. The Dartague would more likely gut him if he should find them.
But find them he must. The militia needed their leader, Captain Werner being the only man Guthrie knew to have any authority in the north. Likely there were other militia groups and perhaps even some few soldiers holding out here and there throughout the north, but the sergeant was not aware of them. The border between Dartague and Ursia stretched for hundreds of miles along the mountain range and in some places through dense forest, so Guthrie was sure somewhere in all those miles there had to be other survivors like himself and other southern militias who had come forth. But even if there were other officers and leaders out there, every one of them was necessary. The Dartague had apparently swarmed in and destroyed the army before retreating to the safety of their mountain villages, but they had shown no qualms of riding down to the plains once more and waging battle.
Trudging along with his thoughts, the sergeant slowed as he noticed the Dartague trail bent gradually to his right. He came to a standstill and looked ahead through the thin light of the moon. He was surprised to find he was already on the edge of the foothills to the mountains. Glancing back, there was no sign of the ruined church or the trees where the fight had taken place, but this was to be expected; he had traveled miles and miles over hours and hours, only his own stubbornness keeping him going.
He shifted to his right and marched in that direction, noting his new path was taking him toward a narrow valley that appeared to run back between two craggy hills. Pulling the wolf skin closer around his shoulders, Guthrie lowered his head and walked on, one foot after the other. He was determined to discover the fate of Captain Werner, perhaps even to save the man, no matter how far he had to walk and how long it took.
His travels eventually became more treacherous, the snow giving way to broken rock of all sizes, from boulders to tiny stones of gravel beneath his boots. His footing was no longer flat and he had to bend a little as he made his way up a slight incline, but at least he was no longer walking only on snow, the white stuff here limited to patches and specks among the rocks.
Eventually his surroundings grew more dim, the walls of the hills climbing on his sides and blocking the view beyond. The moon was almost directly overhead, though, giving plenty of light for the valley ahead. Glancing forward, Guthrie’s view was not pleasing to him. More broken stones of all sizes and shapes, some scrub brush here and there, packets of snow spotting the ground. There were few trees, those in evidence slender and dark and hunched as if dying or already dead, no greenery upon them. It was territory vaguely familiar to the Ursian since he had been stationed along the border for several years, but he was not as comfortable in his knowledge of the mountains as he was on the flatlands of his country’s farms.
His footing slowed further as the path became more torturous. Without the snow it was more difficult to pick up the trail of the barbarians, but they had definitely ridden into this valley and Guthrie had spotted no other direction they could have traveled but straight ahead. Every few moments he would pause to stare at a spot of snow, hoping for a sign of a horse’s hoof or a stamped boot, sometimes finding such and sometimes not.
There was nothing for him to do but to trek on. Which he did.
How much longer he continued through the valley, he did not know. He was tired and hungry and bruised and cold. He napped on his feet, his body dragging him forward while his mind went blank for periods of time.
Then there was a light.
Guthrie almost ignored it, nearly slumbering, but some dim portion of his mind told him to wake. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes and looked to his left from where the light had come.
He was deeper into the hills now, almost into mountains, and the faint golden glow was high upon a dark ridge. This was no flame, no camp fire nor torch. What he was seeing was a touch of magic, the ability to do so forced upon him by the ice witch.
The realization there was something or someone of a magical nature here in the hills brought the sergeant around to wakefulness. He rubbed at his eyes and stared again at the auburn haze he had witnessed.
It was still there, resting steady atop the ridge.
What could it be?
There was only one way to find out.
Guthrie grumbled as he began to climb, cursing his luck. Why couldn’t this magic whatever-it-is have been down in the valley? It didn’t occur to him to simply keep on walking in his search for the Dartague and the captain. He could never have done so. This magic might be of some help to him. It might provide a clue. Despite her assurance they would never meet again, perhaps it was even the ice witch, or maybe the Dartague wyrd woman Ildra.
The ascent here was more steep than anything Guthrie had faced yet in his recent travels, forcing him to make use of his stiff, freezing fingers. The climb was not straight up, which was some small relief, so at least he could rest every so often by leaning against the cold stone wall in front of him. The wall itself was rugged, offering plenty of handholds. His main concern in falling was his growing lack of feeling in his digits and the chilled slickness of the rock itself.
But he would climb.
Eventually he reached a ledge and hauled himself over. He rolled onto his back and lay there panting, resting. His eyes closed. When they opened, he could tell by the movement of the moon and stars that he had been asleep for some little while. He cursed but realized his body had needed the rest. As far as he could tell, no more than an hour had passed, so perhaps the light he had seen would still be present.
Sitting up and glancing around, he found that mysterious glow soon enough. Yet it was higher, on anot
her ridge above him. Whether it had been there all along or whether the thing had moved during his slumber, Guthrie did not know, yet he cursed it all the same.
Then forced himself to his feet once more and began climbing again.
He would never have believed it if someone had told him, but the second ridge was only half the climb of the first. It seemed to him his fingers gripped stone and dug into dirt and tugged on branches for hours upon hours, when in truth less than a quarter of an hour passed. This time Guthrie glanced up every so often to make sure that magical glow was not moving away from him. It did not move. He kept climbing.
Eventually he reached the top of the second ridge.
He flung himself over, collapsing in his weakness. He could not help himself. He slept. Without even looking for the source of the magic, he slept.
It was the scent of cooking meat which woke him. His nose was already sniffing as his eyes fluttered open.
Before the seated sergeant was a small fire of burning twigs, the dancing flames surrounded by a ring of small stones. Laid out across the fire was a perched stick, impaled upon it a small dead animal, perhaps a squirrel or rabbit, black char discoloring and concealing the animal’s exact nature.
“I believed you to be hungry,” a voice spoke.
Guthrie glanced up over the flames and the small meal. Until that moment he had not noticed the figure huddled back in the shadows on the other side of the fire. There was not much to see, but as best the Ursian could tell the person was an old man with scraggly hair, around his shoulders a heavy, dark animal fur, within that fur stitched small cloth figures of animals. It was the old man who was glowing with magic.
Guthrie’s voice croaked as he spoke. “You are ... a wizard?”
“Your people would call me such,” the old man said, “but I am Dartague. Among my people I am known as a skald, as a seer, a wise man, a shadow maker. There are many names in the Dartague tongue for what I am.”
“Yet you speak Ursian fluently,” Guthrie said.
The old man chuckled. “It is well to know the ways of one’s enemies.”
The sergeant glanced to the cooking animal, his features confused.
“Ah,” the hold man sounded. “You are wondering why I, a Dartague, have put together this little meal for one who is a foe to my people. You might even be wondering if the meal has been poisoned.”
Guthrie’s gaze thinned.
“About the poison, you should have little concern,” the Dartague said. “If I had meant to slay you, could I have not done so with ease while you slumbered?”
There was wisdom in the man’s words, Guthrie had to admit. But the fellow was old. Could he perhaps be too weak to strike a killing blow? Not likely. He had caught and managed to kill the small dead animal cooking between them, after all.
“As to why I would feed an enemy?” Here the old man gave a brief shrug. “Why not? Is the enemy of my enemy worth killing when he can be of use?”
None of this provided real answers, and did not improve the sergeant’s mood. But he was starving, and the old man appeared little threat. Guthrie reached out towards the fire, allowing the warmth to settle into his fingers. There was a stinging sensation as the cold fled his joints, and he shook his hands to loosen them. All the while his eyes darted to the cooking food and to the old man.
“Please, help yourself,” the old man said, motioning toward the flames. “That rabbit was no easy catch, and should be consumed. I have no want for such at this time. Feed yourself.”
Guthrie no longer hesitated, but grabbed the stick hanging over the fire, bringing the dead animal to his lips. At least the thing had been skinned and cleaned. He bit into the meat and felt the warmth flood his body, bringing back strength. He chomped on the flesh and broke and sucked at the bones. It was one of the best meals he had ever had, but gone far too soon.
“My apologies,” the old man said. “It is but a simple meal, but one of which you were in need, Guthrie Hackett.”
The sergeant’s eyes went wide. This magic user knew his name. “How do you know who I am?”
The old man cackled. “I told you. I am a seer, a skald, and all the things that go along with it. I can see the days to come.”
Guthrie grunted. “Hungry I may be, and I thank you for the meal, but I have many questions. If you can see so much, then you can provide the answers.”
“Perhaps,” the old man said, “but I see little reason to do so. I only intervene now on your path because I do not wish your death.”
“See?” Guthrie said, pointing at the ancient figure across from him. “That is of what I speak. Another question, a riddle. Why do you not want me dead?”
The old man said nothing, sitting, staring, the flames gyrating in his eyes as that golden aura of magic pulsed around him.
Guthrie placed a hand on the dagger at his belt. “I will remind you that while you might not wish my death, I have no compunctions about causing your own.”
The old man cackled again and grinned, showing he was missing some few teeth. “Very well, then, soldier from the south. I visit with so few, and receive so few visitors, it is rare I get to banter with others. I will answer your questions.”
“Then tell me why you do not want me dead.”
“The ice witch,” the old man said, watching the growing knowledge in the Ursian’s eyes. “She has placed within you the power to hunt down the wyrd woman. While I have little care for Ildra, the ice witch and I are old enemies. I do not wish you to succeed in slaying the wyrd woman, at least not as of yet.”
“Then why feed me?” Guthrie asked, surprised. “Why not kill me in my sleep?”
“It is a delicate matter,” the old man went on. “If Ildra survives, her grandson will slay the witch in years to come, a fate I myself will help bring along. Yet it is Ildra who has brought my people to ruin, who has brought a sense of brotherhood to the Dartague. This must not be. The outcome of this war against your people will not fare well for my own, and any fool would have seen this if they had given it but a moment of thought. I want this war to end as soon as possible, for my people to return to their old ways, to return to the forests and mountains and to forget about you farmers and city dwellers.”
“It would seem to me Ildra wants the same thing.”
“No!” Anger fueled the old man’s voice and he croaked as if he were about to retch into the fire, leaning forward slightly. Then he straightened himself, gaining control of his emotions. “No, Ildra wishes Dartague to take a rightful places as a sovereign nation along with those around us, you Ursians, the Kobalans, the Jorsicans. This is not the Dartague way. We are not a people who bow before a king. We are strong and fierce. We stand on our own. We need no one locking shackles about our wrists. She has forgotten the old ways!”
Guthrie shook his head. “The more you speak, the less I understand. You do not want me to hunt Ildra because she means death to your enemy, yet you cannot stand for the wyrd woman to live because you believe she is your country and kin?”
The old man jabbed a finger at the sergeant. “Exactly.”
“So, do you want her dead or not?”
“Both!”
Guthrie’s shoulders slumped. “This is useless.”
“No, no,” the old man said. “I feed you to save you because Ildra must die, but she must not die too soon.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she is pregnant.”
Guthrie sat up straight. “Pregnant?”
“Yes.” The old man let out a wicked cackle. “I want you to live, but I do not want you to find her so soon. After she has given birth, then you can bring your fellow soldiers down upon her head, slay her however you wish, even take her back to Mas Ober for a proper trial if you wish to display her before the masses. After the birthing, I care little for what happens to Ildra. In fact, at that point it would be better for all if she were dead.”
“So the child lives to ensure the fate of the ice witch in years to come, bu
t Ildra would die now to break the Dartague alliance? Am I understanding you correctly?”
“Yes!” The wizard pointed at the sergeant again. “You understand exactly!”
Guthrie threw back his head and guffawed, the echo of his laughter ringing along the steep hillside. “You have picked the wrong man, wizard! Oh, I am sure the wyrd woman will survive long enough to have her child, but I am nowhere near finding her, and as for my countrymen, our army in the north is in a shambles. If there is given any serious thought to a counter attack, it will not occur until next Spring, months away. And that’s even if the dukes can gather enough men for such an undertaking. The pope will seek vengeance, but he’s not going to leave the capital nor the rest of the borders undefended.”
“Soldier, you are closer than you think to the wyrd woman,” the old man said. “If you had not been starving, I would have let you continue on your way. In some few hours you would have stumbled upon her camp.”
Leaning into the darkness beyond the ridge where he sat, Guthrie stared ahead where the valley continued. There was little to see now that the moon had moved, but the stars still provided for the outline of the larger of the rocks.
He looked back to the old man. “Ildra rides with Clan Bear, yet those I followed were of Wolf.”
“It matters little,” the skald said. “The woman is a child of the Bear, but she has brought together the clans. Her Bear riders now camp with Wolf, as they do with Clan Thunder and Clan Hawk and others.”
