by Ty Johnston
“Do they have my captain with them?”
“I am sure they do,” the old man said. “I saw them ride past below me when there was still daylight. They had a pale man in armor tied over a saddle. That was likely this captain of whom you speak.”
“Was he still living?”
“I believe so,” the old man said, “but I could not vouch for his condition now.”
Guthrie cursed. It was becoming a regular habit with him.
“Do not fret yourself over your captain,” the ancient figure said. “They will want him alive for some good while. They will seek to question him, to find out what he knows about your army’s plans. This could go on for days. They will keep him alive until they feel they have nothing more to learn from him.”
“And then?”
“And then they will spend days torturing him, keeping him alive only to bring him more pain. In the end, they will burn him alive.”
Chapter 5
Guthrie was beginning to understand why magic was more than frowned upon in his homeland, the use of magic considered one of the worst sins a person could commit against Ashal. The sergeant was growing tired of being a plaything for those with magical powers, though he had to admit the old Dartague had told him true about the encampment of his barbarian kin.
It had taken much walking and climbing, but Guthrie had finally found the Dartague camp. A flat area about the size of a large ship’s deck lay hidden a mile or so down a ravine from the main valley the sergeant had been tromping along. There was not enough room in the flat region for all the barbarians huddled together beneath tents of heavy animal pelts, but their camp stretched back along the ravine and away from the sergeant hiding behind a boulder. As far as Guthrie could tell, no sentries had been posted, which he considered a mistake but fully understood; the Dartague expected no enemies, not so soon and not here in their native land.
The lack of sentries did not mean the barbarians were completely reckless. Few of them were drinking, as far as Guthrie could tell, and even those who were were not tossing back their drinks in a hardy fashion. There were mostly men below, big men, and each carried a weapon, mostly swords, and some few hefted shields or had one near. The few women on the scene were nearly as large as their male kin, though none appeared dressed for combat. The women served as healers, mostly, but every once in a while one of them would perform some other task, preparing meals or the like. There were not a lot of men needing wounds tended, but a handful were evident, those of Clan Wolf who had traded blows with Guthrie’s group.
The Dartague were a quiet lot here, apparently not so sure in their safety as to want to raise a ruckus. Most of the sounds were those of people working, the scrapes of weapons being sharpened, the rare cry of a wounded man, the patterings of feet coming and going and moving through the tents. The crackling of camp fires. One noise stood out among the others, and this was the occasional crying of a child or perhaps several children within the tents. Guthrie looked and looked, but he could not spot a child anywhere in the open. For that matter, he saw no signs of the horses of the Wolf riders. Still, such thoughts did not bother him too much. The camp stretched back into the mountains along the ravine and around a bend; perhaps the horses were stored further away and out of his sight.
What he really wanted to see was some sign of Captain Werner, but he had yet to spot anyone who looked like a prisoner or anyplace that looked as if it were for holding prisoners. Perhaps Werner was laid out beneath one of the tents, the man likely wounded in the fight with the Dartague. Guthrie only hoped the captain was still alive and could be saved.
Hunkering down further, the sergeant removed his helmet to see better. Still, no sign of Werner. Not even a cage or some such.
He sighed and returned his helmet to his head, sliding back along the rocky trail that had led him up to his perch. Guthrie lifted his crossbow from where he had left it and checked again to make sure there was an arrow in place.
Then there was nothing to be done but to start climbing. It was still night and he was wrapped in furs, so he hoped he would not stand out on the ridge above as he climbed up and moved further north to get a different view of the camp site. The Dartague were a good distance away, so it was not likely he would be spotted.
The climb was an easy one and fairly short. Twenty feet up and he found himself balancing on a narrow ledge that wound along the western side of the valley where he perched and the Dartague camped below. Elevated now, he could see the cooking fires did indeed stretch back into the ravine, some of them even rising along the stony walls. It was obvious to him this was not a permanent settlement, but more like a rallying point for warriors spearheading smaller assaults into Ursian territory. Still, Guthrie estimated there were no more than a hundred warriors in the camp, and perhaps another hundred women and children and other non-combatants. No, not permanent, but a place of refuge for some little time, perhaps a month or longer. He wondered how long Ildra and her kin had been planning the attack into Ursia. Surely it would have taken time, perhaps a year or longer, for orders to spread across the Dartague border to all the clans.
Shifting his feet slowly, one step at a time, Guthrie moved forward along the ledge. More than once his boots kicked up small rocks or grit, but none of it was enough to call attention to him. As he moved on, he came out directly over the central flat area of the camp below. Looking down, he supposed he was about a hundred feet above the heads of those encamped beneath him. Within arrow range and far enough for him to kill himself if he should fall. It was not a nice place to be.
His eyes looking upon the smaller number of fires further back in the ravine, he continued ahead in that direction, hoping to discover a hiding place on the other end of the extended camp. Perhaps there he would find some sign of the captain.
The first sight to change the monotony of the scene below was the horses, the animals corralled a half dozen together in small circles, their leads tied to a central post or an old tree standing in the midst of the beasts. A quick glance told Guthrie there were seven of these circles. He had seen no patrols on his way in, so he supposed the other horses had either been killed in the recent attack at the creek bed or their riders were on their way home or to another camp. The area where the horses were located was a bit flatter than the rest of the ravine other than the first, wider section of the camp Guthrie had first come upon. Still, a number of the horses were near the thin forest that bled back up the hillside toward Guthrie himself. He could swipe one of the beasts with relative ease, but where to take it? How to get it out of the valley without having to ride past a hundred sword wielding barbarians?
The answer came a moment later. The clouds shifted above and the moon stretched its rays into the ravine once more. Revealed was another path, narrow but running straight north the opposite direction from which Guthrie had come. He had no idea what lay in that direction, but was determined to take it if he must. Would there be more Dartague there? Did the trail meander about before coming to a dead end deeper in the mountains? There was no way to know without spending another hour or two searching, and Guthrie did not feel he had such time; the more time he spent in the vicinity of the camp, the more likely it was of him getting caught.
Then something else caught his eye. He had not noticed it a moment earlier, but there it was. A soft glowing aura in the distance, through some trees on the other side of the narrow valley. Right away he recognized this sheen as the mark of magic. He was sure of it. Could this be the wyrd woman Ildra he was seeing from a distance? The old skald had seemed to think the woman was within this encampment. If the woman was there, it stood to reason Captain Werner would also be there. The captain was the head of the only Ursian force of any strength in the immediate region, and Ildra was supposedly in charge of the Dartague attacks.
Guthrie grumbled as he removed the arrow from his crossbow and unstrung the weapon. He was going to have to cross the valley and that meant climbing. He couldn’t well climb steep surfaces while trying t
o hold onto a loaded crossbow. He returned the arrow to the quiver hanging from his belt and slung the bow on his back.
Grumbling again, he moved further north along the narrow edge upon which he roosted. The slim path became even more slender as he progressed until he was almost directly over the nearest horses. Glancing down he saw no guards or anyone else paying attention to the animals. The ground was grassy with a touch of snow, but appeared fairly relatively flat. Here might be the best spot to climb down. But as his eyes adjusted further to the gloom and his new situation, he found the side of the steep hill beneath him went straight down. There were no handholds. Nothing. Just a straight wall of flat stone.
Cursing, Guthrie sat with his legs hanging over the ledge. It was at least a thirty foot drop, more than he cared to make. But if he hung from the lip of the ledge, he could shorten that drop by six feet or so. That still meant a pretty far tumble, but not as far. It did not improve his mood to think of the helmet, weapons, and studded leather armor he wore beneath his fur wrapping, all weighing him down, which meant he would hit harder than he would have without all the accoutrements.
Gripping the sides of the ledge, he twisted around until he faced the wall, then slowly allowed himself to sink along the face of the hill until all his body but his fingers was beneath the ridge he had been traversing. Relatively young and having solid strength, it was still not a position he could hold for long. He grunted and his fingers let go.
The drop took no time at all, but it seemed to last forever to the sergeant, as if he were plummeting from a much further height. His boots struck grass slick with snow and slipped out from beneath him, dropping him on his rear and back. A belt of air burst from his lips, but Guthrie managed not to cry out. He slid down an incline in the snow, but that soon ended and he became still while remaining on his back.
He lay there a moment, trying to feel if he had broken anything while listening for a call of alarm. Feeling no more pains than a stiffness in his back and a soreness in his ankles, he also heard nothing untoward. Nothing was broken and no one was screaming about an intruder.
All was well so far. He sat up.
Directly in front of him was a horse, one of the lighter riding breeds utilized by the Ursians. Guthrie did not recognize the animal, but thought it had to be one taken after the battle in the creek bed. The other horses were spread out ahead, few of the beasts paying him any attention.
Pushing himself to his feet, he untied his crossbow, brought it around and placed another arrow against it while yanking back on the launching cord. Though now among the horses and the shadows of near trees, he hunkered low to help hide himself further.
Then it was time for skulking. He moved ahead slowly through the horses, around them most of the time but clawing his way under a pair of them. His goal was the other side of the ravine, then he expected another climb up to where he had spotted that aura of magic. Now below the level of the ridge he had been traveling but minutes earlier, he could no longer see that glowing, but he was positive it would still be there.
Guthrie reached the other side of the animals with little trouble, but was brought up short by a figure standing beneath pine trees on this side of the ravine. All the sergeant could make out was a tall, slender figure. Guthrie raised his crossbow, ready to take a life.
Then he heard the tinkling sound of someone urinating. Guthrie almost burst out laughing, but managed to hold it in. He hadn’t been able to see much, but now realized the person’s back was to him and it had to be a man since the shadow was standing. The tinkling went on for a few seconds, the crossbow’s aim never leaving the figure. Eventually the fellow facing death without knowing it tugged up his breeches and wrapped his belt tight before turning to his right.
Guthrie watched as the man began to straddle his way along a narrow path of packed earth running up this side of the narrow valley. If he hadn’t witnessed this man climbing the trail, Guthrie might not have realized the path was there.
Moving closer, Guthrie took a knee beneath the tree where the other man had urinated. He watched the fellow walk up the path, having to bend a few times to hold onto the walls around him. Then the man disappeared. The shadows had been too great for Guthrie to get much of a look at the other fellow, but he guessed the person was young or old since he did not seem to have the bulk of most of the Dartague warriors.
It was obvious to the Ursian sergeant the way revealed to him would take him to where he had seen that golden glow, where he surmised Ildra must be camped. Now if he could only make it to her.
Guthrie paused again, glancing around. The Dartague seemed little interested in guarding their horses, thus no one was coming and going around the animals. The nearest tents with their backs to him were dark and quiet. So far he was lucky. He could hear voices in the distance toward the front of the camp where he had first entered the valley, but the Dartague were more reserved in their camp life than they often appeared on the battlefield as raging barbarians.
Before making the climb up the discovered path, Guthrie pondered what he would do if he found Ildra. Obviously the woman would not be without guards, perhaps even several Dartague chiefs in attendance as advisers or lieutenants. He shrugged off the possibility of threat; not knowing what lay ahead of him, there was little reason to worry about it, at least until he knew more. Still, if he found Ildra, what should he do? Slay the woman? Hold her as a hostage in order to find Captain Werner and escape? That second option seemed foolish. Even if it was true the wyrd woman was now in charge of the Dartague tribes as a whole, the clan warriors would not allow Guthrie to escape with his life once laying hands on Ildra. No, he would have to kill the woman if he came upon her, at least if the opportunity was a reasonable one. He could not worry about the wants of these wizards and witches and their hopes for the future. Whether Ildra was pregnant or not, whatever her fate might be and might bring to others, none of that mattered to the Ursian. The wyrd woman was the enemy of his homeland, and she was responsible for the deaths of many of his countrymen. The Dartague woman had ordered possibly as many as a hundred raids and larger assaults along the border. Guthrie had seen enough death in the region he had traveled the last few weeks, and he did not want to ponder how many dead their lay all along the border. He shivered at the thought.
Ildra had to die, regardless of what some ice witch or old man wanted or didn’t want. If he ran across her, he would slay her if possible. He did not enjoy the prospect of butchering a pregnant woman, but he would do so in the name of vengeance for the deaths she had brought and to protect his own country. He had met her once a week or so in the past, and she had been a beautiful woman, but that would not stop him. Neither would her pregnancy. At the time he had not noticed her swollen belly, but perhaps she had not been very far along or perhaps her heavy fur cloak had hidden her stomach’s girth. Either way, at the time Guthrie had had other thoughts on his mind, such as survival.
The thought of killing the wyrd woman brought him around to checking his crossbow again, to make sure the arrow was placed properly and their would be no mishaps there. Staring up the trail the other man had taken, Guthrie glanced from side to side hoping to find a less obvious route. If there was only one way up to where Ildra might be, then it would be difficult to sneak there, especially if there was a guard or two stationed at the top of the climb.
Spotting no other path than the direct one, the sergeant cursed under his breath. He took a last look toward the tents and the busier part of the camp and found it even more subdued than he had upon finding this place. It seemed the Dartague were bedding down for the night. Fine with him. Less people lurking about. Perhaps at a distance he could even pass for one of the barbarians himself what with his stolen furs, though his helm would likely stand out under any light since the Dartague rarely wore such apparel.
So, the way forward was as safe as it was likely to be.
Guthrie rushed toward the path of packed dirt that ascended this side of the ravine. Seeing it was useless,
he did not try to be quiet, and wasted no time stomping up the climb. He soon found his breathing heavy as the path became more steep.
Still he moved up and ahead, the arrow’s tip of his crossbow leading the way. Whether Ildra would be alone or there were a hundred barbaric warriors with her, Guthrie intended to reach the top of his climb. It being the only path open to him, there was little need to be quiet. If a guard at the top heard him coming, the man would likely think it was one of his brethren approaching. A spy or assassin would creep along, and Guthrie was anything but creeping. He could not hide any longer, not where he was going.
Just as he thought his chest would burst from exertion, Guthrie came out on flat ground. It was a large area, nearly as large as the first part of the encampment he had spotted below. But this place was hidden away, surrounded on three sides by stone crags reaching for the sky. The one side that was open to the elements was the way Guthrie had come, leaving open air between him and the ridge he had been upon when he had first spotted the glow of magic.
Now that glow was brighter, nearer. It came from a long tent directly ahead of him a couple of dozen yards away. Closer to the sergeant was a small fire, two burly warriors seated in front of it, one with his back to Guthrie and the other facing him. The man who had pissed beneath the tree below was only several steps ahead of the sergeant, Guthrie coming out right behind him. That man heard or sensed movement behind him and turned just as his comrades at the fire stood, the one facing Guthrie now pointing at him.
Guthrie pressed the bar beneath his crossbow. The arrow shot forward, stabbing deep into the stomach of the nearest Dartague. The man cried out and dropped to his knees, grabbing at the wooden shaft protruding from his gut. Guthrie stepped forward and kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling and screaming.
