by Ty Johnston
Guthrie and the others also learned there had been a battle of sorts. The Dartague had fielded an army, rather small and ineffectual, and stupid enough to take to the flatlands of northern Ursia. Apparently the barbarians had believed Duke Heggel’s small force to be easy pickings, but bad timing had done them in. The main force of the Ursian army, those who had been straggling behind the duke’s earlier arrival, showed up on the eve of the fight. It was described to the sergeant as a great slaughter, one that helped to instill instruction and to build morale within the fresh Ursian recruits who had been raw and green before the fight. Hundreds of barbarians were slain on the field while the Ursians lost only a handful of men. The remaining Dartague had withered, fleeing into the mountains. After the battle, the duke urged the army forward to the edge of the mountains. With two full regiments at his disposal, Heggel had stretched his soldiers for miles across the nearest section of mountains, blocking all paths down from the hills.
All this information was given to the sergeant by Werner himself, who smiled and clapped his former companion on the back as they shared news and stories over a meal within the captain’s tent on the open lands not far from where the woodsman’s cabin had been burned to the ground.
Of Zanbra and Kroff, Guthrie knew little. The knights of the Holy Order of the Gauntlet disappeared soon after they were brought into the camp behind the front lines facing the mountains. Guthrie figured they were busy healing and providing information to the duke. Though he missed Kroff somewhat, he hoped the two knights would simply return to Mas Ober, forgetting his name along the way.
Days passed. Guthrie became acquainted with military life once more. For his recent service to the pope and the military, he was given temporary leave from his duties, but there was nowhere for him to go so he spent his time conferring with Werner or mingling with the men. Guthrie fully expected to be pulled into service once more, and this time he would not be leading men on border patrol duty, but would likely be in charge of a squad of young but freshly experienced soldiers. It was the way of the army and the way of the world.
At least the weather was with them. An early warmth spread across the north, bringing desolation to the snow and stiffening the ground.
Of the enemy, there was no sign. News of the death of the Dartague wyrd woman spread quickly among the soldiers, giving a further rise to morale, and most believed the war was practically over. Many believed there still might be a few skirmishes here and there, but unless the pope decided upon an invasion, there was no more battle expected. More than a few soldiers voiced the opinion that such an invasion should take place, vengeance still needing served for the deaths of thousands of their comrades. Guthrie kept quiet on the matter, figuring he would take whatever orders would come.
Except the orders he eventually received were quite unexpected.
“There’s a squad heading into Dartague,” Werner informed the sergeant one evening after they had eaten together beneath the awning of his tent. “Seems there’s word of other wyrd women at work, those with less power than Ildra, though together they might be able to stir up some trouble.”
“What’s the mission?” Guthrie asked.
“Execution,” Werner said, looking aside as if embarrassed to say the word. Soldiers approved of a fair fight, but assassination was something detestable.
“So I’m leading the squad?” Guthrie asked.
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you’ll be there,” Werner said, “playing the scout once more, but Sword Zanbra and Spear Kroff will be in charge. It’s a squad of three, all of you back together again.”
“Zanbra? Kroff?” Guthrie could barely believe his ears. They were tromping back into the wilderness after more witches or wizards? This was not good news, not good for his safety. Were the knights, now healed and rested and armed once more, planning to take Guthrie into the wilderness once more only to kill him? The Gauntlet were not ones to be secretive about their killings of wizards, not unless there was cause. Could they be wanting to take him out of the way quietly because of his rank as a sergeant, so as not to sully the army? Or did they have some other use for him before killing him? Anything was possible.
Captain Werner stood and patted his friend on a shoulder. “You leave in the morning.”
Part V:
Changeless Fate
1,913 years After Ashal (A.A.)
Chapter 1
Cursing and grumbling as he rode across the white plain, Sergeant Guthrie Hackett leaned to one side in his saddle and spat, the hooves of his horse crunching frozen snow beneath. The sergeant twisted in his saddle and glared back at the two riders keeping pace a dozen yards behind, Guthrie’s eyes narrow through the slit of his salet helm.
Those two riders, they were going to kill him. Guthrie knew this. He did not know when they were going to kill him, but it was coming.
He spat again and turned to face forward.
“Something on your mind?” one of the riders asked. It was Spear Kroff, an older man in heavy armor, a sword at his belt, a crossbow strapped to the side of his horse.
Guthrie said nothing but rode on.
“Did you hear him, sergeant?” It was the other who spoke, the one Guthrie truly did not trust. It was the woman, Sword Zanbra, the leader of their little party. She also wore heavy armor and a sword, a crossbow tied behind to her saddle.
Grumbling again, the sergeant reined in his steed. He was sick of trekking into the woods chasing wizards and witches and only Ashal knew who else. Since the war had started, he had been doing nothing but riding and hiding and starving throughout the mountains of Dartague. He should have been on the front lines with his fellow countrymen, leading a squad when and if the enemy attacked again. But no, here he was on yet another mission into the hinterlands along the border of Ursia and Dartague. He had learned to hate all this sneaking around, and he hated everyone who wielded magic as a weapon against others. He himself had magical talents, apparently of some power, but he had not asked for them. It was because of his magical abilities that the two knights of the Holy Order of the Gauntlet were likely to kill him soon. Guthrie’s magic had been a secret, but he felt pretty strongly that Zanbra and Kroff knew his secret. Magic was a crime punishable by death in Ursia, and the knights of the Order were those who enforced such laws.
Zanbra brought her horse to a halt a good distance away from the sergeant, but Kroff rode forward, stopping his animal as he came up next to Guthrie.
“What is bothering you?” Kroff asked from his saddle. His features revealed no emotion, were flat. The man was good at hiding the truth, Guthrie figured.
The sergeant sighed and turned his horse away from the two knights. “Kroff ...” His voice faltered, weakened. Guthrie stared into the distance across the snow to a line of pine trees and mountains beyond. It would have been a beautiful sight, he knew, if he didn’t believe it might be the last thing he would ever see. He wondered why the knights had not simply slain him back in camp, but he guessed they had their reasons. He sighed again, then found his voice once more.
“Kroff, I just wanted to say thanks,” Guthrie said.
The Spear’s face screwed up in confusion. “For what?”
“For being my friend,” Guthrie said, then shrugged. “Back in the mountains, you made me an offer to join the knighthood. I guess that’s out of the question now, but ... well, thanks.”
Kroff’s look changed to one of incredulity, surprise. He leaned away in his saddle as if stung. Guthrie had all but spoken that he knew what was coming. Apparently the knights believed Guthrie to be gullible, unsuspecting. Now Kroff realized the truth. It was there in his eyes.
The knight held up a hand, almost reaching out to the sergeant. “Guthrie, things are not what they seem. You --”
The sergeant did not hear the rest of the words. He spurred his animal forward, riding hard. He did not want to hear. His fate was set. The knights were taking him into the wilderness on some
supposed mission to hunt down Dartague witches when everyone knew the Dartague were already beaten. There was no reason to hunt down the Dartague, nor their wyrd women.
The sergeant had not made it a dozen yards when it began to snow again, this time in big, fat flakes the size of coins. The powder flittered along the edges of the visor of Guthrie’s helmet, the stomping hooves of his companions not far behind.
Now that they were several miles from the front lines and camp, Guthrie expected a crossbow bolt to slam into his back at any moment, but as of yet that had not happened. If it did, so be it. He had been ready to retire early from the army before the war had broken out, and there was little enough for him beyond the military life. If Ashal deemed it time for Guthrie to die, then the sergeant would not argue the matter. He would go down fighting, if possible, but he would not live the remainder of his days fearing an arrow or a knife in the back. He would live as best he could as long as he could, though he was sure that period of time was only a matter of hours, perhaps days with some luck.
Chapter 2
“Sergeant, hold!”
The shout came from Sword Zanbra, but Guthrie ignored the words as he trotted forward. He still expected an arrow in the back at any moment, but he swore to himself he would not look back, he would not give the knights the satisfaction of slaying him to his face. Let them kill him from behind like assassins, like cowards.
Guthrie’s horse had not made it a dozen steps before the snow became heavier, thicker. A few more steps and there was a wall of white falling down all around the sergeant. He could barely see ahead of himself or out at his sides. The distant mountains and trees had vanished behind a veil of powder. There was a hint of golden light on the edges of his vision, a sign of magic at work within his environs.
He slowed his animal. His companions called out to him no more. He no longer heard them behind him, the jingling of their armor and harness, the thumping of their horses’ hooves.
Curiosity got the best of him, and Guthrie reined in his animal to turn in his saddle to look back once more.
Zanbra and Kroff were gone, that wall of snow shielding all sides of the sergeant.
Guthrie grunted from confusion and noticed even the sounds seemed more distant, as if he was listening to echoes from far off or from the bottom of a well.
“Kroff!” he cried out.
There was no answer. He had expected none. Magic was at work here. The golden aura had told him this, but that glow was already gone. What had happened? Had he been displaced? Had his companions been transported by magic to some other locale? Was the storm itself magical, shielding the sergeant somehow from the knights? Though his own experience with magic was growing, it was still fledgling, at best. Guthrie had no love for magic, and made use of his own talents only in the most dire of circumstances. Experience had taught him those who wielded magic were not to be trusted.
Seeing as he was no longer with his companions and could make out nothing of his surroundings, Guthrie decided to keep riding in the direction he had been going. He took things slow, however, urging his horse ahead one plodding step at a time. Wary, Guthrie reached down and untied the crossbow strapped to the side of his riding beast. Tugging one of the short arrows free of the soft leather quiver on his back, Guthrie placed the arrow against the crossbow. If any enemy should lay ahead, perhaps one of the Dartague wyrd women or worse, he would be ready.
The way forward did not change for the longest time. The snow continued to drop in all directions as if the Ursian sergeant was behind a waterfall of tumbling ice. There was nothing to see but the snow.
Eventually, how long Guthrie could not fathom, there was a slight change somewhere in the distance ahead of him. A spark of light, a yellow blossom low to the ground. Guthrie did not rush forward, but kept his horse’s pace steady while his hands tightened on the crossbow.
After some little more distance, a vague figure took shape ahead. It was huddled over, leaning over a small fire that was not hampered by the constant plummet of the snow. At first the figure was gray, indistinct, but as Guthrie drew closer it gained in depth and outline.
The sergeant drew his horse up. He recognized the person before him. It was an old man wrapped in a heavy fur cloak bearing the stitched outlines of various animals, signs of a number of the Dartague clans. Guthrie had met this man once, a barbarian wizard or shaman of sorts. During that meeting, the sergeant had been on his way to search for a friend, Captain Werner. Why this old man was here, Guthrie could not guess, but the wizard had never done the sergeant any harm as far as Guthrie knew. Still, this was a man of magic, not to be trusted. Guthrie rode forward some little more distance, then slid from his saddle and approached on foot, one hand pulling along his horse while the other hand gripped the crossbow.
The old man looked up from his seated position atop a rock as Guthrie entered the ring of pale light provided by the fire. “In truth, I am not a wizard,” the old man said as if he had read the sergeant’s recent thoughts, a trait Guthrie found annoying in those with magic, though part of him wished he could learn the trick. “Nor am I a shaman. I am also not truly a skald, one of those who works magic through their voice.”
Guthrie halted, remaining polite by keeping his arrow pointed off to one side. “Then what are you?”
The old man grinned. “I am a skein weaver. I see the roads ahead.”
“You can see the future?”
“I can,” the old man said with a nod of his gray head.
“Did you see this?” The crossbow shifted. The arrow sprang.
The old man cried out as the steel tip of the dart sliced through flesh and buried itself in his left arm. He howled as he flopped onto his back and kicked up his stick-like legs from beneath his fur wrappings.
Guthrie dropped his crossbow and rushed forward, pulling along his horse. Leaning over the distraught figure, he grasped the end of the arrow sticking out of the old man’s arm. “Oh, hush up!” Then Guthrie yanked, tearing flesh and scattering more than a little blood.
The skein weaver howled again, wrapping his face in his hands as he cried tears that mingled with blood in the snow around him.
“Good arrows aren’t easy to come by here in the hinterlands,” Guthrie said, glancing at the arrow a moment before wiping it clean on the old man’s cloak. He returned the bolt to its home in the quiver on his back, then stood back from the quivering, whining figure.
The skein weaver cried for some little while, shedding tears and snot, the blood from his arm slowing to little more than a trickle. Eventually he quivered and forced himself to sit up. A muttering of ancient words from his lips sparked a pale light from his right hand, which he placed upon his injury. When the hand was pulled back there was still a bright red scar on the flesh beneath the tear in his clothing, but there was no more crimson flowing.
Spitting off to one side, the old man looked with rage at the sergeant. “I should boil you alive for that!”
Guthrie chuckled. “My apologies, but I have grown quite tired of those with magic controlling my life and killing my friends.”
The weaver lowered his gaze, staring into the fire as his heated emotions seemed to drift away, almost as if he entered a trance. “Yes, your road has been a hard one.”
“You said you have seen my future road?”
“Yes.”
“And what lies upon that road?” Guthrie asked.
The old man held his withered hands out to the fire as if for warmth. “I see many things on your road. Many of them not pretty.”
The sergeant grumbled. “If you are not going to be direct, then send me back to my companions. I have no time to waste.”
The old man looked up again, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Really? Where do you have to go of such importance? Was it to hunt more Dartague witches? Well, I am no wyrd woman, but I am the rarest of Dartague magic users, the skein weaver. Slay me and your job will be done.”
“I tried,” Guthrie said, his eyes holding their own g
lint. “I missed. Meant to hit you between the eyes.”
For a moment the old man stared at the sergeant, then he lowered his gaze again and chuckled. “Yes, you truly meant to slay me. I can see it inside of you. Your anger has grown, at the Dartague, at those of magic, even at your own companions.”
“My companions mean to kill me.”
“Yes, yes, they do,” the old man said, “which is why I brought you away from them.”
“So you were trying to save me, then?”
“Yes and no. I was merely performing the task set before me.”
“Someone else is behind you?”
The old man shook his head. “No. Only the sands of time. The woman, the Sword, she was going to kill you. Only the word of the Spear had spared her hand thus far. You needed saving, and I was the one for it. A matter of circumstance, of fortune, and nothing more. Do not think I have any true love for you, Ursian.”
“Are you telling me Kroff kept Zanbra from killing me?”
The old man nodded.
“But why?” Guthrie asked.
“That you will have to take up with him. I cannot read a man’s heart from such a distance.”
“How far are we from them?”
“Only a matter of miles. A dozen or so.”
Guthrie stared about but the scene looked no different to him, perhaps a little darker. The snow continued to fall all around, creating a shield of white, yet he noticed the flakes did not touch anywhere within the glow of the fire though there was packed snow up to the edges of the small camp site.
