Chapter 4
Guthrie was nearly rocked back on his feet. What Tack explained to him made a certain amount of sense. The ice witch had told Guthrie he would be instrumental in hunting down the Dartague witch woman, possibly bringing about a change in the witch’s own fate, her future slaying by one of Ildra’s grand sires. That gem, or whatever it had been, that was thrust down the sergeant’s throat, it must have been magical in nature, imbuing upon Guthrie the ability to see magic in others, perhaps even magic in animals or creatures and magical treasures such as swords and rings and other objects mentioned in fairy tales and histories.
Guthrie would have to test these powers he had gained, but first he would have to make sure no one else knew of his special abilities. He did not understand these powers himself, not yet, but if word got out about him, then he was doomed. Regardless of the circumstances of how he had gained his new skills, they were magical in nature. Magic of any kind could mean a death sentence for him, especially if the magic was not reversible.
A grisly thought came to him then. Would the gem pass through him? Or would it sit in his stomach for the remainder of his days? Whatever would happen, were his new powers permanent or would they pass with time? He was not sure how he felt about this. He was shocked at realizing he now contained within him a certain level of magical power, but other than his ability to see that weird glow around Tack’s body, Guthrie felt no different than he had before. When he had thought about it, he always imagined magic made one feel powerful. If not, why else would wizard’s and their ilk delve into the dark arts?
Guthrie’s shoulders shook, his nerves at work. He blinked, nervously glancing away from the fellow before him. “Tack, thank you for your ... forthrightness. I promise, your secret is safe with me. I will not tell anyone.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tack said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
The sergeant glanced toward the gathering of his newest companions and those with whom Tack had been working. As expected, they were all talking softly among themselves, obviously curious as to why Guthrie had pulled aside this peasant.
“No, thank you, Tack,” Guthrie said. “I appreciate your answers. You may return to your duties.”
The peasant’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Then the man shuffled away.
Shaking off his new concerns, Guthrie marched back to Pindle and the two swordsmen. “We can go on to your captain now.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Roranth said, “what was that all about?”
Guthrie looked over at Tack returning to his chores. Nary a question was tossed at Tack from his comrades, but the former wizard’s apprentice shot Guthrie a nervous glance as he went back to work.
The sergeant’s eyes were hooded as he looked to Roranth. “My apologies, but actually, I do mind being asked. I thought I knew the man, but was wrong. Leave it at that.”
A tense moment followed, the bulky figure of Roranth tightening, straightening as if to spring into action, but then the big man’s shoulders slumped. “Very well. Figured it didn’t hurt to ask.”
Guthrie turned to Pindle. “Lead the way.”
Pindle glanced to Roranth, but seeing his companion had not taken too strongly an offense, he turned away and motioned for the others to follow.
They wound through and around more and more of the smaller tents, but eventually Guthrie spotted the largest tent yet to be seen on the end of the encampment. The tent was not ornate but it did bear stripes of faded green and red, the colors marking it as belonging to someone of import. Standing to either side of the tent’s entrance flaps were two guards in studded leather armor not that different from what Guthrie himself wore. For a moment the sergeant thought they might be Ursian military, but the two wore no special insignia or markings; likely the guards were veterans loyal to their captain.
As the small group approached, Pindle held up a hand to halt them before the guards.
“What do you have here, Pindle?” one of the two asked.
Pindle pointed toward Guthrie. “This is the army fellow we found unconscious on the other side of town. Captain Werner will want to see him.”
The guard who had spoken eyed the sergeant. Guthrie recognized the look. The guard was sizing Guthrie, asking himself how tough a character Guthrie appeared to be. But the look was not a threatening one. The guard was older than Guthrie himself by at least a decade, and there was no hubris of youth about the fellow. Guthrie realized this guard was not trying to prove himself to anyone, but was making sure the newcomer was no threat to the officer inside the tent.
“Very well,” the guard finally said, nodding toward the flaps, “but the mace and knife remain here.”
Pindle looked to Guthrie, his nervous eyes wondering if the Ursian sergeant would balk at the order.
Guthrie smiled and held his arms out wide from his sides. It seemed ludicrous to him that a militia guard would be telling an army man to disarm himself, but this was not his camp. He would likely do the same if he had been in the guard’s position. “Very well,” he said, repeating the guard’s own words, “ but I expect them back upon my exit.”
The guard who had spoken nodded to his companion, also an older man, who rushed forward and lifted Guthrie’s mace and dagger from the sergeant’s belt.
“Go on inside,” the first guard said.
Pindle nodded his thanks and pushed aside the flaps. Guthrie followed into the darkness of the tent, Roranth and Sagurd remaining outside.
The sergeant was not surprised at the open space inside the tent, but he did find the place stifling, more than warm enough to hold at bay the winter outside. In the far back of the large room was a black iron stove, its crooked piping running up to a hole in the top of the tent. Chests and wooden boxes of various sizes and shapes were strewn along the walls of the place, but the center was tidy with a large folding table and two smaller folding chairs. Upon the table’s top were a stack of maps held down by pewter goblets at the corners, a glass ink well with two feathered pens sticking from its opening, and a wooden plate showing signs of having recently sported a meal of bread and cheese, some few crumbs and a couple of dried slices still in evidence. Seated behind the table in one of the chairs was an older man with cropped white hair and a long mustache of similar color drooping from beneath either side of his nose. The man wore a dented bronze chest plate that showed signs of age and wear despite being in decent condition. Strapped to his wide belt was a long sword and a dagger. The man himself was of about average height, but his shoulders were broad and aging muscles still showed beneath his garb as he stretched and stood to face those entering his domain.
“Pindle?” the man asked.
Pindle rushed forward, stopping before the table as he nodded back toward the sergeant. “Captain, this is the army fellow we found on the north side.”
“Captain Werner?” Guthrie said as he approached, stopping next to Pindle.
“Welcome,” Werner said with a curt nod. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you.”
“My understanding is the entire northern force has been wiped out,” Guthrie said.
The captain waved toward the exit. “Pindle, if you would, please?”
“Yes, sir.” Pindle nodded and backed out the opening, closing the flap behind him.
Werner waited for a moment to give Pindle time to move away from the entrance, then reached over and lifted the other small folding chair next to him. “Care for a seat?” he asked the sergeant.
“No, thank you, sir,” Guthrie said. “I prefer to stand. Seems I’ve been off my feet long enough.”
Forcing a grin, Werner replaced the chair where he had found it and dropped into his own seat. “Do you know how long you were out?”
“I believe a few days, sir.”
“Days? You must be famished. I’ll have you some food brought.”
Oddly enough, Guthrie found he was not hungry in the slightest. Had the ice witch’s gem somethi
ng to do with this? Likely. He had been starving before facing the witch. He hoped his appetite would return in time. “Thank you, sir, but I can find something later.”
Werner grunted. “You can stop that ‘sir’ nonsense in my presence, sergeant. It’s been a long while since I’ve served His Holiness in any official capacity.”
“Yes, sir ... I mean, yes.”
Werner grinned again. This time it was less forced. “I’m glad you’ve made it. I’ve needed to talk with someone who was in the north when the troubles began. Someone official, that is, and military. Most of my sources of information have been damned thin so far, but I’ve kept my eyes open and my riders tell me much.”
“Have you been able to get anything out of the two soldiers who survived at the stronghold?”
The captain grimaced. “Sorry, lad, but they didn’t make it. One succumbed this morning, the other just an hour or so ago. You’re welcome to see them, if you like.”
“Did you know their names?”
“Sorry. No.”
Two more of Guthrie’s comrades were dead, men he had likely known by name. How many more would have to die? The sergeant had no clue. This seemed the beginning of a new campaign, not the end of one. There was likely to be much more Ursian blood spilled, perhaps for years and years.
“So, you were stationed at the keep?” Werner asked.
“I had been there a few years. Actually, I’m surprised you’ve not set up camp there instead of here.”
“Not much of the keep left, to be honest,” Werner said. “I’ve a dozen men still there taking care of those who fell, and cleaning up somewhat. Also, Herkaig is further north, closer to the mountains and the Dartague themselves. If they’re going to attack again, I want to see them coming, not wake in the night to find myself surrounded. Are you thinking I’ve picked a bad spot?”
Guthrie shook his head but otherwise ignored the question for the moment, glancing around the tent’s insides once again, the few candles on the table providing light but not quite reaching into the darkest corners. His gaze eventually returned to the captain. “From the looks of your armor and tent, I would guess you were an officer.”
Werner brushed off the remark. “That was a long time ago, before you were born. Since then I’ve been cooling my heels as captain of the guards for the duke over in Corvus Vale. Easy enough job, the pay is well, but not a lot of action. I regret what has happened to our countrymen here in the north, but I’m glad to be on the march again, even if it is just as leader of militia.”
“Your duke didn’t mind losing you?”
“He’s busy bringing up auxiliary troops from the south,” Werner said, “but a lot of good it’ll do all of us. I was sent ahead with the militia to salvage what we could, but that seems to be precious little. The Dartague have had this planned for some while, that much is evident. It must be a strong chieftain to have gotten them to work together.”
“Not a chieftain,” Guthrie corrected, “but a wyrd woman.”
The captain’s eyes went wide. “Really? Now that is a different threat. The priests in Mas Ober will be pissing themselves with glee when they find out there’s a witch behind all this.”
“Perhaps two witches,” Guthrie said.
“How do you mean?”
Guthrie told his story of Ildra and the ice witch, how he and his squad were pulled forth by the initial raid of the village Herkaig, then the larger attack had taken place. The sergeant guessed many smaller raids had taken place early on to draw out some of the troops and to separate them from the safety of the larger garrisons. He freely gave Ildra’s reasoning for sparing his life, but made no mention of the bauble the ice witch had stuffed in his mouth nor the powers that seemed to have emanated within him since. He ended by telling a partial lie, that the ice witch had attacked him and knocked him unconscious.
“Yet she did not slay you,” Werner pointed out. “Odd that. And my reports tell you were found in a bed with a covering of furs over you. Seems the woman wanted you alive for some reason.”
“Perhaps the same reason as the wyrd woman,” Guthrie said.
“Possibly.” The captain nodded. His eyes glazed over as he stared at the pile of maps before him, the man apparently deep in thought. When he looked up, his features were grim.
“We cannot win this, can we?” he said. It was a blunt observation, one that likely would not have come from a younger, less experienced officer. It also happened to be one with which Guthrie himself agreed.
The sergeant nodded. “I see a rather many border clashes in our future.”
“Likely the rest of your lifetime,” Werner said with his own nod.
“Yes, sir, and perhaps beyond. The Dartague don’t have the initiative to try and invade the rest of the nation, nor would they have the numbers, but their mountain ranges keep us from attempting the same to them. This wyrd woman obviously has political clout, which I guess goes along with her magical abilities, but it would take more than one or two powerful witches to stand against our armies.”
“A stalemate, in other words,” Werner said. “Oh, we’ll hit them back, and hard, but in the end little will be accomplished.”
“Yes, sir. It could go on for years.”
“Decades. Maybe a century or longer. It’ll take that long for us to wear them down.”
“Unless something is done about this wyrd woman,” Guthrie said.
The captain nodded again. “That’s a solid point. If we can take her out of the situation, perhaps we could quell any further major attacks along the border. Without her, things might settle down again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Werner’s gaze narrowed. “I told you to stop that nonsense. That’s the third time you’ve done it.”
“Sorry. Force of habit.”
Leaning back in his chair, the captain sighed. “Well, I see only one path to take.”
“What’s that, sir? I mean, Captain Werner?”
“I’ll have to send a rider back to the duke,” Werner said. “We’ll have to have one of the knights from the Order of the Gauntlet up here to deal with this wyrd woman, maybe this ice witch, too. Who knows? They might even send along a whole Gauntlet squad. That would be something to see.”
Guthrie had to admit the truth to the captain’s observations. Members of the Holy Order of the Gauntlet were rarely seen, let alone a squad of the mage hunters.
Werner stood once more. “Thank you, sergeant. My apologies, but I did not catch your name.”
“Guthrie Hackett, sir.”
The captain winked at the sergeant. “Good. I’ll call you Guthrie or ‘sergeant’ as long as you cut out this ‘sir’ garbage.”
“Yes, s- ... yes, captain.”
Clapping his hands together as if to warm them, the heat of the tent apparently not enough for the captain’s old bones, Werner moved around the table. “I’ll have Pindle set you up in a tent for the night, but then we’ll try to find you proper placement come the morrow. I can’t have my only official member of the Ursian military sleeping among the men.”
“Speaking of retiring,” Guthrie said, “there’s something I’ve yet to mention.”
“Oh, what is that?”
“Well ... there’s no other way to say it than to say it, but, I was to be discharged. I did my ten years, sir. If I had been at my garrison, I would likely be a free man by now.”
Werner grimaced. “Sergeant Hackett, if you had been at your garrison, you would likely be a dead man by now.”
“You’re probably right, captain,” Guthrie said, “but I wanted to bring it to your attention. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” Werner asked. “I don’t have the authority to discharge you myself, and after the Dartague attack I seriously doubt any of your officers would allow you to bow out. No, son, I’m afraid you’ve still got a long haul ahead of you. And frankly, I’m surprised you can think of such a thing with all that is going on.”
Guthrie smiled. “I figured as muc
h, captain, but didn’t think it would hurt to find out. I’m not planning on shirking my duty, so I don’t want you to think that, but ...” His words trailed off.
Now it was the captain who smiled. “Oh, I see. You were hoping for a promotion.”
“Something like that, yes.”
Werner chuckled. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see when one of the army officers arrives. With your experience, and considering we just lost so many able-bodied men, I’d guess you’ll have little trouble moving up. Besides, I might be retired from the service, but I can still pull a few strings. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Thank you, captain.”
“Any way, the Gauntlet would likely prefer dealing with an actual officer.”
“The Gauntlet, sir?”
“Yes,” Werner said with a nod. “You’re the only survivor we know of who has had direct contact with the Dartague and this Ildra woman you told me about. As soon as I can get a knight or two from the Gauntlet here, I’m sure they’ll want you to lead them into Dartague after these witches.”