Chapter 5
Though he had looked forward to putting the army behind him, Guthrie Hackett was no coward. He was more than willing to face peril for his country and kin. Besides, he owed it to the men who had fallen under his command. He owed them as much. But he did not find the notion of working with The Holy Order of the Gauntlet to his liking. An utterance from such men could doom an individual. Not even a duke nor bishop would dare to countermand a major order or dismiss a judgment from a knight within the Gauntlet. Only the pope himself held such authority.
The sergeant was opening his mouth to voice his opinion to the captain when the tent’s flaps were brushed aside behind him.
Turning, Guthrie found Pindle sticking his head into the chamber, a look of concern on the man’s features.
“My apologies, sir,” Pindle said with a nod toward his leader.
“What is it?” Captain Werner asked.
“A pair of riders, sir,” Pindle said, “they’ve just come in.”
“What do they have to report?” Werner asked.
“Not sure yet, sir,” Pindle said, “but they’re both in bad shape. Look as if they’ve seen recent action.”
The captain glanced to Guthrie then back to Pindle. “Let us see these men,” he said as he strode forward.
The three wasted no time returning to the winter air of the encampment. The captain’s pair of guards still stood their posts outside the tent entrance, but a sizable number of the militiamen were gathered to one side just outside the camp’s perimeter. The group was mobbing around a pair of tired horses, more than a few curses and angry shouts being thrown up by the mob.
Werner gave Guthrie a curious glance of concern, then rushed forward, the sergeant and Pindle in his wake.
“Make way for the captain!” Pindle shouted out as they neared.
The group of militia turned nearly as a whole to stare at their approaching commander, many of their faces ugly with anger but not toward their leader. As commanded, they parted, allowing Werner and Guthrie and Pindle to march through to the horses.
The sight was one Guthrie had witnessed on some few occasions, one he realized was probably to become more familiar to him in the weeks to come. The horses were nearly dead, froth streaming from their noses and mouths as their chests heaved. The sergeant was surprised the poor beasts were still standing. Worse yet, next to one of the animals and leaning against it was a young man in soft leathers who appeared just as tired as the horses. The fellow’s situation was not improved by a blackened left leg, his high boot and pantaloons there having turned nearly to crisped char. Another man lay at his feet, this man slightly older, though it was difficult to tell since half his face had been caved in and covered with blood; if not for the gentle rising and falling of his chest, the downed man would have appeared dead.
Pindle gasped at the sight as his group came to a halt.
Werner pointed to a pair of militiamen, then to the man laying on the ground. “Carry him to a healer, quick.”
The two men did as they were told, rushing forward, one taking the legs and the other gently lifting from behind the top end of the man seriously wounded. They carried away their obviously doomed comrade, the cold eyes of the crowd watching.
Werner’s words were soft as he turned to the youth leaning against the horse. “Amerus, report.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man nodded with a cringe of pain. “The local temple has been hit, sir.”
Gasps and murmurs sprang forth from the crowd. Werner gritted his teeth. Ursia was a nation led by its church. An assault upon a temple was the highest of sacrileges.
“That must be St. Pedrague’s,” Guthrie stated, identifying the church.
“Beneficence will rage about this,” the captain said. “Go on, Amerus.”
“Me and Winchell were riding patrol just as we’re supposed to,” the young man continued, “when we spotted smoke in the distance. We knew the church lay in that direction, so we went hell bent for leather riding there. When we got there, the place was full of fire, top to bottom. We found the bishop and a few other priests just outside the door.”
“Their condition?” Werner asked.
“Dead, sir. All of them.”
“How were they slain?” the captain asked.
“It looked like the fire had done it,” Amerus said, “but it wasn’t a natural fire, sir.”
“Go on,” from the captain.
“There was a wizard there, sir,” Amerus said. “I know he was a wizard because he was dressed in black robes and the like. And then he started throwing around magic spells and such at Winchell and me. Waves of fire rolled forth from the bastard’s fingers, sir, catching my leg before I could turn my steed away. Poor Winchell, he tried to charge the wizard, but some kind of light shot forth from that monster’s hands and struck Winchell right in the face. It was all I could do to grab his horse’s lead and get him out of there. We rode back here as fast as we could.”
“This man was a Dartague?” Werner asked.
“Didn’t look like it, sir,” Amerus said. “He wore no furs and wasn’t all that big. His head was as bald as a melon, sir. I’ve never seen the like before. Never even seen magic before today. Can’t say I wants to see it again.”
Werner looked to Guthrie. “Do you recognize this mage?”
“Never heard of him,” Guthrie admitted.
The captain sighed. “What new hell is this being visited upon us?”
“Maybe he’s working with the Dartague, sir,” Amerus suggested. “He sure seemed intent upon attacking that church. While we were riding away, I looked back and saw he was sending more of his magic at the temple. Fire and lightning and all kinds of hellish stuff.”
Werner looked to Guthrie again. “You know this church?”
“It’s the only temple for miles,” Guthrie said. “Bishop Bowner was in charge. I’ve attended services there for years.”
“Good, you know the way, then.” The captain turned and pointed to another member of the crowd. “You, Phogol, get Amerus to a healer.”
Phogol rushed forward to do as he was told, wrapping an arm around the wounded man’s shoulders and helping him to limp away.
Werner looked to the sergeant once more. “We’ll take a dozen men. Lead us to the church.” It was not a question, but very much a command even though the captain had no official authority over Guthrie.
But Guthrie would not fight the order. “Yes, sir.”
Turning to Pindle, Werner said, “Round up a dozen of our best, and get us horses.”
“Yes, sir.” Pindle ran off to fulfill his orders.
“And somebody put those poor beasts down,” the captain said, nodding to the horses. “The sad things won’t last another hour.”