

### MAGE HUNTER

### Part I of V: Blooded Snow

The Ursian Chronicles

by Ty Johnston

** **

a Monumental Works Group author

visit the author's website: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

Copyright © 2012 Ty Johnston

Cover artwork copyright © 2012 Ty Johnston

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at htjohnston@yahoo.com.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### The Ursian Chronicles

(in order of publication)

City of Rogues: Book I of The Kobalos Trilogy

Road to Wrath: Book II of The Kobalos Trilogy

Dark King of the North: Book III of The Kobalos Trilogy

The Kobalos Trilogy OMNIBUS edition

Blade and Flame: short story sequel to The Kobalos Trilogy

Bayne's Climb: Part I of The Sword of Bayne

A Thousand Wounds: Part II of The Sword of Bayne

Under the Mountain: Part III of The Sword of Bayne

The Sword of Bayne OMNIBUS edition

Ghosts of the Asylum

Demon Chains

The Castle of Endless Woe (novelette)

Six Swords, One Skeleton and a Sewer (short story)

Road of the Sword (short story)

Five Tales from The Rusty Scabbard

Mage Hunter: Blooded Snow

Mage Hunter: Sundered Shields

Mage Hunter: Bared Blades

Mage Hunter: Hammered Iron

Mage Hunter: Changeless Fate

for C.L.

1,913 years After Ashal (A.A.)

### Chapter 1

Guthrie counted nine of the barbarian riders in the pass below. Too few to be a raiding party, but larger than a hunting expedition. Still, most of the group bore signs of recent conflict. A pair wore bandages about their heads while another had an arm wrapped in a sling. Here and there were other signs, dented armor, dried blood. What struck Guthrie as most odd was the inclusion of a female riding in the middle of the group. Obviously she was a wyrd woman, her back straight as she sat high in the saddle, her long hair the color of wheat cascading out behind her in the chilled wind as her horse stamped through snow and over rock. If her bearing had not been enough to hint at her vocation, then the many animal-shaped patches stitched into her heavy wool cloak was evidence enough.

"Clan Bear," Thezul whispered at his side.

Guthrie twisted his head around to glare at his comrade. Though high upon a perch behind a boulder, they were not so far above the riders that speaking should be done safely. Besides, it was obvious the clan of the Dartague riders. Each of the men wore heavy coats of thick bear hide about their shoulders and carried long swords with narrow hilts upon their belts.

Thezul shrugged his apology, then slid back and away.

Bringing his hands beneath him to push up, Guthrie spared one more glance to the Dartague below. Nine of them. One wyrd woman. All showing signs of injury except for the witch. This lot had seen trouble. Their proximity to the border and the fact they fit the description given by the survivors of the village of Herkaig meant they were assuredly part of the group Guthrie and his men sought. But he had expected twice their numbers. Not these nine.

He pushed away from the ledge of the boulder and allowed himself to slide down its backside, his studded leather armor scrapping against the ice crusted stone. Landing on his feet, he looked up to find Thezul had already retreated the twenty or so yards back to the clearing among the trees where they had left their steeds and the other four soldiers. Guthrie could see they were already talking amongst themselves, probably asking Thezul questions, but at least they were keeping their voices low.

Grimacing, Guthrie strode toward the group, his left glove gripping the dagger at his side, the other hand hanging in a fist on his right next to the iron-headed mace swinging from his belt.

"You think it's them, sergeant?" Briar asked from horseback as Guthrie approached.

Thezul and the others, all on foot, turned to look at their leader.

Guthrie glanced around the group, noting signs of sloveness but glad to see all of them wore their armor in working order and carried their swords and spears, the shields and crossbows tied to the horses. He nodded. "I think so, but there should be more of them."

"Just what I was saying," Thezul said. "Think they split up?"

"I don't know," Guthrie said, shaking his head beneath the hood of his cloak. "This group is heading west, but I don't know where the others could have gone. There's no path north or east from here that I know of, and it's not likely they would have headed south back into Ursia."

Briar leaned back in his saddle as if stretching, the man raising a hand to shield his eyes as he stared out across the wide valley to the snow-tipped peaks on the other side. "Could they have been crazy enough to try and climb over?"

The sergeant shook his head again. "Probably not. It's more likely they know of a route of which we are unaware, maybe a tunnel or some old animal trail." Something bothered Guthrie, but he could not place a finger upon what it was. He stared out into the thick woods that spread beyond his men, rising gray crags standing out here and there among the snow-dappled greenery.

Turning toward Thezul, Guthrie started, "Did you post a --"

A shaft of wood sprouted from Thezul's throat, gray feathers blossoming at the end of the arrow. Beneath his rounded helmet, Thezul's eyes darted down to glare at the end of the shaft protruding from his neck. His gloved hands shot up, grasping the wood and cracking the arrow, but then his fingers went limp, his eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the ground.

"Archer!" Guthrie yelled, diving toward the nearest cover, which proved to be a long-dead tree that had fallen on its side.

The sergeant was proven wrong, however. There was more than one archer. A half score arrows lanced into his party. Two of the flying javelins caught Briar in his back, causing the man to scream out before dropping from his horse. The other men fared better being on their feet and among their horses, only Jermus taking a direct hit, an arrow lancing his right eye and barreling on through to punch out the back of his skull.

His men scrambling and ducking beneath their riding animals, Guthrie unslung the heavy mace from his belt and lifted it, wishing he had not left his crossbow tied to his saddle.

Another wave of arrows launched into the surviving soldiers. None of the men were hit this time, but the horses did not fare so well. One animal was killed as an arrow thunked deep into its side, only the fletchings proof the arrow had entered flesh and muscle. Several other steeds were injured, shafts baring feathers swaying from their rumps as the animals screamed and jumped before turning and galloping the way they had come up the trail.

Guthrie cursed as his gaze darted here and there looking for an enemy. Only two of the horses were left, the rest having fled or died, and his remaining men were still in the open without bows of their own to give a return to their foes. Worse yet, the sergeant could not make out any signs of their attackers. It seemed obvious the arrows came from Dartague warriors, probably the others who had not been riding below, but Guthrie could see nothing of them. True, the trees were thick all around, but there should have been something to see, movement in the darkness, approaching enemy, something.

More arrows darted forward from the trees. More men died. An arrow punched the ground near Guthrie's face, sending up a spray of snow.

That one had been too close. Guthrie had to do something or all of his men would die.

He rolled back from his hiding spot behind the dead tree and jumped to his feet, screaming all the while with his weapon raised over his head as his hood fell away.

As if to answer him, two more arrows launched in his direction, both missing by only inches as the sergeant dove to one side. Guthrie landed face first in snow, then pushed himself off the ground. He had to keep moving, to keep the assault directed at him while his remaining men scampered to cover.

A glance to one side revealed there was no need.

While he had been rolling and jumping and dodging, the last of the Ursian soldiers had died. Now they all lay unmoving in a circle around one another, blood and a carpet of arrows blooming among their studded leather mail and their dark plum cloaks.

Guthrie slumped to his knees, the cold wet pushing through his woolen breeches. His mace hung at his side, though he had yet to drop the weapon. He had let his men die. All of them. There had been no time to act, the attack coming so swiftly. What else could he have done? He should have noticed when his corporal had not set a watch along their trail. He should have had the men prepare their crossbows as soon as they had dismounted. He should have been prepared for treachery among the Dartague barbarians. After all, these were Dartague lands, and if anyone knew where to set an ambush, it would be those who had dared to attack the village, men familiar with these lands and more than willing to spill blood.

The cold seeping into his legs and his heart, Guthrie almost wished he could die right there, with his men. Almost. By all rights, he should have died. He could yet die. But he vowed to himself it would not be so. He had served his nation and His Holiness well for ten years. He would not be killed now, here, with only a week remaining until his discharge. And he would yet show these barbarians there was a price for raiding into Ursian lands, a price to be paid in blood.

He grimaced as he forced himself to stand, lifting the heavy mace up to his chest. He was not surprised the arrows had stopped. The Dartague were a vicious foe. They would plan to torture him, to flay him alive and to disembowel him. Perhaps to burn him. Then they would set his body upon a tall spike or a spear above the bodies of his men. His corpse would be a warning to other Ursians come seeking revenge.

Guthrie Hackett would have no part of it. He would live. He would escape. To do that, he must run.

He turned to dart into the woods.

A woman stood before him, mere yards away. He blinked at her, recognizing the stoney pale chin, the yellow locks flying around her features, the thick cloak patched with carved skins cut into the shape of bears, eagles, wolves and other beasts. He would have thought her beautiful at any other time, if his men were not dead behind him.

He raised his mace, its round head aimed at her. "You!"

She said nothing then, her blue eyes flashing at him as men moved up from behind her. There were more than a dozen of her fellows, big men wearing mail thrown together in piecemeal fashion from scavenged or stolen armor over the years, their shoulders covered in bear furs, each of them wielding a mighty sword.

One moved to step around the wyrd woman, but she thrust out a hand to grasp him by an elbow. He turned to look at her, her gaze softening the large warrior. He stepped back, away from the Ursian sergeant and the woman, his look less bent upon horror as it had been but a moment earlier.

She turned her gaze upon Guthrie. He found it a cold look but not one filled with menace.

"What do you want of me?" he asked.

"Never to return," she said.

Guthrie could not trust those words. He and his men had invaded Dartague territory. The Dartague did not tolerate such and did not leave survivors of those who would dare.

"You do not believe me," the woman said. "I can see it in your eyes."

"Even if your word is true," Guthrie said, "the Dartague do not take orders from a woman, even a wyrd woman."

A smile crossed the woman's thin, pale lips. "You know little of our kind."

"I know enough," Guthrie said with gritted teeth, shaking his weapon before him to show he meant his words. "I've been stationed along the border of Dartague for years. I've seen the results of your raids, your thievery and butchery."

The witch's head tilted slightly to one side, her gaze one of curiosity. "I thought your face was familiar."

The sergeant's features went pale. "How?"

"We watch the border towns, the villages, the keeps. Even the tents your men erect while moving about. We can see much from here in the mountains."

Guthrie's gaze drifted to look the barbarian men in their faces, one by one. All were quite, stoic. They were ready to strike, but the wyrd woman kept them at bay.

"You recognized me from below," she said.

He nodded. "You move deceptively fast. It took my men and myself hours to climb to this spot on horseback."

The woman's grin widened. "I was never on the trail. You saw what I wanted you to see."

"Ah." The woman had used her magic to delude him and his men while her warriors had been climbing. Or had the Dartague already been in wait, knowing their prey would make use of the most natural of hiding spots?

The smile vanished from the woman. "Now go." She pointed the direction the horses had gone. "If you hurry, you might be able to catch one of your animals."

Was there trickery here? Guthrie thought not, but he did not know. The Dartague were not above attacking from ambush, as evidenced by the bodies of his squad, but they were generally not ones for great subterfuge nor betrayal. Would an arrow in his back be payment for turning and fleeing? And could he live with himself if he did such? He looked down to the dead. Could he live with himself knowing he was the only survivor while those under his command had perished?

Yes. Yes, he could. There would be rough nights for perhaps years, but it was better to be alive than to act foolishly for little cause and perish.

Guthrie lowered his weapon but did not drop it nor return it to the loop on his belt. If he could leave here without further bloodshed, then he would do so. Otherwise, the outcome would not be in his favor. Dying here served no purpose. His death would not avenge his comrades nor serve His Holiness in protecting the borders.

But he was still confused.

"Why do you do this?" he asked of the woman.

She chuckled. "For you to spread the word. The Dartague will no longer stand for the incursion of you Ursians upon our mountains and our forests. Tell your people this. Tell them that if they continue to send soldiers into our lands, our raids will only worsen. Your fields will run red with the blood of your children."

The grip tightened on Guthrie's mace. "You would actually harm a child?"

"An Ursian child? Yes," the witch said, her voice solid. "It would bring me no pleasure, but it would mean one less enemy for future generations of my own kin. You may look down your nose at us, calling us barbarians and the like, but your own kind have done more than their share of butchery."

"You raid our towns!" Guthrie shouted. "You kill our people and steal our crops!"

The woman's voice grew in pitch and volume. "Only after you Ursians intruded upon our lands and our ways, spreading the worship of your god ... this Ashal! We have no need of your petty southern god! We have our own ways, and we mean to keep them. If that means the life of every Ursian must be spilled upon the earth, then so be it! Leave us be and your people will survive. Otherwise, let what comes fall upon your own heads!"

She turned away then, her rough cloak swinging out and around her as she marched through the warriors. Guthrie's gaze followed her back for a moment, but then he noticed the shifting of the men. They were moving between him and her, and edging closer. If she were truly going to let the Ursian live, Guthrie believed he needed to leave soon, especially after the heat of their last words.

No time like the present, he told himself. Let's see if they mean to keep their word.

He turned his back upon his foes, upon those who had slain his countrymen. Without a look to the dead, he walked away. With each step he expected an arrow in the back, or to hear the battle cry of the Dartague as the warriors rushed him.

But there was only quiet.

And the snow began to fall in lazy drifts, the flurries wetting his eyelids as he tromped and tromped.

Upon reaching a rise in the land, Guthrie spotted one of the Ursian steeds standing below in a shallow glen. He stopped atop the hill, pausing long enough to catch his breath and to look back one last time.

The Dartague were gone, as were the corpses of his men. He had not heard the bodies carried away. The only remaining sign of violence was the blooded snow.

### Chapter 2

The horse did not survive. Guthrie had had little trouble catching the beast, but he soon discovered the animal had lost its packs loaded with food and blankets. After the ruckus with the Dartague, all that had remained on the horse was its saddle and tack and harness. If the sergeant had not needed the beast, he might have slain it to put it out of its misery, but as things had stood there had been a week's ride ahead of him.

The going was tough. The snow had been drifting lazily for weeks before Guthrie and his men had encountered the barbarians, but now the winter closed its mighty fist along the border between Dartague and Ursia, the northern mountains belching forth daily snows to cover the land. The white landscape could cause a man to lose his bearings and go blind if not careful. Fortunately for him, Guthrie Hackett was a careful man. He cut strips from his tunic to create wraps for his eyes, only a thin slit allowing through the blinding light of the sun that emanated off the snows all around. Food was more difficult to come by, though water was aplenty, a mouthful of snow enough to slake one's thirst. The horse managed to find some scrub here and there to munch upon, enough to keep the beast going for some little while but not enough to hold its strength. The sergeant fared little better, cursing his luck more than once for not having a bow available for hunting, but he created a makeshift spear from his dagger and a sturdy branch found along his path. That spear brought food in the manner of rabbits and other smaller creatures that ventured forth into the weather. At least the snow made tracking no difficult matter.

Guthrie was no woodsman, but he had spent enough time hunting in and near the wilds to know his way back to the village. His horse managed to survive for four days, then the Ursian set out on foot. Five more days of plowing through snow and across ice brought him down from the mountain paths and into the flatlands of northern Ursia, his homeland. Here he could see to the horizon. What he saw was a sea of white, some hints of trees here and there.

Another day and he spotted a large break on the horizon. Herkaig, the village the Dartague had attacked. He had been drawn here not because of the region's recent history, but because it had been the closest settlement to him. Even the fort where he was stationed was another dozen miles beyond.

Ahead there was no sign of smoke from any chimneys, but he hoped there was still someone alive, or at least some food and perhaps a horse or mule. Stamping through the white, his heavy boots leaving deep tracks in his wake, he waded forward. The going was rougher in some ways, the snow deeper on the plains than it had been in the mountain passes, bringing new levels of pain to his weak legs. He was tired and hungry, but an end was in sight.

Tromping into the edges of the village, Guthrie found battered doors hanging open among the stone and lime cottages. His shoulders slumped at the sight. His head shifted from side to side, hoping to hear anything of the living, but the only sound that came to him was the howl of the winter's wind upon the flats.

When he had left here weeks earlier, the place had been a wreck, dead bodies everywhere and blood splashed upon the buildings. But there had been survivors, people trying to put their lives back together. It had been the local sheriff who had called upon Guthrie's captain at the stronghold, seeking aid against the Dartague raiders. Guthrie had been dispatched with the others, a squad far too small in number for the appointed task of rounding up or slaying the guilty Dartague. The captain himself had been too busy entertaining a local knight to take part, and other men could not be spared from their daily tasks of guarding the main northern road that ran from east to west, the largest road in this part of Ursia.

Glancing within the darkness of an empty hovel, the sergeant cursed his luck. Sent to do an impossible job, he was the only survivor, and there was no assurance he would yet survive. He needed proper food and warmth. The day was still fairly early, but he would sleep here tonight within one of the stronger structures.

Moving on to the next building, a larger one, he hoped yet to find food. His guess was the inhabitants had fled the winter storm after their numbers had been decimated, likely fleeing to the stronghold. Guthrie only hoped he could survive long enough to join them. His own reserves were beginning to grow weak.

At the next house he paused before the opening where a door had once hung but was now missing. A look inside revealed little at first, the gloom more than his eyes could reach through for the moment, but a shifting of the clouds above stretched the sun's cold rays into the doorway. A pair of wool-clad legs stuck out from the shadows.

Guthrie paused. Then he lowered a hand to the handle of his mace at his belt. There had been plenty of dead when he had left behind Herkaig, but there had also been an effort to remove the corpses and prepare them for burial. Whomever this dead person was at the sergeant's feet, it was likely they had died since Guthrie had left the village with his men. He leaned forward, nearly squatting, and stared into the shadows. His suspicions were proven correct when his eyes cleared of the gloom and he could make out the stone-like blue features of a dead man stretched out in front of him. The poor fellow had frozen to death before the open slice to his stomach had killed him. But why had he been left behind when the others had fled?

A sound to one side brought the sergeant's head around. But there was nothing to see. Only the village path that ran straight through two lines of the stone buildings. Beyond either end of the street was the open expanse of the flatlands. Guthrie couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here in the middle of nowhere, especially this far from a main road, but he supposed farmers had their reasons.

Another sound. This one louder. It had been like a cracking twig beneath one's feet. It had come from behind and to the left.

Guthrie spun about, hefting his weapon. Still, nothing. Across the way was another cold home, this one with most of its doors and shutters remaining though battered and hacked. Had the noise come from within there? He was not sure he wanted to know. If there was anyone else here, they were likely either to be in a bad way or to not be overly friendly, or perhaps both. Guthrie had not enough strength to care properly for someone ill or wounded, and no doubt he was too weak to combat an enemy.

But if an enemy, who could it be? He had seen no tracks through the snow other than the ones he himself had left behind. True, the snow fell often enough it could have covered another's trail mere hours earlier, but who would be slinking around this dead village without a horse and without a fire?

Someone who was up to no good, that was who. Someone who had been waiting, perhaps waiting for Guthrie himself. Or some scavenger, a beast braving the weather for a meal. Could the Dartague have changed their mind about allowing him to live? Not likely. The northern tribes weren't known for their fickleness.

Fear growing in his tight stomach, the sergeant recognized there was nothing to do but to push through a door of the building across the way from him. If there was a foe inside waiting, then so be it. He would not be hunted, and the anticipation was nearly as bad on his nerves as would be actual combat.

Guthrie strode forward, his mace held high. He kicked out at the door, snapping it back on its hinges. Trickling dust and snow were all that greeted him.

He stood his ground for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows of the place. He waited, but nothing untoward happened. Pushing ahead, he ducked as he entered the home. Weak sunlight through the cracks in the shutters revealed a small place that had probably been quite homely once upon a time. A simple table of pine with two chairs, a cold stove in the back wall with another chair next to it. Scattered here and there various garments and belongings that had been tossed about during the raid. A door at the back hung open to show further darkness beyond. Realizing the opening in the back probably led to a bedroom, Guthrie promised himself to keep it in mind when he decided to rest.

But first, seeing as there was no enemy, he would search for food. His stomach grumbling, his last meal having been eaten nearly a day earlier, he lowered his weapon and trudged further into the house. Whatever sound he had heard had likely been nothing more than a piece of wood drying in the brittle cold, or perhaps one of the houses settling.

Near the fireplace he found several black iron pots. Removing their lids he found them empty. Likely spilled during the fighting, if there had even been food within them. Glancing around, Guthrie sought a cupboard or a hanging ham or anything. But there was no immediate evidence of food. Had the Dartague taken it all with them? Possible.

A shadow moved across the open entrance.

Guthrie's mace came up again as his gaze darted toward the door he had left open upon entering.

Nothing further stirred. Through the door he could spy puffy drops of snow flittering down from above to sleep upon the ground.

"Who is there?" he called out.

No answer.

"I am more than willing to defend myself," he shouted. "I am armed and a trained soldier of His Holiness Beneficence the Second!"

Again, no answer.

At first.

Then a dour cackling whispered upon the wind. Weak to the ears, as if a spirit calling from beyond the grave.

Guthrie did not like that sound. It spoke of the unusual, the supernatural. It spoke of magic. In his world, magic was evil. There was no such thing as a good wizard or witch except a dead one. Magic was feared so much within the nation of Ursia, the punishment for spell casters was death. Magical creatures were not tolerated, but put to the blade. Foreigners practicing magic were barred from entering the lands, and the Ursians were not above slaying mages who lived near their borders. This was another reason the Ursians were rarely on friendly terms with the Dartague, the barbarian northerners allowing wyrd women and skalds within their midst to practice enchantments and sorcery.

Whether the source of the dark laughter outside the hovel's door was human or not, Guthrie feared eldritch powers were at work. No normal person sounded like that, as if they were a risen corpse tittering at the foolishness of those still living.

His grip tightened on his weapon as he took a step forward.

That distant, maniacal laughter came again, almost hollow as if it came across a long distance or from deep within a well.

Guthrie halted once more. His free hand slid his dagger free of its leather binding.

There were no new sounds, only the familiar ring of the haunting wind upon the plain.

Enough of this. He charged forward, his lack of patience getting the best of him. Rushing out the doorway, he dodged to one side and lifted his mace across his face as a shield as his dagger snapped out ready to strike.

There was nothing. The dead man's unmoving legs still extended from the shadows of the doorway across the narrow road. The wind still howled overhead as the sky grayed to the color of a dying fish's belly. Flecks of snow sauntered down from upon high, adding to the growing drifts along the sides of the houses. Guthrie's trail continued back the way he had come, toward the mountains along the distant northern horizon.

He straightened and lowered his weapons. I have been alone too long. My mind is playing tricks on me.

His blade was nearly returned to its sheath when he spotted movement out of the corner of his left eye. Guthrie spun. There! He could have sworn he had seen something fluttering past at the end of the row of houses. It had been but a blur it had moved so fast. There had not been enough time to catch details, but Guthrie had an impression of a thin, gauze-like garment floating out behind a person as they lunged behind the house at the end on his left.

Now anger grew within the sergeant's breast. Someone was playing games with him. Whether the games were innocent or deadly, he had had enough of them. If his tormentor should be skilled with magic, then it was time to discover how well magic held up against the cold iron of a spiked, rounded mace.

Guthrie took off at a run, the tired muscles of his legs suddenly given new strength by the rage that had built inside him. His heavy boots jogged over the snow, the way made easier because he had already leveled this path upon his tromp into the village.

Rounding the corner of the last house on the left, the sergeant opened his mouth for a roar as he raised his mace and dagger. Then his legs slowed and his weapons lowered once more.

Again there was nothing.

Beyond the edge of the village was the whisping pale view of the land, the wind bringing up more snow than was falling by gusting along the surface of the packed white powder.

Guthrie cursed and ripped away the cloth strips that had helped shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and the snow. He slung the wad to the ground and stomped on it, cursing once more.

By rights he should have been released from his service to the army. All he needed were the official papers from his captain. He should have been in an inn somewhere with his feet up, a warm bowl of stew before him with an ale, perhaps an arm wrapped around a woman. Was it too much to ask after ten years in the pope's service? Apparently so. Instead of being a free man for the first time since he had been a teen, he was stuck in this frozen wilderness playing games with the dead.

No more.

He slammed his dagger into its home and slung his mace on his belt, then turned back along the path between the houses built of stones. He would find food, build a small fire and slink away to sleep in a bed somewhere. In the morning he would travel the distance to the stronghold, give his report, write letters to the family members of his slain men, then ask the captain for his pay and his letter of discharge. With any luck within a week he would be someplace warm, looking for a new manner of living besides hacking away at barbarians between relentless months upon months of tedium, sifting through merchants' wagons, standing guard duty in the cold beneath a tower, running errands for the officers or the stray knight, protecting caravans, watching over peasants who spoke snide words about the soldiery behind the men's backs ... Guthrie could go on. Soldiering was a thankless business. Always had been.

But regrets about his past life and dreams for the future fled from his mind as he neared the open doorway where he had discovered the dead man.

The man was still dead, his legs still sticking out the door, but he was no longer alone.

Guthrie reached for his mace.

"There will be no need for your weapons," the woman said, if she was indeed a woman. The sergeant had never seen her like before, but he had heard stories here in the north about ice witches. She was a head taller than himself, and Guthrie was no short man, though her form was slender beneath the tattered brown rags that draped across her body. Children often held to beliefs of witches as ugly beasts, but the creature before him was quite stunning, her face slender, her lips a dark shade of coal, her eyes black and shaped like almonds, her ears ... here the woman's resemblance to humanity ended. Her ears were narrow and rose to points. Her flesh was a pale azure, the color of ice beneath the snow. The hair of the witch was as black as oil, and hung in strands from her head like dead snakes.

Despite her words, he hefted his mace, the smooth leather wrappings of the club sliding through his right hand until he felt the weapon's weight balancing at the end of his reach.

"If you have plans to slay me," Guthrie said, "I wish you would get about your business instead of lurching from shadow to shadow."

She grinned. It was an impish grin, almost girlish, but the sharpened teeth beyond her thin lips revealed a darker side to this woman.

"I have no wish for your death, sergeant," she said. "Quite the opposite, actually."

Guthrie's eyes narrowed. How had she known his rank? He had yelled out he was a soldier, but he had never mentioned ... then it struck him. How silly to have forgotten. The helm hanging on his back from his belt held the insignia of his station.

"What do you want of me?" he asked.

"Assurance," the ice witch said. "Assurance I am to live for many years yet to come."

Her answer made no sense to the Ursian. "I do not bargain with sorcery. Whatever you have planned for me had best be forgotten."

She cackled, the sound proof it had been her who had made the noise earlier. "So little do you know."

"You are right. There is much I do not know." He waved his mace around to indicate the village where they stood, him in the road and her next to a corpse. "I suppose you are the reason the farmers have fled."

"No," she said. "They left without my prodding."

"Do you expect me to believe you?"

"Believe what you will, but I brought no harm to these simple folks. Why would I? They have never done ill to me. For that matter, none of them even knew of my existence. It is only recently I have returned to this region, having come down by the mountain trails you yourself plodded a day ago."

"And why did you not stay in your own lands?"

"Because I have need of one such as yourself," the witch said. "I need a soldier, a leader of men, someone who has the ear of the Ursian commanders."

Guthrie guffawed. "You are a witch! By law I should smash in your skull and burn you at the stake!"

She smiled again. "Yes, you Ursians have no love for my ilk, do you? But what you do not know, sergeant, and what many of your countrymen have already learned, is that I am not your enemy. You have a foe far more deadly than myself."

Guthrie's eyes narrowed. "Of what do you speak?"

"The Dartague," she said.

"The Dartague are border raiders, little more. Every few years they send a party into our lands, claiming vengeance for our priests spreading the faith of Ashal, all the while pillaging."

"What you say has been true in the past," the witch said, "but no longer. A number of Dartague clans have gathered under one leader. They have declared they will drive the Ursians away from their borders, forever."

He spat into the snow. "The Dartague are barbarians, little more. They fight among themselves so much they could never present a true threat to Ursia."

"To your nation as a whole, perhaps, but their numbers are quite large, more than enough to force your garrisons further south."

Guthrie had heard enough talk. The witch was boring him with nonsense. He shrugged at her. "What evidence do you have for any of this?"

"Look around you," she said. "Where are the villagers?"

"They fled," Guthrie said. "That much is obvious."

"But why?"

"That I do not know, and frankly, I'm not sure I care. I was to be discharged from the army this very day. As soon as I see my commanding officer, I can take off my sword."

The woman's eyes grew wide with surprise. "A veteran, then. All the better."

"I have told you, I will not do your bidding."

"Perhaps," the witch said, "but what would you say if I told you it was the Dartague who drove off the villagers?"

Guthrie glanced around at the empty buildings with the broken doors and busted window shutters. "I would say you are wrong. I was here after the Dartague raid. There were a number of villagers dead and many wounded, but they were not ready to run."

"They would and did when a larger force came upon them from the mountains."

Guthrie's face screwed up in confusion. "Witch, do you even know of what you speak? I've just returned from hunting the very raiding party that struck here."

"Yes, and while you were traipsing through the mountains on a fool's errand, a small army descended here. If not for the snow, you would see the obvious signs of the march."

"This makes no sense."

"You were deceived, sergeant, lured into a trap. You and your men. All along the border, for hundreds of miles, there were minor skirmishes and raids. All on the same day at approximately the same time. A dozen or more villages were raided, but not too harshly, not enough to cause the locals to flee nor seek the protection of larger forces. Your own men were only involved because of the nearness of your fortifications to this village. Elsewhere, local sheriffs rounded up small groups of men and went hunting for revenge. Most of them likely have found death, though some few might have been allowed to survive, like yourself."

"What are you saying?" Guthrie asked, his weapon lowering, nearly forgotten. "Why would the Dartague do this?"

"To lure out small groups of your men, to make sure your villages were left without protectors."

What she said made some sense. It was an old tactic, but not one familiar to the Dartague. A small force attacks before pulling back, then when hunters are sent out, a larger group of warriors drives in to finish off an unprotected village, all the while an ambush is laid for the hunters themselves. Such strategies had worked in wars of the past. But the Dartague did not fight this way. They were not treacherous.

"I see by the look in your eyes you are still not quite believing," the witch said.

"It does not seem like something the Dartague would do," Guthrie said.

"Oh, how little you know of the Dartague."

"I have lived within their reach for several years now."

"And you have learned nothing," the witch said. "You know only what you have seen, what some few prisoners or slaves have told you. All of it lies. All of it meant to lull the senses of you Ursians."

"Are you saying some kind of major attack has been in the works for years?"

"The Dartague always have plans for an attack against foreign enemies. Always. It is why they fight among themselves so often, to strengthen their arms and their stomachs against the ferocity of war."

The sergeant shook his head. "I still don't understand. Why would the Dartague attack here a second time? Why would they lure out the fighting men all along the border?"

"Because they seek annihilation of your kind," the woman said, adding, "at least along the border, within their own grasp. They have no desire to fight a war all the way to your capital of Mas Ober, but they will no longer tolerate the interference of your priests and your soldiers at the very steps of their homeland."

"Then ... the villagers here, they fled a second wave of attack?"

She nodded. "Yes, a much larger attack, hundreds of bulky warriors in their furs and carrying their swords and spears."

"Then where is this Dartague army?"

"They have moved on."

"To where?"

"To your fort."

"What?"

"My guess would be by now the Ursian stronghold at the crossroads has already been taken, the soldiers slain and the officers tortured. Some few might have been fortunate enough to escape."

Guthrie stood up straighter, his voice rising. "When did this happen?"

"Likely within the last day or so," the ice witch said. "I have been here, waiting for you, so I have not been following the marching Dartague."

Ignoring any danger the woman might represent, Guthrie turned away from her, facing the cold flatlands once more. He stood there motionless, his eyes staring across the ocean of white to the mountains. If what she said was true, then there would be hundreds, possibly thousands, of his countrymen dead all across northern Ursia. The Dartague plan, as the sergeant understood it, made some sense. The barbarians took out the local men of fighting age without drawing the immediate threat of the army, then once rested and furnished with supplies from the very villages they had assaulted, the Dartague moved in to wage war on the local troops. It was not actually the plan of a genius, but it was more complex than any strategy Guthrie had witnessed from the uncouth barbarians. His mind was already altering, changing how he thought of these men and women who had been his foe for years.

"Do you know the outcome of the battles along the border?" he asked

"No," she said, "at least not yet. I have my ways of discovering such information, but at the moment I am more concerned with you."

"Me?"

"I was drawn to you after Ildra allowed you to live."

"The wyrd woman?"

"Yes, that is her. I have had my sights on her for some time, which is why my gaze fell upon you."

"What do you have to do with any of this?"

"Little," the witch said. "I am no friend to the Dartague and, despite your own countrymen's wrath against my kind, I have never done harm to one of your own."

Guthrie thrust up his hands. "Then why are we here? Why am I here?"

"You are here because your captain sent you forth to hunt down a small party of raiders," the woman said, "but the truth is you were played a fool and your Ursia will suffer along with you. You came to this village to seek aid, but instead you find me. I am here because I have been awaiting you. For my safety, the weather is my own doing. Once your stronghold has been taken, the Dartague are more likely to remain there for a few days if there is a storm blowing across the land. I wanted to keep them there long enough for us to meet."

His shoulders slumping, hope fled from Guthrie's features. His country attacked, many dead, and him miles from any safe haven. And still he was not out of the army. Most likely he would never be discharged now, not if the witch was right that a major border conflict had now erupted. The sergeant had no hatred for the army, but he had done his ten years and was ready to move on to a more simple, less dangerous life. But now that was not likely to happen.

Still, he did not know what the witch wanted with him. He turned to face her once more, placing his back against the wide expanse of the snow-covered realm.

"Why have you sought me out?" he asked.

She grinned yet again. "Finally we are getting to the heart of the matter."

"Which is?"

"I have seen the years to come," the witch said. "I have seen my own fate. My kind live for many of your lifetimes, for thousands of years, but we can be killed. My doom lies within the wyrd woman Ildra."

"She is to slay you?"

"No, it is her grandson."

"Her grandson?"

"Yes, he will use a weapon of flame to burn me alive. I have seen this with my ancient sight. It will come true many years from now unless I do something to subvert the future, to change the path of fate."

Guthrie's eyes narrowed once more. "If you think I am going to hunt down and kill this woman for you, then you are a fool."

The witch cackled. "You will have no choice in the matter. Your military leaders will not give you a choice. They will make you go forth to kill. It is Ildra who is behind this uprising of the Dartague. The wyrd women play a unique role in the society of the northern tribes, part priestess, part witch, but one who can master true power can rise above her station and take the reins of control, becoming master of even the chieftains themselves, including the High Chief."

The sergeant nodded. "I won't disagree with you about my future. When I find a garrison or a marching regiment, I'm sure I'll be pulled into duty regardless of my years of service. But that would have happened anyway. None of this explains why you have chosen me for your needs."

"Because you know Ildra by sight, for one thing," the woman said. "She allowed you to live to spread the message of the Dartague might and wrath, but what she does not know is the situation will be turned upon her. You will deliver a message of death to her."

"And why should I do this?"

"Because I will present you a gift, one that will allow you to hunt her down. Would you not want to use such to end the hostilities as soon as possible?"

"I might," Guthrie said, "but I would be a fool to take a present from you."

One of the witch's slim hands disappeared within the folds of her thin garb, a moment later showing itself again and stretching out toward the Ursian. Within the palm of that blue hand was a bauble, a gem glinting of gold and light. "It is yours. Take it."

"I think not."

"Take it!"

"No." He turned away from her once more. "I will fight the Dartague again, but I will do so on my own terms, as a man and as a soldier. Most importantly, I will fight as an Ursian, without the help of your ... magic."

There was a rush of movement behind the sergeant. He swung around, expecting an attack from the angered woman, and swatted out with his mace.

She was too fast for him. Her slender frame sidestepped his blow as easy as a snake sliding away from a stomping boot. Now in front of him, practically on top of him with her height, she thrust out a boney hand, the long fingers wrapping around the soldier's throat.

Guthrie choked and tried to pull back, but the grip holding him was like that of an iron vice. Not able to retreat, he slashed up with his weapon, hoping his iron-headed club would break her hold on him.

But his blow was weak. There had been little room for a proper swing. The ice witch barely registered as the iron head of his mace glanced across her thin but strong arm.

Then it was he saw her other hand held in a fist against her jaw next to her eyes that bore into him.

"I will not be denied!" she called out.

Her fist struck forward, slamming into his face. The blow was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Guthrie Hackett had seen his share of combat over the years, and he had experienced more than a few brawls, but never had he been struck so hard, not even by men twice the girth of this witch.

His head snapped back and a numbness rolled over him. For a moment he feared his neck broken, but then the woman dropped him, allowing him to fall back onto the snow, and despite the pain now blazing away in his jaw, he was relieved to feel that pain and the cold and damp on his back.

Before he could roll away or prepare to ward off an attack, the witch woman was upon him. She planted her reed-like legs on either side of his chest and sat atop him as if they were lovers. One hand grabbed him by the jaw and tugged, causing him to scream out in pain. Her other hand rushed forward, still a fist. But that fist opened at the last moment before connecting with him and Guthrie felt something cold and hard land on his tongue.

He tried to scream and spit, but the witch shoved up on his jaw, clamping closed his mouth. His mace dropped, his hands flailed away at his opponent, hoping to grab anything, to break anything, to cause her pain, to shove her aside, anything.

A faint warmth rolled over him then and Guthrie felt his head go light. His fingers continued to claw at the woman, but they did no good and were only growing weaker. He felt the strength flooding from his body, draining away like water in a sieve. His fighting arms soon lost all their strength and fell atop his chest. The witch withdrew her hands and sat there watching him.

Guthrie groaned, then darkness crept in at the edges of his vision.

"When you awake, you will be a different man," the woman said, "and your destiny will have altered forever."

She had other words, many words, but they were lost to the sergeant. The darkness swamped him and his eyes fluttered closed. He knew no more for some while.

### Chapter 3

"You think he's alive?"

Guthrie bolted upright into a sitting position, his lungs gasping for air, his vision swimming. He shook as if fevered, a chill running along his body. What had happened? The witch had forced him to the ground, then thrust something into his mouth. After that ... he was not sure. Darkness. Dreams of wading through a black pool. No. Yes. Maybe. He did not know.

What he did know, however, was that someone had spoken and those words had broken the spell under which he had lain. As he eyes began to focus, he could make out a dim room, light filtering through a window in which the shutters had been pulled from the wall. Leaning in front of him was a ragged-looking fellow, a man in wool leggings and a heavy coat of wolf fur. The stranger's nose was hooked, his face marked with pocks of some long ago illness, yet there seemed to be genuine concern in his eyes.

Guthrie sensed other figures in the room, and soon enough he could make out two more men, burly fellows in fur wrappings, swords at their waists.

One of those chuckled. "It would seem he lives, Pindle."

The man leaning forward, his face not far from Guthrie's own, stood straight with his hands on his hips. "It's a miracle he didn't freeze to death."

Glancing down at himself, Guthrie found he was still garbed and his weapons were on his belt. He was sitting on a ramshackle bed, a covering of some kind of gray pelts now bunched together at his knees, obviously having fallen from him when he had lifted up. He glanced around again and realized he was still in Herkaig, nestled away in one of the stone houses.

"Who are you?" Guthrie felt his throat was dry as he croaked out the words.

The two men with swords chuckled together.

The fellow in front of the sergeant grinned. "My name is Pindle. These other two are Sagurd and Roranth. I'm guessing you're a survivor from the stronghold, from the looks of you one of the soldiers."

Guthrie shook his head as if to clear away the last of the cobwebs in his thoughts. "No. Yes. I mean, not exactly. I was not there during the attack."

Pindle looked to the others, then back to Guthrie. "Then how do you know there was an attack? Were you there afterward?"

"It is a rather complicated story." Guthrie rolled to one side, planting his feet on the floor but remaining seated for the moment. "My thanks for your tending to me."

"We didn't do anything," one of the swordsman said, "just found you here. Surprised you're alive, to be honest."

Guthrie ran his gloved fingers through his hair to brush back the dark locks from above his eyes. He felt around behind him and discovered his helmet had been removed from his back, the steel object now resting near the head of the bed. Retrieving the salet helm, he snapped it atop his head and tied its straps beneath his chin. "How long since the keep was attacked?"

Pindle looked to the others again, confusion clear on his face. "Three days ago. Why?"

The sergeant cursed.

"What is it?" a swordsman asked.

Guthrie pushed himself off the bed until he was standing, swaying on his booted feet before steadying himself. "I've been out for at least those three days, maybe longer."

"This is a story we'd like to hear," a swordsman said.

Now on his feet, Guthrie ignored the last speaker's prodding for the moment and took in a better look at the three in the chamber with him. The door to the hovel was open and he could spy movement out there, men rushing back and forth. The sound of work came to his ears, men hammering and moving about, talking, orders being yelled. Looking at his new companions again, Guthrie noted they wore not uniforms nor bore official sigils or colors of any kind.

"Militia?" he asked.

Pindle nodded. "Yes, sir. We came up from further south after word reached us about the Dartague."

"My thanks again, Pindle," Guthrie said, then nodded to the others, "and to you Sagurd and Roranth."

"What be your name?" one of the two asked.

"Guthrie. Guthrie Hackett."

"You wear a soldier's cloak," Pindle said.

Guthrie nodded. "I'm a sergeant with His Holiness' army."

"Then why weren't you at the stronghold when it was hit?" a swordsman asked.

"Sagurd?" Guthrie said to the man.

"No, I'm Roranth," the fellow said.

Guthrie nodded again. "I was sent with a squad into Dartague before the attack occurred. This village was struck by a raid, and we were to exact His Holiness' vengeance."

"Where's the rest of your squad?" Roranth asked.

"Dead," Guthrie said. "All of them. The Dartague only let me survive because they wanted someone to tell the tale."

The two swordsmen clucked at the misfortune.

"Seems it's not a good week for the army," Sagurd said.

"Were there any survivors from the keep?" Guthrie asked.

"Few," Pindle said. "Some of the servants managed to run away before the worst of the fighting."

"What about the soldiers?"

"A couple," Pindle said. "Both men are in bad shape. They were left for dead, but somehow they lived through it."

"Their names?"

"I don't know for sure," Pindle said. "Our captain likely does, or we can point you to the hospitalers. They'd know."

"Where are these two men now?" Guthrie asked.

Pindle jabbed a thumb toward the door. "One of the larger buildings on the edge of town has been taken for use as a shelter."

"There are other wounded, then?"

"Oh, aye," Pindle said. "Probably a dozen altogether. The fighting didn't end at the keep. Those Dartague bastards have been waging battle all up and down the border. That's why we got together and charged on up."

"This captain of yours, any chance I can meet with him?" Guthrie asked.

Pindle nodded. "I'm sure he'll want to see you. You're the only fit survivor from the army we've run across so far. Everybody else has been too out of their head, unable to tell us much. We only know what we know from putting thing together here and there. Plus, we had one Dartague prisoner, little more than a boy. He wouldn't tell us much, but we got a little out of him."

The sergeant grimaced. "You said you had a Dartague prisoner."

"Yes," Pindle said. "If you're thinking we tortured him to death, you'd be wrong. Oh, the boys banged him around a little, enough to get him to tell us something, but the captain wouldn't let anyone have a real go at the lad. No, the boy managed to get a knife somehow, then he cut his own throat. I guess he figured he was never going home again or that we were going to kill him eventually."

"Or maybe he feared giving away more information," Guthrie pointed out.

"Could be," Pindle said, "but I'm not sure what else he would have known. A youth like that, it's not likely he would have been in on the details of whatever chieftain is behind these attacks."

"It's not a chieftain," Guthrie said.

Pindle's eyes and those of his companions showed strong interest.

"Who's behind all this then?" Pindle asked.

"It's a woman," Guthrie said. "A wyrd woman."

Pindle glanced to his fellows once more, then to Guthrie again. "I think it's time you saw Captain Werner."

***

As expected, once outdoors Guthrie found the formerly dead village was now filled with bustling activity. Nearly all the stone structures had been taken over and put to one use or another by the militia, and there were tents of hide strung up at either end of the town's solitary road. Here and there men rushed past, some few women also in evidence. Pots were carried from one place to another, weapons were sharpened, what few horses there were in evidence were being tugged along toward a makeshift stable, formerly a stone barn for food storage. There was lots of activity. Even though none of those present other than Guthrie Hackett were officially members of the military, there was a military mind behind all of this. To an unobservant eye the activity taking place in the village might appear to be disordered, but Guthrie recognized a method to the madness. Yes, he was interested in meeting with this Captain Werner.

"This way, if you please," Pindle said, motioning toward their right.

Guthrie followed the man, Sagurd and Roranth coming in his wake as if guarding the sergeant, which Guthrie supposed they were to some extent.

The going was easy now, the snow having been tamped down by the comings and goings of dozens of men and women and animals. At a quick glance, Guthrie estimated there were at least two hundred present in the makeshift camp. He wondered if any of them were actually survivors of the village, but he doubted such. The villagers were likely all dead, having been killed after seeking refuge behind the walls of the stronghold with the soldiers. Now that he thought of it, Guthrie wondered how the Dartague had breached the walls of the small keep. It was obvious to him the Dartague would have had numbers and surprise on their side, but they were not known for making use of military artillery. The soldiers at the keep, though only a single military company, should have been able to hold out for some while, definitely longer than the few days since the initial assault. Until he learned otherwise, he would have to surmise the wyrd woman Ildra had made use of her magic. Or had it been the ice witch? Guthrie had no trust for that blue-skinned woman, and he was not sure he believed everything she had told him. And still, what had she forced down his throat? And what would it do to him?

Nearing the southern end of the village, the sergeant saw stretching before him onto the flatlands a small sea of tents, mostly lesser shelters only large enough for one or two people. Still, there were more than he expected, and what with the tents on the other end of Herkaig and the buildings within the village itself, Guthrie had to rethink the numbers he had estimated at the size of the militia force. The numbers were closer to five hundred, he surmised, than the two hundred he had guessed at moments earlier. This was a sizable group of armed men. Farmers and miners and peasants alike must have gathered from leagues upon leagues away to have reached such numbers.

"There are more than I would have thought," he said to Pindle slightly ahead of him.

The hawk-nosed fellow glanced back and slowed. "The situation is bad. There is now practically no Ursian army here in the north."

Guthrie could hardly believe what he was hearing. "None? What of the other garrisons?"

"Apparently all have been struck hard," Pindle said as he moved their group to the left between a row of canvas shelters. "The Dartague came down in numbers. But we only hear little bits of information from time to time, from stragglers we find, like yourself, and from the few wounded survivors."

Guthrie intentionally slowed the group even further, biding his time to seek more information. "Does not your captain send out scouts?"

"Of course," Pindle said, stopping altogether, "but not all of them come back. The ones that do report massive damage all along the frontier. Word is nary a fortress was not struck, and the deaths were nearly as plentiful as those in this region."

"Surely auxiliary forces have been called up?"

"Yes," Pindle said, "but it'll take another week for them to get here. Until then, the militias are the only defense against the Dartague if they should decide upon further nasty business. And honestly, I'm not convinced the auxiliaries would fare much better than you lot who were stationed here along the border."

Guthrie had to agree. If the Dartague had worked so well together, something not known for them, and against veterans, then it was not likely that auxiliary regiments made up of newer recruits would fare any better. His mind looking ahead, the sergeant realized the north of his homeland could turn into a major frontier engagement unlike anything that had been witnessed in hundreds of years. With the northern garrisons knocked out, the dukes and the pope would be forced to send a major force toward Dartague. Invasion was not likely, but the Dartague had proven themselves capable of thinking strategically and beyond anything they had shown in the past. Guthrie had to guess this was Ildra's doing.

"The captain is this way." Pindle pointed along a narrow trail of packed snow between rows of tents.

Before Guthrie could tell the man to proceed, a flashing brightness in the corner of his vision caused him to close his mouth and turn in the direction of the light.

What he saw at first was nothing untoward. There was a group of four men, all wearing the layered rags of peasantry, busy placing out and putting up the poles for a larger tent. The men went about their work in silence, not a word between them. It was a typical scene of a military camp. Whether these men were actually combatants or merely servants, Guthrie could not know, though none seemed to carry weapons.

One man in particular stood out from the rest. A weak golden light flowed around him, dancing along his skin. It was magic of some sort, but the man appeared not to notice as did no one else.

"Do you see that man?" Guthrie pointed at the glowing fellow a couple of dozen yards away.

Pindle stepped nearer, as did Sagurd and Roranth. All three turned their heads to look.

"Which one?" Roranth asked.

"The one jamming that pole into the snow," Guthrie said.

"What of him?" Pindle asked. "He's a good man. Helped carry our gear all the way from our village."

Guthrie looked to Pindle. "You know him?"

"He's not exactly a friend of mine," Pindle said, "but he's lived near my village for some years. I think he used to be a merchant or sailor or something. Came up from Mas Ober a while back, said he was retiring from his old life. Took up farming a little plot a day's walk from town. The local duke had no trouble adding another worker to the mix."

"What is his name?" Guthrie asked.

Pindle looked to his two partners. "Either of you remember?"

"Tack," Sagurd said. "He once helped me put a wheel on a wagon. A good man, as far as I'm concerned."

Guthrie saw no signs of wariness in the others. He looked to Tack and his compatriots once more. The man continued to glow even as he helped another unfold a fresh sheet of canvass.

Guthrie had to know. He took off at a brisk pace directly for the glowing man.

"Tack!" he called out as he approached.

The farmer flinched upon hearing his name, seeming more surprised than fearful, but then he said something to his partner and stood to stare at the sergeant coming up to him.

"Do I know you, sir?" Tack asked of Guthrie.

"You do not," Guthrie said, "but I need words with you."

Work had stopped on the tent. Tack glanced to his companions, the three standing there waiting, ready to go back to their task as soon as this soldier allowed them.

Movement from behind told Guthrie that Pindle and Sagurd and Roranth had followed him, likely curious.

Sensing there was something unusual going on, Tack did not waste time with his words. "What can I help you with, sir?"

Guthrie did not know what to say. How do you ask a man why he is glowing? What bothered him was no one else seemed to detect the golden hue emitting from the farmer. Was this the ice witch's doing? Was what she placed within Guthrie causing him to see things?

He glanced about at the three who had come with him and the other three waiting on Tack. This would not be the place for asking strange questions.

"Would you mind speaking with me in private?" Guthrie asked of Tack.

The farmer appeared confused, but it was not like he could refuse an Ursian soldier, not without a strong reason. Tack glanced to his companions for help, but there was nothing to be done about it. He shrugged. "Sure. Where would you like to go, sir?"

Guthrie slowly spun around. It seemed there were people everywhere. Then he stopped and pointed toward a small group of tents clustered slightly away from the others. There appeared to be no one there. The place was possibly a latrine or perhaps some kind of storage.

"There," the sergeant said, then looked to Pindle. "Can you wait here for me?"

Now it was Pindle who shrugged. "I don't see why not. The captain will want to speak with you as soon as possible, but it's not like he knows you're awake yet."

"Good." Guthrie made sure his touch was gentle as he wrapped fingers around one of Tack's elbows and led the man away from the others and toward the group of tents. The sergeant took his time, for it would not do to alarm the farmer.

Once apart from the main encampment, Guthrie released his grip on the other man and turned so their lips could not so easily be witnessed. "Pindle and Sagurd tell me you live in their region."

"Yes, sir," Tack said, his head bobbing up and down in acquiescence to the sergeant's words.

"But you are not originally from there."

"That is correct, sir."

"From where do you hail?"

Tack's face grew sheepish and he turned his gaze to the ground as if embarrassed or fearful of his past. "Mas Ober, sir."

"What brought a city boy all the way out to the countryside?"

Tack did not answer. He visibly gulped.

"If you have a past, Tack, do not be concerned," Guthrie said. "I promise I will not be turning you over to the authorities."

Tack gulped again. "Well, sir, you are the authorities, if I may say."

Guthrie chuckled. "I suppose I am at that. But don't let that bother you. I'm not here to arrest you or any such thing. I merely wish to know about your past."

"May I ask why, sir?"

Good question. How to answer? Guthrie was quiet for a moment, thinking over his options. Revealing he had seen the man glowing could be considered an admission of using magic within the courts of the land. Such an admission would lead to enslavement or possibly even death. Whatever Tack's concerns for his past, Guthrie had just as much, if nor more, to lose by spilling the truth.

"Sir?" Tack prodded.

The sergeant held up a hand to ward off the other man for a moment, giving himself precious seconds to think. Finally, "I ... noticed something unusual about you upon first seeing you."

"Really, sir." Tack was now looking up again, his immediate fear replaced with curiosity. "I can't imagine what it was, sir. And I do not believe we have ever met."

"I'm from Mas Ober myself," Guthrie went on, "but I do believe you are correct. I haven't been home in years, and it's no difficulty to imagine us not knowing one another among the million people of the city."

"Then what was it you noticed, sir?"

Guthrie hesitated again. He was beginning to have suspicions. There was nothing to do for it but push ahead. "Have you ever had any dealings with magic?"

The other man's face went pale and drooped, his lids falling to the ground once more. The sergeant could see the man was visibly quaking, his fingers trembling as they grasped at one another before his belt. Whatever the truth of Tack's past, the man had much to fear if magic had somehow been involved.

"I swear on He Who Walked Among Men that I am not here to accuse or prosecute you," Guthrie said.

Tack looked up. He still appeared afraid, but his shivering had stopped. The oath Guthrie had sworn was a strong one, one that could land the sergeant himself in a stockade if uttered capriciously and overhead by others.

"Trust me," Guthrie said. "We are at war here, and something is happening ... something I do not understand. I believe you might be key in helping me to understand."

The other fellow sucked in air, lowering his gaze yet again, but then his eyes shot up to stare at the sergeant. His words shot out of his mouth as if he wanted them finished. "I was an apprentice. But I never actually practiced."

"Magic, you mean?" Guthrie asked.

Tack nodded.

"So you were apprenticed to a wizard?"

Another nod. "My parents sold me off to the old man when I was but a boy. I swear, I didn't even know what was happening at the time."

"Why did you leave him?"

Tack hesitated, but then, "My master was accused and brought before the Order of the Gauntlet."

Such would have been the end for Tack's former master. The Holy Order of the Gauntlet only rarely found someone not guilty of wizardry or witchcraft once that person had been captured and brought before the Swords, the judges of the order of knights.

"He was hung," Tack went on, "which is a rather fortunate fate for a wizard in Ursia."

The fellow spoke the truth. Tortures and burnings and worse were not uncommon. Magic was considered the worst of heresies, a denial of all things holy before the church itself.

"And you fled?" Guthrie asked.

Tack nodded again. "I hid on the streets for a while after he was caught, but then I saw my master's hanging. I never knew if the Gauntlet was looking for me, but I did not wait to find out. I headed north and created a new life for myself, a simple life."

"Away from magic."

"Yes, away from magic. I never really wanted anything to do with it in the first place, and I never so much as tried to cast a spell. My old master, he guarded his secrets, didn't want me learning too much, which was fine with me."

"Still, you must have learned some things."

"A little alchemy," Tack said. "I studied some of the histories and other books made available to me, but I was never a practitioner."

Guthrie leaned back, lifting his head to stare through his helmet's visor at the gray sky. Again, he was merely seeking seconds for thinking. Tack had been a student, but had never actually performed any magic. Or at least that was all he would admit. Was there a connection between the man's past and that golden aura Guthrie still continued to see floating about the fellow?

"You are positive you never practiced magic?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I swear."

"What of recent?" Guthrie asked, then waved off an immediate answer. "I don't mean that you've been practicing, but have you encountered any magic?"

"Not directly, no, sir," Tack answered.

"What does that mean?"

"Well, I was with the group that traveled to the stronghold, and I saw what had been done there."

"Which is?"

"I think there had to have been magic involved, sir. There were holes in the walls big enough to drive a wagon through, but there wasn't a lot of wreckage. Those holes were clean, smooth, as if they had been cut out of the stone and lumber like a hot knife through soft cheese. I've heard tales the Dartague have their own spellcasters, and I figured it had to have been one of them."

It was Guthrie's turn to nod. "They do have such. But did you notice anything else at the site?"

Tack's head ducked once more, but he had said enough to doom himself already if the sergeant should turn against him. He looked up. "Well, old habits are difficult to break from, sir."

"Meaning?"

"Well, without actually casting a spell, I am able to ascertain when magic has recently been used in a place. It's a simple tool, more a way of thinking than anything."

"And you found the use of magic at the keep?"

"Yes, sir."

Guthrie pondered. Was he on to something now? Was he drawing nearer the answers he sought? It felt as such, but he would only know if he pressed onward. "Tell me, what is it ... like ... recognizing magic?"

Tack's shoulders shrugged up and down. "There's really nothing to it, sir. You just have to know what you are looking for."

"What are you looking for?"

"A blush of light, sir," Tack said. "Anyone or anyplace that has had magic around it of recent, it will have a shining to it, kind of like looking at gold coins beneath a blazing sun."

### 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 something 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 much, 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."

### 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."

***

The place was little more than rubble by the time the riders got to it. They had watched the smoke from a distance rising up to the heavens like a dying snake curling in upon itself, but the actual sight of the temple's destruction was enough to shake all of their nerves. Not all were the most devout worshipers of Ashal, but each had spent his life under the church's thrall and more than respected it.

"Damn this wizard," Werner muttered from horseback.

Guthrie glanced aside at the captain. The man's feelings were understandable. It was unthought of to attack a church and bring harm to the priesthood, the dead robed figures now piled before what had been the entrance to the main building. The temple before them was toppled, but at one point had held a spiraling tower, which Guthrie remembered. It had not been the largest of churches, the region being remote and the local populace not overly large, but still it had served its purposes in tending to those needing physical and spiritual aid, and in spreading the word of Ashal. Now there was nothing here but ashes and broken stone. The fire had burned down to little more than a heated glow, but the smoke continued to wind its way up the bright sky, a field of white stretching beyond in all directions, the local road that brought mendicants and adorers to the temple now covered with snow.

The sergeant shifted his gaze to stare over the destruction and the dead. He had known this place, these men. Guthrie was not a questioning man, nor did he consider himself a strong worshiper, but still, this was his church, not only this particular location but the church in a broader scope. He had been brought up believing in the God Who Had Walked Among Men, the Holy Ashal who had given his life at the end of a noose as an example to all and as the savior of all. Guthrie had never bothered with the hate some held against those who did not believe, but he could feel it niggling away at the back of his thoughts. This before him, it was heresy, sacrilege of the worst sort. You did not attack a man's religion. It was beyond wrong.

More surprising to Guthrie than the destruction, however, was the faint golden flow that flickered among the dying flames and embers. There was magic here. Whatever the ice witch had done to him still held. To him there was evidence enough magic had been involved in this temple's doom.

Werner slipped out of his saddle and landed on the cold, hard ground. "No sign of this wizard."

"No, sir," Pindle said as he, too, dropped from his saddle to join his commander.

Werner looked to the man. "Get three men and begin the burials."

"Yes, sir." Pindle pointed at three riders who climbed down from their steeds. Soon wooden shovels were retrieved from a small barn off to one side, the building miraculously not destroyed. Digging work then began off to one side next to the flattened remains of what had once been the bishop's house, the slate roof now laying shattered upon the fallen timber of the structure.

As Guthrie dropped to the ground, the captain came over to him. "I see no signs of marching warriors," Werner said, motioning toward the landscape.

Guthrie glanced about. "Ours is the only sign of a sizable group."

"Makes me think there were no Dartague here," Werner said.

"That complies with what your man Amerus told us," Guthrie said.

"It makes me wonder."

"What?" Guthrie asked.

"Is this wizard working with the Dartague?" Werner asked. "Or did he simply use the invasion as an opportunity to spread a little vengeance against the church?"

The sergeant shrugged. There was no simple way to answer such questions. Either or both of Werner's suppositions could be true to some extent or another. The church did not stand for magic, stamping it out in the most brutal fashions whenever magic was found. Because of this, wizards and their like held no love for the church. It was generally believed there were not many magic users within the lands of Ursia, but it was also not unheard of for some minor mage to be hidden away somewhere, much like Tack's former master. Also, foreign wizards and witches sometimes snooped their way into Ursia for one reason or other, their fate sealed if discovered. The church's influence spread far, thousands of miles in all directions, and it was not unheard of for those using magic to be pulled from beyond the borders to suffer at the hands of Ursians. This, Guthrie realized, was one of the chief complaints of the Dartague. For decades the Ashalic church had been reaching into Dartague, seeking converts and finding some few, and every now and then taking away one of the skalds or weird women. The fate of such captured individuals was certain. If not actually captured by members of the Order of the Gauntlet themselves, the users of magic would be slain or be turned over directly to the Order. Some few mages received life imprisonment, these usually only students such as poor Tack, but most faced death.

"I sense not Dartague involvement here," Guthrie finally said. "It just doesn't feel like something in which they would be involved."

"I agree," Werner said. "Dartague would ride up in a large group. Only if they couldn't batter their way in would they turn to magic."

"But where has this wizard gone?" Guthrie asked.

"Good question." Werner turned to face one of his men still on horseback. "Towlin, I want you and Hammer riding at a mile perimeter around us. Any sign of anything, you get back here on the double. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!" The man called Towlin slapped another fellow on the shoulder and soon they were galloping off from their comrades and the church's remains.

They did not go far.

"Captain!" Towlin shouted out less than fifty yards away.

Every head turned toward the shouting rider and his companion.

"What is it, Towlin?" Werner hollered out.

The rider pointed, as did Hammer at his side.

The captain's gaze followed the fingers, as did the eyes of the sergeant and the rest of the men.

Far away on the horizon there was movement beneath the shadows of the mountains. It must have been at least a mile away, perhaps a little further.

"Anyone make it out?" Werner called.

There were several shakes of the head, then Towlin piped up. "I think it's a solitary person, captain. Can't tell if they're on horseback or not."

"Think it's our wizard?" Guthrie asked at the captain's side. The sergeant could tell little with the distance, but for a moment he thought he had seen a sheen of light about the distant figure. If so, did that mean the person ahead was a user of magic?

"Only one way to find out." Werner pulled himself back in his saddle. Guthrie did the same on his own steed.

"Perhaps you should remain here," Guthrie suggested to the captain.

Werner glared at the man.

The sergeant lifted a hand as if to ward off any hard feelings. "Near as I can tell, you're the only leader these men really have. I wouldn't want to think of what happens to the militia here if something should happen to you."

Werner's stern gaze softened and he glanced to the ground in shame at his attitude of a moment earlier. "I suppose you are right."

"I'll ride out with Towlin and Hammer, if it pleases you," Guthrie said.

"Aye, very well." Werner slapped the sergeant on the back. "You return, though. I'll need you in the coming days."

Guthrie nodded, then spurred his horse forward. The animal carried him ahead of the main pack to where Towlin and Hammer stood in their stirrups trying to get a better view along the horizon.

"Can you tell anything yet?" the sergeant asked as he rode up.

"Not yet," Towlin said, easing back down in his saddle.

Guthrie gestured toward their distant target. "I'll ride point. You two flank me, but not too close. If this is our mage, we don't want to give him a big, easy target. You two got bows?"

Hammer grinned as he lifted a large crossbow in his hands. Towlin did much the same on the other side.

Guthrie looked down and saw a similar weapon strapped to the side of his riding beast. Reaching down, he untied the crossbow and cradled it in his arms while retrieving a short arrow from a small leather quiver behind his right leg. "No time like the present," he said, arming his bow and kneeing his animal ahead.

As planned, the other two riders rode out to the sergeant's sides, Towlin on the left and Hammer on the right. Behind them, the remnants of the church continued to crackle and snap as the fire began its slow death. Werner and the other militiamen watched in silence, more than a few of them preparing their own bows.

### Chapter 6

Before the three riders stretched a desert of cold white. The harsh music of the burning church soon dissipated upon the wind, its replacement the heavy breathing of the horses and the chuffing sounds of hooves stomping along through the snow.

For some while the mountains lining the horizon seemed to grow no nearer, and Guthrie realized they were several miles from that particular range that separated Ursia and Dartague. Their prey was not so far, then, though still a ways off.

As they grew nearer, it became apparent their target was a single person and he or she was not upon a riding beast but wading through the ankle-deep white powder. Each of the riders glanced down and ahead, but there was no evidence of someone having tracked through on foot.

Guthrie received a slightly different view from the others, one he kept to himself. As he had drawn nearer the distant person, it had become apparent the figure was indeed glowing. More than that, there was a line of weak light stretching from the person back toward the church. This wizard or whomever it was might be able to hide his or her tracks from the sight of the average person, but Guthrie could pick up the trail with the special vision afforded him by the ice witch. Not for the first time, he wondered if what the blue-hued woman had forced upon him was a gift or a curse.

He was soon to find out.

When the riders were only a few dozen yards away, the figure in the black cloak spun about. His head was bald but for wisps of dark hair flying about above his ears. His face was haggard and worn like old leather. His hands stretched from his robes like claws, the arms pale and thin as the legs of a stork. Upon his features was a look of rage, but such a vision vanished, replaced by curiosity.

As the riders pulled their steeds to a halt and fingered their crossbows, the dark mage thrust forward a hand, pointing to Guthrie in the middle of the three. "You!"

The sergeant leaned forward in his saddle and stared across the head of his riding beast. The wizard was no one he knew, yet the person seemed to recognize him.

Twang!

From the right. Hammer had launched an arrow, the big man obviously taking no chances, giving the wizard no time to summon a spell. The black dart skated across the distance between the big warrior and the wizard, then snapped in mid-air and crumbled to the ground just before hitting its target.

The wizard tossed back his head and cackled.

Tomlin on Guthrie's left raised his crossbow and loosed a bolt, the arrow diving true and straight for the dark-robed figure. Again the flying javelin burst apart before striking the mage, turning to splinters and falling to the snow.

Guthrie did not waste his arrow. Instead, he snapped his reins and trotted his beast ahead.

"Sergeant, stay back!" Tomlin yelled, but Guthrie paid him no attention.

The horse fully obeyed its rider at first, but the closer it got to the wizard, the more the animal slowed as if it sensed something unnatural and disturbing. Guthrie could not blame the animal. That now familiar sheen of golden light was blossoming larger and larger as he neared the wizard.

Eventually the horse would go no further, coming to a standstill and snorting a dozen yards from the dark mage. All the while, Guthrie had been expecting an attack, but it had not come. He glanced over his shoulders and found Tomlin and Hammer had not ridden forward but were busy loading arrows into their bows once again.

"I did not expect us to meet again," spoke a high, familiar voice.

Guthrie's head snapped around. The image of the wizard in black was now gone, replaced by a vision of the ice witch, her hair black, her flesh azure, her garb a thin garment one could almost see through. If not for her obvious nonhuman traits, the pointed ears and the skin, she might have been beautiful.

"You!" Guthrie cried out. He tossed his crossbow to one side, the weapon landing in the snow, then lifted his right leg from its stirrup and over the saddle, dropping to the other side.

The ice witch watched with a thin smile of amusement as he marched forward, the sergeant's hands bunched into fists at his sides.

"What did you do to me?" Guthrie asked as he approached, finally coming to a stop just out of her reach. His chest heaved and his eyes flashed. There was true anger in the Ursian. This woman had brought upon him a curse of magic, and somehow she was involved with the Dartague. It also seemed she had been the black wizard in disguise, a slayer of priests and a destroyer of a church.

Before the witch could answer, pounding hooves sounded at the sergeant's back. Guthrie turned to find Hammer and Tomlin galloping forward, their bows held high over the heads of their steeds.

Guthrie waved them off. "Away! The witch is mine."

"Witch?" Tomlin called, but he yanked on his reins, as did Hammer. Their horses slowed.

"She is mine!" Guthrie yelled.

"She?" Tomlin asked. He and Hammer brought their steeds to a halt.

Guthrie looked back to the witch, his face showing he was more confused than ever.

"They see me as a man, as the wizard in black," the ice witch whispered to him. "They see me as I wish, much the same as you yourself did but moments ago."

The sergeant spun around again, facing the two riders. Frantic, he threw up his arms and shouted. "Get out of here! He will kill us all."

Hammer wasted no time spinning his horse about, but Tomlin remained for the moment, staring with curiosity at the sergeant and what he took for a robed wizard.

Guthrie lowered his voice to less than a shout. "Tomlin, go! Our weapons will do nothing here!"

"Then get out of there, man," Tomlin said back.

Guthrie looked to the witch once more. She still grinned. Then he turned toward the militiamen again. "Leave. If I fall, then the rest of you must avenge me."

Slowly, Tomlin tugged around his reins, his horse turning to face the direction Hammer had already fled. It was obvious the man did not like this situation.

Guthrie could think of no excuse that sounded plausible, yet he had to get Tomlin to ride off. The rider was in danger, the sergeant was sure, and Guthrie wished to speak with the woman without others overhearing.

"Enough of this nonsense!" the witch woman shouted.

Guthrie turned to her again, but there was a flash of light from her now outstretched hands. Bolts of lightning shot forth, bypassing the sergeant despite the nearness of the electric heat and the thunder knocking him to the ground. His face buried in snow for the moment, Guthrie saw nothing, but he heard a terrible cracking noise and Tomlin crying out.

When Guthrie looked up, he found the rider and his horse were no more. All that remained of them was a smoking pile of ash melting into the snow and a splatter of red in a circle around where the rider and steed had once stood. Guthrie's own horse had been spooked and galloped away. In the distance Hammer was still riding as if a devil were on his tail, and beyond him Guthrie could spy the men at the burnt church milling about, probably preparing for action.

"Damn you!" the sergeant yelled out. Then he jumped to his feet and spun to the witch.

She cackled at him within the golden aura Guthrie would always recognize, her head thrust back much as had been that of the image of the wizard.

He placed a hand on the haft of his mace at his belt.

Her head snapped down to glare at him. "None of that!"

Guthrie growled, yet he allowed the hand to fall away from the iron club. "What do you expect of me? You have placed your curse upon me, slain my countrymen and my priests, destroyed one of our churches! Do you think this should please me? That I should approve of what you've done?"

"I care not for your feelings on the matter," the ice witch stated, "only that my desires are fulfilled. Do you not recognize my hand in all of this? I disguised myself as a skald, what you saw as a wizard in black, and secretly urged on the Dartague, giving your nation a war they truly desired. I handed you a present to allow you to hunt down the wyrd woman, and I destroyed your church to enrage your priests, to ensure there would be war."

"You did all of this to slay one woman?" Guthrie asked, his voice nearly a gasp.

"I did!" the witch cried out. "I have lived thousands of years, and I will not fall prey to the babe of some mere mortal, no matter how skilled she might be in the arts of glamour."

The sergeant gritted his teeth. "You forget one thing. The powers you have given me, they also allow me to hunt you!"

The woman snickered. "I am not an imbecile. Your powers only work on me when I allow such."

"If we do not cross one another today, I will find you," Guthrie said. "I will hunt you to the ends of the world and slay you myself."

"That is not to be my fate," the ice witch said. "I have seen my future. Besides, I believe you will be busy with your fellows in the coming war."

Guthrie grasped his mace again, this time drawing it up and ready for combat.

"I think not," the witch said, taking a single step away from the Ursian. "In fact, Sergeant Hackett, I believe we will not meet again after today."

"I told you I would hunt you." His grip tightened on the mace's handle.

"And I will be in a place you can never find," she said. "I will ... remove ... myself from the mortal world for some while, at least until I am sure the wyrd woman is no more."

She blinked. Then she vanished. Drifts of snow sprang up from where she had stood but a moment earlier.

Guthrie swung out with his mace, but there was nothing to hit. He spun around, and again, and again, his eyes searching, seeking, but there was no sign of the ice witch, only his comrades in the distance now riding toward him as if their lives depended upon it. Perhaps they did.

"One last thing," the witch's voice spoke to Guthrie's ears though he could not see her, "I believe you should end your search for me rather soon. It would seem others have have been drawn by the smoke rising from your church."

He felt a pull upon one shoulder and twisted about with hopes of spotting his enemy. But the witch was not there. All that remained of her presence was a distant choking laughter that echoed through the winter winds.

What he did see was the mountain range some miles ahead of him. There was a cloud of white along the bottom of the nearest hills. Snow. Snow flying into the air from the hooves of riders. Many riders.

The Dartague.

Guthrie reeled around, searching for his horse. Spotting the beast in the distance, he took of at a run as fast as his legs would carry him in the weighty snow.

MORE ADVENTURES of Guthrie Hackett in Mage Hunter: Episode II: Sundered Shields

### The Ursian Chronicles

(in order of publication)

City of Rogues: Book I of The Kobalos Trilogy

Road to Wrath: Book II of The Kobalos Trilogy

Dark King of the North: Book III of The Kobalos Trilogy

The Kobalos Trilogy OMNIBUS edition

Blade and Flame: short story sequel to The Kobalos Trilogy

Bayne's Climb: Part I of The Sword of Bayne

A Thousand Wounds: Part II of The Sword of Bayne

Under the Mountain: Part III of The Sword of Bayne

The Sword of Bayne OMNIBUS edition

Ghosts of the Asylum

Demon Chains

The Castle of Endless Woe (novelette)

Six Swords, One Skeleton and a Sewer (short story)

Road of the Sword (short story)

Five Tales from The Rusty Scabbard

