by Ty Johnston
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.”