by Ty Johnston
***
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?
“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 th
e 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.”