by Ty Johnston
“You saved me,” he said to the old man, “but for what purpose? You have said you have no love for me, so there must be some other reason.”
The skein weaver nodded again. “A sense of honor, perhaps. You performed as I wished. The wyrd woman Ildra is dead, yet her child lives.”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Guthrie said. “Verkain killed the woman, then ultimately it was he who turned the babe over to the Dartague.”
“Yes, but events might have turned out differently without your interference.”
“So you saved me because you appreciated the role I played in all that mess?”
“In part,” the old man said. “I also saved you because you were not to die today. As I said, I have seen your road, at least some of it, and you are to live for a good while yet, Guthrie Hackett. You have many tasks to perform, some of which will possibly benefit my people.”
“The Dartague?”
“Yes.”
“What will I do to help them?”
“I am not sure.” The old man’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment as if he was looking into the past, then he shrugged and glanced up at the sergeant. “Not all is revealed to me. But you have an important role to perform in years to come, in decades not yet seen.”
“Decades?”
“Yes, Guthrie Hackett. Yours is a fate that spills forward some years. I saved you today because you needed saving. Someone had to take a hand in the matter. It was I.”
“So you’re saying Zanbra was going to kill me, and you pulled me from that?”
“Only for the moment,” the old man said. “You must go back and face her soon. But yes, she had plans to slay you, and was about to do so when I took you away.”
“Soon?” Guthrie asked. “What do you mean?”
“When I brought you here, I moved you not only upon the plains of our northern lands, but also through time.”
“Time? The future or the past?”
“The future,” the skein weaver said, “but not long. Less than an hour.”
Guthrie glanced about as if nervous. He had lost an hour. What would Zanbra and Kroff be up to now? Where would they have gone?
Again, the skein weaver seemed to read the sergeant’s mind. “Your companions, they rode ahead to the edge of the mountains. They have only recently arrived. Unfortunately for them, a group of Dartague warriors had been watching from a distance. An ambush was laid. The knights have ridden into it.”
Guthrie visibly bristled. He had no love for Zanbra, and his emotions were still conflicted about Kroff, but the two were still knights of Ursia, officers. He did not like the idea of two of his fellows in the hands of the enemy, even if there were growing rumors the war was soon to be over.
He turned around and climbed into his saddle. Looking down, he said, “Send me back.”
“Back?” the old man asked. “I cannot send you back in time, though I can transport you to their current location. But you would help these knights?”
“I would,” Guthrie said, “even if they meant to kill me. If for no other reason, it is my duty as a soldier of Ursia.”
The old man chuckled. “Some fools never learn.”
“Enough of that. Do your magic. Send me back.”
“Very well,” the old man said. He began a slow chant, the words barely heard by the sergeant’s ears, and even those words he picked up were not understood.
The familiar glow of magic began to highlight the edges of Guthrie’s vision, and the image of the fire and the skein weaver began to fade.
“One last thing!” the old man called out.
Guthrie could barely see him now, the glow and the wall of snow diminishing his sight. “Yes?”
“Why did you not kill me when you had the chance?” the old man asked. “Why not kill me after retrieving your arrow?”
For a moment, Guthrie did not answer. The glow grew brighter, the snows heavier. Then, “Because ...” His voice halted. The glow vanished. The wall of snow began to fade.
He was upon the plain once more, a packed track ahead showing the route the two knights had taken into the mountains. Guthrie suspected he would never have another opportunity to answer the skein weaver’s question, but that was fine with him. He was not sure he had a good answer.
Chapter 3
Riding hard, the pounding of his horse’s hooves nearly blocked the sound from reaching the sergeant. Fortunately Guthrie had a keen ear and the wind was blowing the right direction. There was combat ahead. He could hear the grunts and shouts, and the din of metal upon metal.
He spurred his animal again, the horse taking off faster than ever. The rider and steed were not far from the mountains now, passing beneath the wings of pine trees above.
Having been stationed in the north for years, Guthrie knew these lands, expected a mountain pass to open up on the other side of the trees, but he had not been this way in a long while. Zanbra had urged them in this direction, the woman telling that outriders had reported seeing a dozen or so Dartague warriors with a few women in the area. All along the sergeant had expected a deception upon the parts of the two knights. There were few clans who trekked this region, and none regularly lived in the area on this side of the mountains, mainly because the ground was not good for crops, meaning no Ursian farmers to raid, and there was little water other than the snows near the peaks. This region was a dozen or so miles further west than Guthrie’s normal haunts, and he had to admit he knew nothing of what had transpired here since the war had begun, but such thoughts did not ease his mind concerning Zanbra and Kroff.
The horse tromping its way out of the trees, Guthrie stood in his saddle and spotted the opening to the trail ahead of him. The way was wide here, giving plenty of room for as many as a score of riders, though his memory told him the path narrowed deeper into the mountains. His head darted about, searching for the source of the clashing still coming to his ears, but it was all echoes this close to the rising rocks. So far there was no sign of any Dartague, but the knights’ tracks continued straight ahead into the mountains.
Slowing his animal, Guthrie made sure his crossbow was across his lap and ready to launch. He then checked to assure himself his mace and dagger were within easy reach on his belt.
All weapons prepared, he spurred his animal forward yet again.
The horse charged across the short distance between the treeline and the entrance into the mountains. Its hooves did not fail as they clashed against packed earth and broken stone beneath. When rider and horse had traveled several dozen yards, Guthrie yanked on the reins as the path before twisted to his left. Now that he was nearer, he could tell the direction of the fighting.
He twisted the animal’s reins to take them in that direction, and it was but a matter of seconds before they rounded the bend and found a small valley of stone opening before them.
The two knights were surrounded, their horses slashed to death and fallen around the pair as a weak barricade. There were eight of the Dartague barbarians on foot and still alive in their fur cloaks and leather wrappings, each hefting a large axe or sword. Four men and two women were already dead, hacked and chopped, their bodies strewn about the valley. A dozen horses at the far end of the opening were tied to several trees there. Of the knights, Kroff appeared whole but tired, a sizable dent in the right side of the full helm atop his head. Zanbra was without her helmet and blood ran down both sides of her forehead as if she had been struck twice. Each knight wielded their long swords, flashing out whenever a barbarian would pounce forward.
The Dartague were playing with them. Despite the fact the barbarians had already lost a third of their initial force, this was a game to them, one that would likely lead to the deaths of the two Ursians at the center of the combat. The Dartague had ambushed the Ursians, slaying their horses and surrounding them. If bows had been common weapons among the Dartague, Zanbra and Kroff would have already been dead. Instead, slow deaths loomed, ones of jabs and slashes, of bleeding out.
G
uthrie would have none of this. He snapped his reins, his horse bounding forward. His arrow flew, finding a home in the back of the nearest barbarian. Until then the knights nor the Dartague had noticed the newcomer to the fight, but now all eyes turned toward the charging sergeant.
Everyone was caught of guard. Guthrie ran his horse into the next barbarian, knocking the burly fellow aside. A warrior with a club rushed at the sergeant and his steed, Guthrie swinging out with his crossbow to connect with the man’s chin. The wooden bow cracked, but so did the barbarian’s jaw. Both dropped to the ground, now useless.
Trained and experienced, the knights saw an opportunity. Kroff slashed with his sword at his nearest opponent’s back, splitting open soft leather armor and softer flesh before the Dartague screamed and fell dead. Zanbra was not as swift because of her wounds, but she managed to hobble forward and lash out, her sword blocked as a foe turned just in time to recognize danger behind him.
Guthrie lifted a leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground, slapping the rear of his horse and sending the animal to trot away. For a moment the horse was between him and his enemies, giving the sergeant enough to time to draw forth his mace and dagger.
Then three men rushed him as his horse fled.
Sergeant Guthrie Hackett had faced such odds before, sometimes worse. He had come through them. He was determined to do so today.
Instead of fleeing or backing up, he pounced at his foes, surprising the three. The one in the middle died as the black iron ball of the mace crashed down upon the fellow’s head, cracking the skull so deeply drops of gray brain matter spewed forth from the eye sockets. The fighter on Guthrie’s left was kept at bay by the sergeant’s dagger slashing wide, and the man on the right was too shocked by his nearest companion’s death to do anything. Guthrie used the hesitation of both men. He slashed to the left with his mace, across himself, knocking aside that barbarian’s sword, then Guthrie spun around, his knife twisting in his hand so it’s end faced behind him. The dagger plunged, the barbarian who had been shocked having stepped forward expecting an easy kill since his opponent’s back was to him. Instead, the dagger dug deep into the man’s chest, nearly splitting his heart.
Guthrie jerked the dagger free with a splash of blood and waved his mace to keep his final opponent away for a moment. He dared a glance toward the knights and found each was facing off with a single foe, apparently the other Dartague dead, unconscious or having fled.
The sergeant grinned. He did not normally find pleasure in combat, but today was different. There was too much rage and frustration built up inside him. He had spent too much time on mountain trails, starving and freezing, too much time going up against enemies overly numerous or whom he could not touch because of their magic.
Enough was enough.
The Dartague before him was about Guthrie’s own age, late twenties or early thirties. The man was old enough to have a family, perhaps children. Guthrie found he no longer cared. If the barbarian before him had wanted to remain safe for his kin, and for his family to remain safe, then he should not have become a warrior, should not have joined in the war against Ursia.
The dagger flipped once more in Guthrie’s hand. Then he flung it.
A thrown blade is not a good weapon. It rarely kills and often any wound it brings about is only a small one, especially against an armored foe, even if that armor is only light. But Guthrie was not trying to kill with his flying dagger, only to distract.
It worked.
The Dartague thrust up an arm, the dagger raking against the leather there before slipping past and beyond. Guthrie used that moment. He rushed, and with both hands on his mace brought the head of the weapon forward into his enemy’s stomach.
The barbarian let out a loud whuffing sound, then dropped to his knees. Guthrie kicked the man in the mouth, sending teeth and blood flying. Another flash of the mace landed the weapon’s heavy head directly in the Dartague’s face, destroying it and leaving behind a crater of red gore.
Breathing heavily, Guthrie backed away, swaying from the exertion of combat.
He blinked down at the splattered remains of his last three foes, then noted the ringing of combat was no longer coming to his ears.
He turned slowly, keeping his mace ready to strike out.
The remaining Dartague were dead. All of them. Kroff stood now without his helm, breathing heavy himself, in a circle of the dead barbarians. Zanbra leaned against him, fresh blood running from a dent in her right leg where some Dartague must have got in a lucky blow.
The two knights stared at the sergeant. Guthrie stared back.
What now? These two had planned to kill Guthrie. He had not thought this far ahead. Were they to continue fighting one another? Guthrie was almost half their age, and had not suffered as much from the fight as had they. But there were two of them, and they were quite experienced and exceptionally well trained, perhaps the best combatants in all Ursia.
His breathing under control after a few moments, Kroff slung through the air with his sword, sending blood spattering from the weapon. Then he grunted and sheathed the sword at his waist. Still leaning against her fellow, Zanbra cried out from pain as he moved, but then he helped her to sit. At no time did she relinquish her own sword.
Guthrie stood his ground watching, his mace now hanging from one hand.
“Help me here,” Kroff said over a shoulder as he took a knee next to his partner.
“I think not.” Keeping his eyes on the knights, Guthrie shifted to one side and retrieved the dagger he had thrown, slipping it into his belt.
Kroff turned on his knee and glared at the sergeant. “She is in need of aid.”
“She wants to kill me,” Guthrie said in return. “For that matter, I suspect so do you. I see no reason to come to the aid of either of you.”
Kroff slumped at that, his face pale. His lips moved as if he were about to say something, but then Zanbra fell onto her back and cried out once more, her face anguished as her eyes closed. Still, Guthrie noticed, she did not let go of her weapon. Obviously she had been wounded, but could she be playing up the extent of her pains?
Concern was plain in Kroff’s features. “Guthrie, it would not have come to killing you.”
“She is your superior officer,” Guthrie said. “You would have to do what she ordered, even if there was no evidence of any crime.”
“No evidence?” Kroff snapped. “We saw you vanish before our eyes out on the plains! If that is not evidence, then I do not know what is.”
Guthrie snickered. “So, you believe me guilty, as well?”
“Guilty of magic?” Kroff asked. “There is no doubt, none. Whether that is a crime or not, I will not say.”
“You are a knight of the Gauntlet,” Guthrie said. “Your order’s very purpose is to wipe away magic and all who use it.”
Before the Spear could answer, Zanbra cried out again, her eyes flickering.
Kroff looked down, his face as pained as that of the wounded woman. Then he looked back up to the sergeant. “She’s in a bad way. Please. Help me.”
“You do not need my help,” Guthrie said. He glanced around the clearing, ignoring the dead barbarians strewn everywhere, his gaze finally coming to the tied horses. He grinned as he realized his own animal was now among the Dartague beasts, likely having sought safety in numbers during the fight.
Wary enough to keep his distance from Kroff and Zanbra, Guthrie made his way over to his horse and pulled himself up into the saddle. “Kroff, by rights you and I should be enemies, especially as I doubt it will be safe for me to return to Ursia.” He turned his animal to face the knight. “But know this. I nearly considered you a friend, and I will not impede you in helping Sword Zanbra.” He gestured toward the Dartague steeds. “There are plenty of horses available for you. I suggest you strap her on one and begin riding. It’s only a day’s ride back to camp, and the Dartague are no longer running loose across the flatlands.”
Kroff stood and strode toward
the horses. He glowered but said not a word as he untied one of the animals and began pulling it toward Zanbra.
Guthrie did not know what was in the Spear’s thoughts, but he recognized he had lost a friend that day. Whatever the knights had planned for the sergeant, it was apparently Kroff who had tried to keep Zanbra from slaying Guthrie. The skein weaver had suggested as much, and Kroff’s attitude spurred such thoughts in the sergeant’s mind.
Guthrie shook his head. Other than perhaps Captain Werner, he had no more friends. His squad mates had been slain in the initial Dartague attack, as had the rest of his regiment and practically the entire army of northern Ursia. Now he would be outlawed from his homeland. Those of the Gauntlet recognized him as a spellcaster, which meant Guthrie’s death if he should return. He had to flee, but he knew not where. Dartague and Kobalos were the nearest nations, and neither would be friendly to him. The next closest country was Jorsica, and that was hundreds upon hundreds of miles away through several arms of the mountain range known as The Needles. It was nearly enough to bring a grim chuckle to the sergeant’s lips. So much for the skein weaver’s talk of Guthrie living for years and years and having some great fate.
Lifting Zanbra and placing her whimpering form into the saddle, Kroff grimaced as he retrieved a bag of supplies from his dead horse and once more caught sight of Guthrie. “I suppose you find much humor in our situation.”
Guthrie realized he had been grinning, dark thoughts of his own situation nearly making him laugh. He erased the smile. “I was thinking of my own future, of how short it is likely to be.”
“Come back with me,” Kroff said. “I stand by trying to get you into the Order. We could use a man like you.”
Guthrie jerked back in his saddle. “Are you mad? The second I ride out of here, Zanbra is likely to cut open my throat, if you don’t beat her to it.”
The Spear shook his head. “No, Guthrie. I won’t allow that to happen. Oh, there’s no doubt Zanbra wants you dead, but ... well, the truth is we could use a mage. It would make our job much easier if there was a member of the Gauntlet who could utilize magic.”