Mage Hunter Omnibus (Complete 5 Book Series)

by Ty Johnston

  What bothered Guthrie even more was that the golden aura of magic was not showing anywhere within his sight. He should have been able to detect the wyrd women if they were before him. He supposed it possible the thick walls of the ale hall shielded him from spotting magic, but that did not feel right to him, leaving him to wonder if the witches were here at all. Or could this be a trap he and the knights were falling into?

  The only way to find out was to tread forward and to tread softy. To help with those ends, Guthrie recalled a few of his recent adventures with magic, specifically when he had fled the camp of Lord Verkain and his soldiers. Guthrie breathed slowly, calming himself, then thought of himself as unseen by others. It took a few seconds, but then his figure began to glow slightly. The first time this had happened, he had been concerned others might be able to see him or the glowing, but that had not been the case, so he felt fairly sure he could now not be seen by others. The rest would be up to him.

  He slunk forward, his dagger out in case he should need it.

  The village proper was a couple of hundreds yards from the edge of the mountains, taking Guthrie over a few small, rolling hills covered with a thin layer of brown grass. Here and there he could make out some few lights within the buildings, but he saw no one moving about other than a pair of guards on horseback who kept to the other side of the village. This was too easy. Which frightened Guthrie all the more.

  Still, there was nothing for it. He had a job to do. He had to press on.

  Despite his invisibility, he took his time crossing the dried sward, wary at making any untoward sound. The guards he had seen in the distance made their way around the village, but not once did they head in his direction. Did they fear no danger from the mountain path? Not likely. Guthrie became more and more convinced he and his companions were being set up.

  Nearing the closest building, Guthrie slowed further and eased into the structure’s shadows. As best he could tell, the place was living quarters for a single person or a small family, the building only large enough for one room and spouting a small chimney that was now empty of smoke. Listening, he could detect nothing within. Guthrie moved to the edge of the building on his right and glanced around the side.

  There was a wide dirt path between the buildings of the village, little more than a wagon track. Across from him, Guthrie saw a dancing light in a window of one of the houses, the flame likely a candlelight left burning for children. Further down the row were a couple more weak glows from windows, but all on the opposite side from himself.

  Stepping out into the road, still convinced he could not be seen, he stared down the row of buildings on his side. There were several of the smaller structures he imagined were houses, then a yard of some size, big enough it would take a man more than a few seconds to cross, then the front of the large ale house. This biggest of buildings stretched away to the north, its far end facing the distant horizon.

  Easing forward down the road, Guthrie stretched his senses. There seemed no one awake. There were no sounds other than the occasional hum of the wind and the distant horses of the guards. Guthrie’s destination, the ale hall, was dark and quiet.

  Pressing on, he moved to one side so not to directly approach the double doors of the ale house. Each step forward he took with intent, each slow and wary, one after the other. Eventually he came within the shadow of the big building, the extra darkness provided by the angle of the moon far above.

  Guthrie hesitated, unsure of what to do. Could he make his way inside? And if so, would the wyrd women be there? Part of him was screaming that he should turn and run back to his companions, that if a trap was to be sprung, it would be when he opened those double doors. But he could not turn and flee. He was a man on a mission, and though it might be his last act as a member of the Ursian military, he would perform his duty.

  He reached forward and grasped the large bronze handle that rested at shoulder-height on the nearest door.

  A light touched his shoulder. Guthrie almost ignored it. For a moment he thought it must be the moonlight shifting, but then realized this glow was not something he would have been able to see with unaided vision. This was the metallic aura of magic touching him.

  He turned. He had expected an army of wyrd women behind him, all with spells ready to blast him into nothingness or to turn him into some strange creature. But there was none of that. Instead, far in the distance was the expected golden glow, up in the mountains not far from the trail. In fact, the glow appeared in the region where he had left the two knights.

  “Kroff! Zanbra!”

  He took off at a charge.

  Chapter 7

  Guthrie did not make it far before there was a flash of lightning in the mountains followed by sparks. That had been more than the usual glow of latent magic. That had been a magical attack. Concern for his fellows drove him harder, pushing him to run faster despite the distance of several hundred yards which he knew he could never complete at full speed. Guthrie feared his companions would be dead by the time he could get to them, which did not bode well for his own survival.

  He had not made it a dozen more steps when the pounding of hooves came to his ears from behind. Guthrie spun, sliding his mace free of its belt loop. He had expected to be ridden down, but remembered he could not be seen. Still, the two burly barbarian riders in furs were not far from the sergeant’s path. They would ride right past him unless he did something to stop them.

  Wishing he had brought along a crossbow, Guthrie sprang into action. It would be nearly impossible for him to halt both riders, but he would try.

  One of the Dartague was slightly ahead of the other. Guthrie would try for him first. Hoping his invisibility would aim him in surprising his enemies, he lifted his dagger and flipped it around for throwing. His arm snapped out, twirling the short blade.

  The horse screamed as steel slashed across the animal’s muzzle, causing the beast to plant its hooves for a moment, sending up dirt as the dagger dropped to the ground. The wound was not deep, only enough to shed a little blood, but the horse was frightened, panicked and temporarily stalled.

  The other rider reined in his animal, uncertain of what was happening.

  Then Guthrie saw his chance. He sprang forward, grabbing the leathers straps of the horse on his left and swinging wide to the right with his mace.

  Both Dartague were caught off guard as the Ursian appeared between them. The iron head of the sergeant’s mace smashed into one rider’s side, knocking him from his saddle with a yelp of pain. The other barbarian fought at his reins, trying to pull the cords free of Guthrie’s grasp. Guthrie tugged once more, giving himself precious seconds of control over horse and rider, then his mace flashed around, hammering the leg of the rider. The man screamed, but to his credit he did not flee. Instead, he unsheathed a large sword from the other side of his saddle and brought the weapon around for a blow.

  Guthrie would not give the man the time. The mace was already swinging down again, this time connecting with the rider’s knee. The wounded warrior yelled out again, then was pulled out of the saddle by the sergeant. Guthrie slammed the fellow onto his back on the ground.

  The other Dartague was up then, a knife in each hand as he approached the sergeant from behind. Guthrie sensed the fellow more than saw him, and spun at the last moment, his mace drifting wildly. The ball of the weapon missed, but it kept Guthrie’s opponent at bay long enough for the Ursian to kick out, his heavy boot connecting with the other man’s groin and dropping him.

  Seeing that both his foes were down for the moment, the sergeant grabbed at the nearest horse, snagging its reins. He pulled himself into the saddle and spurred the animal forward. He hoped he would have enough time to get to the knights.

  Galloping across the low hills, Guthrie spotted another bright blast of light in the mountains, this one slightly higher than before. How long could the knights hold out? And how powerful were these wyrd women? Ildra had shown considerable talent with magic, but most of her spells
had not been direct attacks, but misdirections, almost illusions. Guthrie hoped the same would be with these women, and he hoped the knights’ training was serving them well.

  His horse’s hooves skittered across gravel as the beast and rider came upon the mountain trail. Guthrie did not give the animal a moment of rest, but kept it chugging up the incline. Soon he spotted the three horses he and the knights had brought, the animals still tied where they had been left, but there were other smaller horses there, a half dozen Dartague rides. Guthrie cursed as he vaulted from his saddle, ignoring the fate of his most recent steed as he made his way up the incline to the ridge where he had left Zanbra and Kroff.

  As he rose along the path, there was another flash of light ahead around the bend, enough to make the sergeant shield his eyes for a moment. When he looked again, he could see the village in the distance. Apparently the alarm had been sent up, lamps and torches now burning bright throughout the small town, much milling about of the Dartague there.

  Guthrie turned away from the sight. He could not think of the possible dangers from the village. He had to get to Zanbra and Kroff, to help them, perhaps save them.

  Winded, his legs growing tired, Guthrie pushed around the last corner, finding himself on one end of the familiar flat ridge with the high rocks to his right and the wall of the mountain to his left. There were three cloaked figures standing with their backs to him, their arms thrust high and making motions in the air, chanting sounds pouring forth from their lips as flowing lights of red, green and blue burst from their fingers. These would seem to be the wyrd women, or some kind of spellcasters. A fourth such figure lay unmoving slightly behind the three, the head of the cloak caved in and leaking scarlet, likely caused by one of the knights. Several yards ahead of the witches were two big Dartague warriors in leather armor, the pair wielding large swords. They were in battle with the knights, the ringing of steel against steel echoing throughout the mountains.

  Staring through battling Dartague, Guthrie could tell Zanbra and Kroff were holding their own, yet both looked tired. How had they thwarted the magic of the wyrd women so far? And could they continue to do so?

  No more questions. Guthrie pounced.

  Missing his thrown dagger and his crossbow, the sergeant’s mace swung around wide, connecting with a wyrd woman’s head. The woman made not a sound as her head snapped to one side and her body was flung to the ground.

  The moment of surprise was gone.

  The two remaining witches spun toward their opponent, the women glowing bright with the aura of magic. Before Guthrie could land another attack, black tendrils sprang from each of the witch’s hands, ensnaring him and wrapping around his neck, squeezing the air from his throat and the life from his body.

  He swung up his mace against the black cords but found it was like striking rubber, doing little good. As his vision blurred and lights danced before his eyes, signs of nearing unconscious, he did the only thing he could think of.

  He lashed out with his own magic.

  The wyrd women were caught off guard.

  Unseen power like lightning blasted forth from the sergeant, raking across the witches and knocking them back as the black tendrils drifted into mist. One woman slammed against the high stones to Guthrie’s right, then rolled between two of the rocks and screamed as she fell to her death far below. The other was lifted and tossed back, into the fray of combat.

  The women landed in the midst of the melee and was immediately chopped in half by a swinging sword from Zanbra, but the one injured wyrd woman was sitting up, shaking her head, apparently not as bad off as Guthrie had believed. He would deal with her in a minute.

  The sergeant rushed into the fight, his mace twirling about his head. One of the Dartague warriors glanced back at his approaching enemy, a foolish move that cost him his life as Kroff’s steel sank into the man’s stomach, spilling intestines and gore. The other Dartague slid away from the knights and the approaching sergeant, planting his feet in front of the remaining wyrd woman to stand over her to protect her.

  The last warrior’s move did him little good. His three foes were upon him, all three trained combatants. Swords hacked and Guthrie’s mace plunged. Within moments the remaining Dartague was little more than meat, his skull crushed in and his body layered with cuts and stabs. He dropped to his knees, blood spurting from several wounds, then plopped over dead.

  The knights and the sergeant stood over the last of their foes, the last wyrd woman, blood pouring down one side of her head where Guthrie had hit her.

  But the three were not swift enough to act.

  The witch shot up a hand.

  And the world opened up.

  Guthrie found himself falling into darkness, his companions plummeting at his side, all yelling in surprise and fear.

  Chapter 8

  Guthrie woke to the sounds of groaning and a slight whimper. He did not know his location nor his situation, so he kept his eyes closed and did not move. Despite his unknown circumstances, at least he felt no major wounds, nothing broken, only some bruising and scrapes here and there. He could feel his helmet was gone.

  The groaning intensified.

  Deciding it best to learn what was going on around him, Guthrie opened his eyes.

  He could tell no difference than when his lids had been closed. He was in complete darkness, laying on something cold and hard. He did not feel anything covering his face, so he surmised his surroundings were dark. Where was he?

  “Kroff?” It was Zanbra’s voice, steady but weak. It had been her who had been moaning and whimpering. Was she searching for her fellow knight, or trying to get him to talk?

  Finding himself losing his inner conflict with impatience, Guthrie sat up. His movement made some little sound, but he learned no more from sitting other than that the air was somewhat cool around him.

  “Kroff, is that you?” Zanbra asked in the darkness.

  Guthrie sighed. He was already tired of the unknown. It seemed too much of his life had been filled with the unknown of late. It was time to shed a little light on his situation.

  He blinked and the golden glow of magic appeared in his vision. Then a ball of white light snapped into existence several feet in front of him, highlighting his surroundings. He found himself in what appeared to be a small cave with no exit, the rough walls surrounding him stretching into darkness above. Zanbra lay ten feet away on the opposite side of the somewhat circular chamber, her face pained and her right leg bent back behind her in an awkward position. To Guthrie’s right between him and the woman was Kroff, the knight unmoving and sprawled on his side, facing away from the sergeant.

  Guthrie sighed. He had not wanted to make use of magic, especially in front of Zanbra, but at least he was becoming more familiar with his own abilities.

  “You!” the woman spat.

  He grinned at her, finding her hate amusing. He supposed he could understand it, having no love for others who made use of magic.

  “Yes, me,” Guthrie said with a chuckle.

  Ignoring her heated emotions for the moment, Zanbra glanced to Kroff. “Can you tell if he’s alive?”

  Guthrie looked. “He appears to be breathing.”

  “Check on him,” Zanbra ordered.

  Guthrie glared at her.

  “I can’t move,” she explained, nodding to her twisted leg. “I think it’s broken.”

  He grunted and pulled himself across the stone floor to the downed knight. Guthrie rolled Kroff over onto his back, but there was no sign of serious injury other than a thin trickle of blood along the right side of the man’s head.

  “Maybe a concussion,” Guthrie said, “but other than that, I don’t know.”

  Shuffling movement from behind brought him around.

  Zanbra had lied. Her leg might be broken, but she could move. Like she was doing now, up on one knee and lunging with a dagger.

  The sergeant slapped out a hand and grabbed the wrist holding the weapon, twisting until the blade clink
ed to the cavern’s floor. He shoved her back where she fell on her rear, grimacing as her twisted leg flopped to one side.

  “Nice try,” Guthrie said.

  “You bastard,” she nearly spat. “You’ve killed us, trapped us here.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “Oh, don’t play your silly games with me,” the woman said. “All you wizards and warlocks are alike, seeing to your own. You tipped off the --”

  Guthrie held up a flat hand to quiet the woman. “Zanbra, whatever you might think of me, and whatever you think you might know, I had nothing to do with the Dartague attacking you and Kroff.”

  She leaned back on her hands, her face filled with hate. “It’s a funny thing, then, that they showed up only minutes after you headed down into that village. At first we thought there were a dozen of the warriors, but those had been illusions created by the wyrd women. By the time we figured out what was truly happening, it was almost too late. Then you showed up.”

  “And if I remember correctly,” Guthrie said, “I helped turn the tide against our enemies.”

  To this Zanbra had no response, but her outward look of rage did not diminish.

  Picking up the dropped dagger and sliding it into his belt, Guthrie stood and glanced about the cave, his glowing orb of light floating about the room to give him a better view. Until then he had not taken a good look around the place and had not been fully aware of their situation. Now he realized they were definitely trapped unless he could make use of his magic. No doors, no openings of any kind. The wyrd woman must have opened up a crack in the mountain, dropping the three inside before she closed the portal over them.

  “I suppose you kill us now and cast a spell for yourself to escape,” Zanbra said watching, nearly grinding her words.