Mage Hunter Omnibus (Complete 5 Book Series)

by Ty Johnston

  He then trekked up the side path to where the fight with the wyrd women had taken place. The bodies were gone now, as expected, and so were the crossbows and any other accoutrements the knights and the sergeant might have left behind. There was a change, however, to the scene on the ledge between the mountain and those tall rocks that looked something like menhirs. There was a great scar running down the middle of the path, as if a giant sword had swung down from upon high to cleave into the very stone. This was where the surviving wyrd woman had performed her magic, dropping the Ursians into the very mountain itself. Guthrie grinned as he stared at the ground, realizing some little while ago he had probably been a dozen or so feet below where he now stood.

  Returning to the main trail, he found the knights with their dead horses, the Sword and Spear resting on an outcropping of rock. Guthrie informed them of what he had found above.

  “Nothing new to learn, then,” Zanbra said. “We go ahead with our plans.”

  Guthrie gestured toward the plain ahead. “What of the new guards they have?”

  “What of them?” Zanbra asked. “I’m sure your magic can deal with a few barbarians.”

  Guthrie wouldn’t disagree with her. He only hoped his magic was as strong as Zanbra seemed to believe.

  “Do you want me to attempt this here, or nearer the village?” he asked.

  “What do you think is best?” Kroff said.

  The sergeant pondered the situation. He figured his magic stood a better chance of working the way he wanted if he could have the village in his sight, but he didn’t necessarily think he had to be in the village proper itself. In truth, he did not know how far his magic could reach, but if he managed to transport himself and the knights a mile or more with a blink of an eye, he thought it possible he could create another rolling wall of flame from a distance of a couple of hundred yards.

  “If we move to the end of the trail, where the mountains give way to low hills, I think I can do what we need,” Guthrie said. “If I can see the village, I can probably get a spell going. We’re not in condition for a fight, however, so I suggest we stay hidden. If those nearest scouts come our way, I guess we can handle them, but I don’t know what will happen if every warrior in the village comes down upon us, especially if they have the wyrd woman.”

  “We could use those scouts’ horse,” Kroff pointed out.

  “I can try,” Guthrie said. He looked to Zanbra, waiting for a response, an order.

  She paused as if in thought for a moment, then, “Go ahead. Kroff and I will be along as soon as we can.”

  A brief nod was all Guthrie allowed to finish their talk, then he spun away and trotted down the trail, only slowing when the path opened up before him, revealing the rolling hills and the village beyond. Moving to one side to better conceal himself among some rocks, the sergeant was not overly worried about his companions catching up to him. He had not traveled far and believed Zanbra likely in better condition than she let on, a trait she had used in the past.

  Dropping into a crouching position, Guthrie scanned his surroundings, spotting the two nearest Dartague riders a hundred yards away, their steeds poking along. Despite recent events and the number of guards now awake, it seemed the riders were not worried about an attack. Guthrie grinned, reveling in the fact he was about to give the Dartague a surprise. More to his liking, he noticed a slight golden glow coming from the long ale house; the sight told him the wyrd woman was now located within. All Guthrie’s immediate enemies were in one locale, unless one considered Zanbra an enemy.

  He breathed in slowly. Had he yet to consciously attempt such powerful magic? Perhaps the transfer of himself and the knights? He could do this, Guthrie told himself. Everyone he had met recently who had experience with magic had confirmed he was a natural mage and powerful. He might not know how his magic worked, but it did indeed work. This would be but another test, an attempt to push his bounds.

  Letting out a breath, Guthrie focused on the ale house. That would be a good place to begin. He concentrated on the building, in his mind conjuring forth an image of the wall of fire he had created at the Dartague camp weeks earlier. For a moment nothing unusual happened, then the slow glint of gold brightened the edges of the sergeant’s vision. The magic was working.

  What happened next came as a surprise.

  The ale house exploded, timbers flying as a ring of flame spread out from the center of the decimation, a black cloud following a bright line of fire that shot up from the building into the thin clouds high above. The ground quaked, knocking Guthrie off his feet and frightening the horses below. Rocks tumbled from the edge of the mountains, and cries and shouts went up from the village as the guards there were thrown to the ground.

  By the time Guthrie looked up, the ale house was gone, little more left than a crater that took up the area where the building had stood, some few blackened timbers sticking up here and there, a glowing cauldron at the center of the destruction. Here and there the guards were picking themselves off the ground, and doors were being thrown open in the remaining houses. The scouts were still on their horses, their attention on the brightness of the former ale house which glowed throughout the village.

  Guthrie was not smiling, nor laughing. He had not expected such destruction. Had he caused this? It seemed so.

  He heard movement behind him and glanced over a shoulder. It was Zanbra and Kroff, the man helping the woman limp forward. Their eyes were broad and bright, staring at the annihilation of the ale house. A grin came to Zanbra’s eyes.

  Chapter 11

  “Now, the warriors,” Zanbra said.

  Guthrie looked back again. “Don’t you think they’ve had enough? Surely they will flee now.”

  “We need horses,” the Sword countered, “and every enemy dead is one less our soldiers will have to face on the field.”

  The sergeant understood the logic of her words, but weren’t the Dartague already defeated since they no longer had Ildra and the local wyrd women? He no longer saw the glow of magic from what had been the ale house, assuring himself the witch there was dead and the fire of his creation was no longer magical but a natural flame now that his own intrusive spell had been accomplished.

  He shook his head and looked forward once more.

  “We need horses,” Zanbra repeated.

  Guthrie sighed and stood, pushing himself away from the rocks where he had hidden. Ahead of him nearly a hundred yards were the nearest two scouts, the pair likely assigned to watch the path into the mountains. He glanced around, then looked to the knights once more.

  “Kroff, do you still have any bolts?” the sergeant asked.

  For a moment the Spear’s face screwed up in confusion, then he reached over a shoulder to the small quiver where arrows for his crossbow normally hung across his back. “Sorry, Guthrie. Must have lost the remainder during all the action.”

  “Zanbra?” Guthrie asked.

  The woman tried to reach around but had a hard time of it with her injured leg. Kroff did her a favor and checked the long, soft leather pouch. He pulled out a single short arrow.

  “Only the one,” he said.

  Guthrie reached back and pulled his own quiver around to stare into it. Two arrows. Three among all of them. It was what they had. It would do.

  He plucked his two arrows free of their home. Turning to face the village and the scouts, Guthrie held out a flat hand, the arrows stretched across his arm and palm, the heads of the darts aimed below.

  Sighing again, Guthrie blinked.

  The arrows shot forth, faster than they would have from the strongest of bows and the strongest of archers. There was a distant yelping, then the two scouts dropped from the back of their horses.

  Zanbra chuckled. “Good job, sergeant. Now retrieve us those riding beasts.”

  Guthrie did not look back, but he wanted to curse the woman. For someone who detested magic with a vengeance, she was enjoying making use of it a little too much. He jogged forward, gradually crossi
ng the distance to the animals. Fortunately the horses did not flee but milled around the area where their riders had fallen.

  He had no trouble catching the beasts, but then his attention was drawn to the village once more, now much nearer to him. He could spy a bucket line having been formed, the warriors and the villagers working together to pass water from the near creek to the remains of the ale house. Sounds of crying and worry came to the sergeant’s ears, and not for the first time did he dread the particulars of war. A member of the Ursian army for a decade, this was his first war, and he hoped his last.

  Pulling the pair of animals along, Guthrie turned back toward the knights. He had made it nearly to the trail when the thundering of hooves caused him to glance over a shoulder.

  Other scouts, four of them on horseback, were bearing down on him. This time he did curse. He should have ridden back to the knights, now he would be lucky if he could make it to them before the Dartague caught up with him. Never too late to try, however.

  Guthrie climbed onto a horse’s back and snapped the reins, the beast taking off while the sergeant pulled its companion along behind.

  There were shouts from the barbarian riders, but Guthrie did not look back. They were closer than he would have liked, but they had not been right up on him, and the Dartague did not often carry bows. He rode, pushing his two horses.

  Thankfully the knights had moved down the trail to the edge of the low hills. Guthrie spotted them through the darkness and steered his animals toward them. The hammering of the Dartague hooves were always at his back.

  The barbarians struck just as the sergeant reached his fellow Ursians.

  Kroff and Zanbra had seen the attack coming, their swords out and raised for action. Guthrie pulled his steed around just in time to spot a club swinging for his head. He ducked, avoiding the blow but feeling it graze through his hair.

  The first Dartague rode on past the sergeant, but the second had different ideas. This man charged his animal into Guthrie’s own, spilling both riders to the ground amidst swinging arms and weapons.

  Guthrie rolled away from the stamping horses, coming up on a knee with his mace extended. To one side he heard the scraping of metal against metal, but dared not look to see how the knights were faring. The man who had knocked him from the saddle was only a few feet away, also up on a knee, his sword sliding free from a hard wood scabbard on his back.

  Guthrie gave the man no time to think, but sprang and charged right at him. The Dartague swordsman did the same. Steel slid through the air and was met by the large ball of Guthrie’s mace. A metallic ringing sounded out and both men felt the reverberations stinging their hands.

  Before the sergeant could ready another attack, he was struck from behind, another rider, this one with a spear. The point of the weapon jabbed through Guthrie’s leather armor, but the wound was not deep, the blade pulled free as the rider rode past.

  The swordsman sprang again, lashing out. Guthrie gritted at the pain in his back, but that did not stop him from ducking the sword. When he came back up, he brought his mace with him, swinging up from the ground with both hands. The iron ball connected with the swordsman’s lower jaw, splitting bone and sending teeth flying. The man cried out, then crumbled to the ground.

  Guthrie had a moment to notice another of the Dartague was downed, likely dead, pulled from his saddle and stabbed to death by the knights. The other two riders circled the sergeant and the knights, each with a spear ready to jab at their opponents. The Dartague were merely biding their time, keeping the Ursians corralled until more warriors could arrive.

  A quick glance to the knights showed they were unharmed, both standing strong though Zanbra had a steadying hand against Kroff’s side. Looking toward the village, Guthrie saw there were indeed more Dartague coming, a dozen of the warriors running as fast as their legs would carry them across the last hundred yards separating them from their foes.

  Guthrie’s mind flashed out again and he sent a wall of freezing clouds at the oncoming warriors. The chilled mist sprang up from the ground as if rising steam, then rolled toward the Dartague. For a moment the men panicked, their running steps faltering, but then the group split into two in an attempt to charge around the magic before them. Guthrie would not allow this. His magic clouds burst apart into an obscure, billowing fog, stretching forth in tendrils like some great reaching beast reaching.

  The warriors were doomed. The smokey arms wrapped around them, entwined their limbs and heads. Each man cried out, some screaming for their ancestors or gods, then went quiet as they froze solid in place. Some few stood still as statues, those caught in the middle of running dropped to the ground, bursting apart like cracked ice.

  The two scouts howled their dismay, then turned their horses away. They had seen enough. They could not stand against such a foe. They were brave men, but they were also frightened and not stupid. Guthrie let them go.

  And if he had not turned at that very moment, it would have cost him his life.

  Zanbra was there, her sword slicing through air for Guthrie’s neck.

  With no time for thought, he dropped away, landing on his back as the woman’s steel swung through where he had just stood. Taking a moment to note Kroff was on his back in the distance, trying to pull himself to standing, Guthrie was almost struck again. Zanbra’s blade came down from upon high, the woman swinging with both hands, with all her might.

  Guthrie rolled to one side, away from the sword, then flipped around until he was on a knee. He had no time for further movement, the knight’s sword already lashing at him again. This time he brought up his mace as a shield, the edge of the sword clanging against the black iron before rebounding.

  “Zanbra, stop this!” Kroff shouted.

  But Guthrie knew she would not stop. He had taken out most of their immediate enemies, and the woman believed she no longer needed him. Guthrie almost couldn’t blame her. She was stomping out magic at one of its sources, what she was trained and inclined to do.

  Yet he would not give up his own life simply because she hated him and magic. He himself had no love for magic, but he would not sacrifice himself for such a cause.

  He stood then as the woman swayed back, pulling her sword around for another blow. Guthrie stepped toward the woman, into her strike zone, too close for her sword to do serious damage against one in armor.

  But the wound to Guthrie’s back pained him then, causing him to falter and wince.

  The sword came forward one more, this time for a direct stab.

  He barely had time to parry the blow, the edge of the sword scraping along the wooden haft of his mace and bouncing off a studded shoulder plate.

  Then Guthrie realized the woman was laughing. She was enjoying this.

  Kroff came rushing in at that moment, his own sword before him.

  It was then Guthrie truly feared for his life. Would Kroff join his fellow knight in trying to slay the sergeant?

  There was no time for such questions.

  As Kroff approached, Zanbra spun toward him. At that moment, Guthrie saw a chance to strike, but he held back. Zanbra wanted him dead, but thee was still a part of the sergeant who did not wish to strike down a fellow soldier of Ursia.

  His hesitation nearly got Kroff killed.

  Apparently angered at her companion’s interference, Zanbra swung toward Kroff. The attack caught the man off guard and her sword slapped against the side of his head, knocking him to one side.

  Rage thrust up from within Guthrie. Despite their unsteady alliance, he liked Kroff. Kroff was a noble fellow and just, a friend. Guthrie could not stand by and see the man harmed.

  The mace swung from left to right, connecting with the back of the woman’s unshielded head. A terrible crunching sound followed and Zanbra’s eyes rolled back in her skull. She tottered for a moment, then dropped to her knees.

  Hesitating, not sure if the woman was dying or injured or faking once more, Guthrie stood his ground. When Zanbra did not fall, he reached
toward her, placing a hand on her shoulder. Still, she did not move.

  Guthrie shifted around in front of her.

  “Guthrie,” Kroff said to one side, his voice weak, “don’t. Don’t kill her.”

  The sergeant glanced to the other man, found Kroff laying among rocks, one side of his head bleeding.

  It was then Zanbra reached out, grasping for the sergeant.

  The move caught Guthrie by surprise, yet he backed up, the woman wounded and slow. She was trying to grab him, to stand, her sword slowly coming up.

  Snarling, Guthrie swatted at her sword hand with his mace, the iron ball denting her gauntlet and knocking the long blade free of her grip. Zanbra cursed, pulling her wounded hand to her chest.

  But she was not through fighting yet.

  Her other hand tugged free a dagger from her belt.

  Guthrie had had enough. He shoved her to fall on her back, then kicked out to send her dagger spiraling away into the darkness. He paused long enough to retrieve her sword, then stood over the woman, staring down.

  Eyes locked on eyes. His full of tiredness. Hers full of rage.

  He almost stepped away, leaving her to her own fate.

  Almost.

  It was then he spotted the other arrow, the last one among the three. Somehow Zanbra had gotten her hands on it. She gripped it in one hand. And was bringing it around, stabbing for the sergeant.

  Guthrie acted without thinking. He swung out with the sword, meaning to chop into the approaching hand. He did hit the hand, but the sergeant was more familiar with a much shorter weapon, was more familiar with the reach of his mace. The sword crushed the fingers holding the arrow, but then the long weapon’s tip slipped across Zanbra’s throat, leaving a line of crimson.