Mage Hunter Omnibus (Complete 5 Book Series) Page 15

  The words had barely been needed. One look at the noble emblem upon Werner’s chest plate had been enough. The leader of the riders stared with widening eyes at the ragtag pair before him, then motioned to one of his fellows.

  “Send word to the duke, now!” the front rider ordered.

  One of the other horsemen turned his animal about and charged toward the camp.

  “Duke?” queried Werner.

  The lead rider nodded. “Yes, sir. Duke Heggel is in command here now. To be frank, sir, we feared you dead.”

  Werner chuckled again. “Can’t say I blame you. Now about that food?”

  “Yes, sir!” The rider spun his horse around to face the camp. “If you will follow me, I’ll take you to proper accommodations.”

  “Lead on,” Werner said.

  It was a matter of minutes before the captain and Guthrie found themselves escorted into the camp they had left behind more than a week earlier. The place was busier than ever, and now there were not only militia members in evidence but actual soldiers of Ursia. There was tension in the air, what with men marching about and weapons being sharpened. More than a few wary glances followed the newcomers, but there were also looks of surprise and befuddlement and, in some cases, even joy.

  The escort riders took the captain and sergeant deeper into the camp, finally settling before a sizable tent of the deepest purple, a half dozen heavily armored men standing guard out front and a large banner flapping overhead. Guthrie glanced up at the flag and recognized the silver stitched circle of a noose in the middle of the dark background. They were back among their own kind, especially the sergeant. Weeks earlier Guthrie had been looking forward to retirement from the military, but now he was glad to once more be ensconced within the arms of such a martial force. Even though he recognized the camp likely sported no more than a few hundred soldiers, many of them young recruits from the looks of things, only the largest of enemy forces would consider attacking.

  A youth ran up to the captain as he slid from the back of his riding beast in front of the large tent.

  “Captain Werner!” the lad cried out.

  Werner spun around to find the tallow-headed Manif rushing up to him. A few of the riders and the guards before the tent bristled, but they relaxed as the captain wrapped his arms around the youth.

  When Manif could breath again, he leaned back from the captain and looked up into the ice-blue eyes of the older man. “Sir, I thought you dead, I swear.” He glanced to Guthrie. “When the sergeant didn’t return with you in a few days, we all gave up on you. My apologies.”

  “No apologies needed, lad,” Werner said with a hardy laugh as he patted the youth on a shoulder. “I would’ve given up on us, as well. Sergeant Hackett here told me you had survived the fight. I was glad to hear it.”

  Manif straightened as if ready to parade, sparing a glance to Guthrie. “I did as I was ordered by the sergeant, sir. We made sure those who fell received proper burials, with priests and everything.”

  “Priests?” The captain raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ll find them within, sir,” the officer of the riders said as he climbed down from his horse, “as well as the duke and other ... uh, dignitaries. I’m sure they’ll want to hear what you have to say as soon as possible.”

  Werner nodded. “True enough. But about that food?” He chuckled here, glancing around at the men gathering, many of them his own militia members with bright eyes, all glad to see their commander returned, hail and hardy. “I mean no disrespect, but we’ve been living off frozen cat for the last week.”

  More than a few guffaws went up from the growing crowd. Even the lead rider cracked a grin. It was one of the few moments of levity Guthrie had experienced with others in some time. He was glad for it, and to be among his own countrymen once again. He recognized few faces, his own regiment having been wiped out in the initial Dartague assault. The sergeant nodded to Manif, and even offered a brief wave to Tack, the farmer who had once been a wizard’s apprentice, a secret that would doom the man if any but Guthrie knew the truth.

  The officer of the riders who had escorted Guthrie and Werner showed his impatience as he motioned toward the tent yet again. “I believe the duke will want to speak with you immediately, sir.”

  Werner turned to Guthrie. “Why don’t you rustle us up something to eat? I can handle this, speaking with the top echelon.”

  “Are you sure?” Guthrie asked. “Heggel is duke of the land, and I’m his only surviving soldier from the northern station.”

  “I can pass along everything you’ve told me,” the captain said. “I doubt there’s anything you could add. If he wants to meet with you personally, he’ll call upon you. But I doubt he will. Sorry, but most nobility consider it beneath them to speak with a sergeant. If I weren’t head of the militia, he probably wouldn’t be calling on me.”

  Guthrie had to ponder at that. Werner was older, experienced, and by rights should have been knighted at some point. Had the captain refused such an honor? Or had Werner’s youth been from such a low level that no noble nor the church would promote him above his current station? Either was possible. Grinning, Guthrie thought it most likely Werner had turned down any opportunity at knighthood.

  “Fine,” he said to the captain. “I’ll find us a tent and some victuals. If you need me, I’ll be with Manif.”

  Werner nodded. “Very well.” Then he turned and marched into the large tent, the head of the escort riders following.

  The gathering of militia and soldiers began to break up then, Manif rushing toward Guthrie as the others went back to work at whatever tasks had been appointed them.

  All smiles, the youth took Guthrie’s right hand and shook it. “It really is good to see the two of you alive. I had feared the worst.”

  Guthrie patted the lad on a shoulder, much as had Werner. Now that they were nearer, the sergeant could see a lengthy scar along one side of Manif’s face where a Dartague sword had done some damage during the fight at the creek bed. The wound was healing well, showing some little redness still. Guthrie was surprised it was coming along as well as it was and not still wrapped, but there had been a mention of priests, and that lot were known for their healing talents.

  “I’m glad to see you made it, as well,” the sergeant said to the lad as their hands parted. “I was concerned about leaving you alone and putting you in charge of traveling back here all by yourself. I feared the Dartague might find you again.”

  Manif smiled. “I saw a few outriders, but I managed to give them the slip. By the time I got back here, the army was beginning to show up, and I felt pretty safe about things then.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it after I round up some food?” Guthrie suggested.

  Manif nodded and soon they were waltzing through the camp. Guthrie managed to procure a loaf of bread, some dried fruit and a small wheel of pale cheese, typical camp fare for military travelers, and the two settled upon old tree stumps being used for chairs next to one of the village’s stone houses. As Guthrie ate, he watched the activity around him, men coming and going, very few women and no children; what snow had once layered upon the village was now gone, flattened by hundreds of boots, the main evidence of the winter being the sea of white stretching beyond Herkaig and its surrounding encampment. Guthrie wondered if any of the original villagers were still alive somewhere, though he doubted it.

  Once the sergeant had some food in him, Manif started talking and would hardly shut up. Guthrie found out the company of soldiers now stationed around the village had come up with Duke Heggel a few days earlier, spearheading a much larger group, two regiments, which were expected to arrive at any time. Herkaig had been chosen as an initial bivouac site until the rest of the new northern army arrived. The destruction of the local keep and church and the presence of the militia had decided the matter for the duke. Word was that Duke Corvus was also bringing north a regiment, but that would be further to the east, nearer to the coast. As for specific plans f
or the future, Manif knew little, but it was the general impression of those within the camp that a massive blow was to be struck against the Dartague.

  “Invasion?” Guthrie asked, wiping the last crumbs from the scrub of his chin.

  “That’s what everyone seems to think,” Manif said with excitement. “It kind of makes sense, what with three whole regiments being brought to the north.”

  “Won’t be enough,” Guthrie said with a sigh. “The northern army consisted of two regiments, my own company being part of the western regiment. Three regiments total will be enough to hold the border, to protect the rest of the nation for sure, but not enough for an invasion. The Dartague are like smoke. They’ll simply vanish back into their mountains.”

  “We could attack their capital,” Manif piped up.

  Guthrie chuckled. “That’s possible, and it would also be a waste of time. The Dartague are a nomadic, barbaric people. Yes, they have a capital, and technically a king, but the city of Dartague is little more than a trading port, and the king is mostly a figurehead, someone the merchants can deal with. No, the Dartague people show little respect and no obeisance to their king. It’s generally only the clan chiefs, and now this wyrd woman, who they’ll follow. Attacking their capital would only slow down the northern trade, little more. But that’s just the kind of harebrained scheme some military genius would come up with.”

  “You have a better idea?” a new voice asked.

  Guthrie and Manif turned in their seats, then shot to their feet and stood at attention. Standing before them were two tall, armored figures in dark plum cloaks, long swords hanging from their wide belts. Neither figure wore a helm, but etched upon their breast plates was a circle, the sign of Ashal, and within that circle a sword pointing toward the ground. One of the figures was an older woman, though there was no weakness showing within her because of her age; her chin was solid, her eyes the color of the sea and as hard as steel, her hair long and black with a white streak running from her forehead back into her tresses. The man was also older, possibly in his early fifties, his hair shaggy and gray with a similar beard sprouting from his chin; his eyes were gray and stoney, though his look not as piercing as that of his companion.

  “At ease, sergeant, private,” the woman said to Guthrie and Manif. It had been her who had spoken.

  “My apologies, milady, if I was speaking out of turn,” the sergeant said.

  A thin smile grew across the woman’s face. “You were merely stating the truth, sergeant.”

  The man at her side chuckled. “Did you hear, Zanbra? He called you a lady.”

  Now it was the woman who chuckled. “Sergeant, you may call me by my title of Sword.”

  Manif’s eyes grew the size of gold coins. A Sword of the Holy Order of the Gauntlet? Here in Herkaig? There were only three Swords at any given time, each a top commander among the church’s knighthood of magic hunters, only superseded in authority by the order’s High Sword or the pope himself.

  The woman gestured to her companion. “This is Spear Kroff, and I am Sword Zanbra.”

  Guthrie nodded. One did not salute a knight unless directly beneath his or her command.

  Zanbra turned back to Guthrie and Manif. Her mouth opened. Then slammed closed. Her eyes widened as she spotted something beyond the two men before her.

  “Tacklin Merryander!” She shouted out, a small crossbow of iron appearing in her hands from the folds of her cloak.

  Manif did not move, obviously too afraid to do so, but Guthrie looked over his shoulder.

  A dozen yards away stooped over a cooking fire was the man Guthrie knew as Tack. Around him was seated a half dozen of his fellows, each holding a spoon halfway to their mouths. The entire group had come to a halt, all eyes on Sword Zanbra. Tack’s features filled with dread. He dropped his bowl and spoon, standing to face the woman.

  The crossbow raised, the arrow pointed at Tack.

  Manif finally found the courage to turn and look.

  “You have been judged!” Zanbra shouted.

  The arrow shot forward, spearing into the farmer’s skull between his eyes. His head snapped back and he dropped.

  No one moved.

  Then Zanbra stepped forward, closing the distance between Guthrie, Manif and Kroff and the man she had just killed. None stepped forward to retard her nor to speak of what had happened. None would.

  Zanbra knelt next to the dead man, stared at him for a moment, then grasped at the arrow sticking out of his skull. She tugged, a grotesque tearing sound followed by a sucking noise. Then she wiped the arrow clean on Tack’s tunic, and the crossbow and arrow disappeared within her cloak once more. She stood and stared at each of the men who had been seated with Tack, her eyes as hard as diamonds. Then she spun away, marching back to her own group.

  Kroff’s head was tilted back, a questioning look on his face.

  “He was wanted in Mas Ober for being apprenticed to a mage,” Zanbra said as way of explanation.

  Nothing else was said of the matter, and never would be. Those of the Order of the Gauntlet were empowered to judge and slay any they believed guilty of using magic in any form. No one other than the pope could interfere in such matters, and that rarely happened as those judged usually did not live long enough for an appeal.

  Watching the other militiamen at the fire gather up their dead companion, Guthrie shuddered as he turned back to the two members of the Order.

  “I regret the distraction,” Sword Zanbra said to Guthrie, “but justice must be served.”

  Before another word could be said, Manif fell to his knees, retching to one side. Guthrie felt pity for the youth. Manif had seen combat, but it wasn’t every day you watched one of your own slaughtered in your midst.

  Zanbra sneered at the lad. “That one,” she said, motioning toward Manif, “is not needed for our conversation.”

  The sergeant helped the youth to his feet, then patted him on his back and sent him shuffling toward those who were to take care of Tack’s body. Guthrie had barely known Tack, but the fellow had seemed to him a good man. Now the northern military would be short one more fighter. Inwardly Guthrie seethed at what had happened, but there was nothing to be done about it. He would say a prayer for Tack later.

  “The reason we have looked you up, Sergeant Hackett,” Zanbra continued, as if nothing had happened, “is it is our understanding you have had contact with the Dartague and one of their wyrd women. More contact than any other known survivors here in the north.”

  Guthrie tried to put thoughts of Manif and Tack out of his mind. He gave a curt nod. As far as he knew, Zanbra spoke the truth.

  Spear Kroff stepped forward, placing a steely hand upon the sergeant’s arm as he stared hard into Guthrie’s eyes. “We want you to take us to her.”

  “Who?” Guthrie asked.

  “This wyrd woman,” Zanbra said. “I believe she is called Ildra.”

  Chapter 4

  Despite being in the middle of winter, the temperature was rising and the snow was melting. The flatlands of northern Ursia had turned from a cold, hard place to a swampy prairie that reached out in all directions.

  Into this muck rode three atop heavy steeds. Guthrie was in the lead, the two members of the Order of the Gauntlet riding next to one another behind the sergeant.

  Apparently Zanbra and Kroff had been familiar with Ildra’s existence, though before arriving in the north they had not known of her importance to the Dartague situation. Manif had told his fellow militiamen of words Guthrie had shared, and the youth had told about a mysterious dark wizard who had supposedly been the one to destroy the local church. It had not taken long for fact to become rumor and for rumor to make its way to the newly-arriving army. Zanbra and Kroff had been traveling within the army, sent by the pope himself to deal with any with magical skill within the Dartague. Putting together what little they had known with the rumors spread by Manif’s word, the two knights of the Gauntlet had decided direct action was best. Captain Werner’s rep
ort to Duke Heggel had only intensified the knights’ opinion. Zanbra and Kroff had not heard much of what Werner had had to say before they had conferred with the duke, all three deciding Ildra was behind the Dartague attack and thus must be slain. Then the two knights had sought out Guthrie, the one Ursian at the center of all the dealings with the wyrd woman. Of course Zanbra and Kroff did not know everything, as Guthrie had not revealed the complete truth to Werner nor to Manif, especially concerning Guthrie’s ability to seek out magic and his own powers.

  Now the three were on a hunt for Ildra. Zanbra had ordered Guthrie to lead her and Kroff to the Dartague encampment where the sergeant had freed Captain Werner. It did little good to argue that the camp was likely moved by now, at least a week later, or had dissipated altogether. These were members of the Gauntlet. They would have their way. Guthrie could potentially advise them, but his opinion was not necessarily wanted, especially by Zanbra.

  Kroff, on the other hand, seemed a little more open, more friendly. Which might explain why the older man was a Spear, a lesser officer, instead of a Sword, such as Zanbra.

  The Spear spurred his horse gently and rode up next to the sergeant, leaving his companion to ride behind. Kroff pointed ahead to the mountains growing in their sight. “You say there is a trail?”

  “A sizable valley,” Guthrie said with a nod. “It is the most direct path. The trail Captain Werner and I took in escaping is further to the north and west.”

  Kroff waved a hand at the scenery before and aft of them. “Won’t the Dartague see us coming with all this open land around us?”

  “Most likely,” Guthrie said. “I suggested to Zanbra that we take the lesser trail, but she did not seem so inclined.”

  Twisting in his saddle to stare at his fellow knight, Kroff raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Zanbra’s features soured, the woman bristling at having to explain herself. “The other trail is too narrow, leaving us open to ambush.”

  Kroff glanced ahead again, then back to his comrade. “And this route is any safer? It looks to me as if the whole Dartague nation could ride right down upon us.”