Mage Hunter Omnibus (Complete 5 Book Series) (2 page)

“
You raid our towns!” Guthrie shouted. “You kill our people and steal our crops!”

The woman’s voice grew in pitch and volume. “Only after you Ursians intruded upon our lands and our ways, spreading the worship of your god ... this Ashal! We have no need of your petty southern god! We have our own ways, and we mean to keep them. If that means the life of every Ursian must be spilled upon the earth, then so be it! Leave us be and your people will survive. Otherwise, let what comes fall upon your own heads!”

She turned away then, her rough cloak swinging out and around her as she marched through the warriors. Guthrie’s gaze followed her back for a moment, but then he noticed the shifting of the men. They were moving between him and her, and edging closer. If she were truly going to let the Ursian live, Guthrie believed he needed to leave soon, especially after the heat of their last words.

No time like the present
, he told himself.
Let’s see if they mean to keep their word.

He turned his back upon his foes, upon those who had slain his countrymen. Without a look to the dead, he walked away. With each step he expected an arrow in the back, or to hear the battle cry of the Dartague as the warriors rushed him.

But there was only quiet.

And the snow began to fall in lazy drifts, the flurries wetting his eyelids as he tromped and tromped.

Upon reaching a rise in the land, Guthrie spotted one of the Ursian steeds standing below in a shallow glen. He stopped atop the hill, pausing long enough to catch his breath and to look back one last time.

The Dartague were gone, as were the corpses of his men. He had not heard the bodies carried away. The only remaining sign of violence was the blooded snow.

Chapter 2

The horse did not survive. Guthrie had had little trouble catching the beast, but he soon discovered the animal had lost its packs loaded with food and blankets. After the ruckus with the Dartague, all that had remained on the horse was its saddle and tack and harness. If the sergeant had not needed the beast, he might have slain it to put it out of its misery, but as things had stood there had been a week’s ride ahead of him.

The going was tough. The snow had been drifting lazily for weeks before Guthrie and his men had encountered the barbarians, but now the winter closed its mighty fist along the border between Dartague and Ursia, the northern mountains belching forth daily snows to cover the land. The white landscape could cause a man to lose his bearings and go blind if not careful. Fortunately for him, Guthrie Hackett was a careful man. He cut strips from his tunic to create wraps for his eyes, only a thin slit allowing through the blinding light of the sun that emanated off the snows all around. Food was more difficult to come by, though water was aplenty, a mouthful of snow enough to slake one’s thirst. The horse managed to find some scrub here and there to munch upon, enough to keep the beast going for some little while but not enough to hold its strength. The sergeant fared little better, cursing his luck more than once for not having a bow available for hunting, but he created a makeshift spear from his dagger and a sturdy branch found along his path. That spear brought food in the manner of rabbits and other smaller creatures that ventured forth into the weather. At least the snow made tracking no difficult matter.

Guthrie was no woodsman, but he had spent enough time hunting in and near the wilds to know his way back to the village. His horse managed to survive for four days, then the Ursian set out on foot. Five more days of plowing through snow and across ice brought him down from the mountain paths and into the flatlands of northern Ursia, his homeland. Here he could see to the horizon. What he saw was a sea of white, some hints of trees here and there.

Another day and he spotted a large break on the horizon. Herkaig, the village the Dartague had attacked. He had been drawn here not because of the region’s recent history, but because it had been the closest settlement to him. Even the fort where he was stationed was another dozen miles beyond.

Ahead there was no sign of smoke from any chimneys, but he hoped there was still someone alive, or at least some food and perhaps a horse or mule. Stamping through the white, his heavy boots leaving deep tracks in his wake, he waded forward. The going was rougher in some ways, the snow deeper on the plains than it had been in the mountain passes, bringing new levels of pain to his weak legs. He was tired and hungry, but an end was in sight.

Tromping into the edges of the village, Guthrie found battered doors hanging open among the stone and lime cottages. His shoulders slumped at the sight. His head shifted from side to side, hoping to hear anything of the living, but the only sound that came to him was the howl of the winter’s wind upon the flats.

When he had left here weeks earlier, the place had been a wreck, dead bodies everywhere and blood splashed upon the buildings. But there had been survivors, people trying to put their lives back together. It had been the local sheriff who had called upon Guthrie’s captain at the stronghold, seeking aid against the Dartague raiders. Guthrie had been dispatched with the others, a squad far too small in number for the appointed task of rounding up or slaying the guilty Dartague. The captain himself had been too busy entertaining a local knight to take part, and other men could not be spared from their daily tasks of guarding the main northern road that ran from east to west, the largest road in this part of Ursia.

Glancing within the darkness of an empty hovel, the sergeant cursed his luck. Sent to do an impossible job, he was the only survivor, and there was no assurance he would yet survive. He needed proper food and warmth. The day was still fairly early, but he would sleep here tonight within one of the stronger structures.

Moving on to the next building, a larger one, he hoped yet to find food. His guess was the inhabitants had fled the winter storm after their numbers had been decimated, likely fleeing to the stronghold. Guthrie only hoped he could survive long enough to join them. His own reserves were beginning to grow weak.

At the next house he paused before the opening where a door had once hung but was now missing. A look inside revealed little at first, the gloom more than his eyes could reach through for the moment, but a shifting of the clouds above stretched the sun’s cold rays into the doorway. A pair of wool-clad legs stuck out from the shadows.

Guthrie paused. Then he lowered a hand to the handle of his mace at his belt. There had been plenty of dead when he had left behind Herkaig, but there had also been an effort to remove the corpses and prepare them for burial. Whomever this dead person was at the sergeant’s feet, it was likely they had died since Guthrie had left the village with his men. He leaned forward, nearly squatting, and stared into the shadows. His suspicions were proven correct when his eyes cleared of the gloom and he could make out the stone-like blue features of a dead man stretched out in front of him. The poor fellow had frozen to death before the open slice to his stomach had killed him. But why had he been left behind when the others had fled?

A sound to one side brought the sergeant’s head around. But there was nothing to see. Only the village path that ran straight through two lines of the stone buildings. Beyond either end of the street was the open expanse of the flatlands. Guthrie couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to live here in the middle of nowhere, especially this far from a main road, but he supposed farmers had their reasons.

Another sound. This one louder. It had been like a cracking twig beneath one’s feet. It had come from behind and to the left.

Guthrie spun about, hefting his weapon. Still, nothing. Across the way was another cold home, this one with most of its doors and shutters remaining though battered and hacked. Had the noise come from within there? He was not sure he wanted to know. If there was anyone else here, they were likely either to be in a bad way or to not be overly friendly, or perhaps both. Guthrie had not enough strength to care properly for someone ill or wounded, and no doubt he was too weak to combat an enemy.

But if an enemy, who could it be? He had seen no tracks through the snow other than the ones he himself had left behind. True, the snow fell often enough it could have covered another’s trail mere hours earlier, but who would be slinking around this dead village without a horse and without a fire?

Someone who was up to no good, that was who. Someone who had been waiting, perhaps waiting for Guthrie himself. Or some scavenger, a beast braving the weather for a meal. Could the Dartague have changed their mind about allowing him to live? Not likely. The northern tribes weren’t known for their fickleness.

Fear growing in his tight stomach, the sergeant recognized there was nothing to do but to push through a door of the building across the way from him. If there was a foe inside waiting, then so be it. He would not be hunted, and the anticipation was nearly as bad on his nerves as would be actual combat.

Guthrie strode forward, his mace held high. He kicked out at the door, snapping it back on its hinges. Trickling dust and snow were all that greeted him.

He stood his ground for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows of the place. He waited, but nothing untoward happened. Pushing ahead, he ducked as he entered the home. Weak sunlight through the cracks in the shutters revealed a small place that had probably been quite homely once upon a time. A simple table of pine with two chairs, a cold stove in the back wall with another chair next to it. Scattered here and there various garments and belongings that had been tossed about during the raid. A door at the back hung open to show further darkness beyond. Realizing the opening in the back probably led to a bedroom, Guthrie promised himself to keep it in mind when he decided to rest.

But first, seeing as there was no enemy, he would search for food. His stomach grumbling, his last meal having been eaten nearly a day earlier, he lowered his weapon and trudged further into the house. Whatever sound he had heard had likely been nothing more than a piece of wood drying in the brittle cold, or perhaps one of the houses settling.

Near the fireplace he found several black iron pots. Removing their lids he found them empty. Likely spilled during the fighting, if there had even been food within them. Glancing around, Guthrie sought a cupboard or a hanging ham or anything. But there was no immediate evidence of food. Had the Dartague taken it all with them? Possible.

A shadow moved across the open entrance.

Guthrie’s mace came up again as his gaze darted toward the door he had left open upon entering.

Nothing further stirred. Through the door he could spy puffy drops of snow flittering down from above to sleep upon the ground.

“
Who is there?” he called out.

No answer.

“I am more than willing to defend myself,” he shouted. “I am armed and a trained soldier of His Holiness Beneficence the Second!”

Again, no answer.

At first.

Then a dour cackling whispered upon the wind. Weak to the ears, as if a spirit calling from beyond the grave.

Guthrie did not like that sound. It spoke of the unusual, the supernatural. It spoke of
magic
. In his world, magic was evil. There was no such thing as a good wizard or witch except a dead one. Magic was feared so much within the nation of Ursia, the punishment for spell casters was death. Magical creatures were not tolerated, but put to the blade. Foreigners practicing magic were barred from entering the lands, and the Ursians were not above slaying mages who lived near their borders. This was another reason the Ursians were rarely on friendly terms with the Dartague, the barbarian northerners allowing wyrd women and skalds within their midst to practice enchantments and sorcery.

Whether the source of the dark laughter outside the hovel’s door was human or not, Guthrie feared eldritch powers were at work. No normal person sounded like that, as if they were a risen corpse tittering at the foolishness of those still living.

His grip tightened on his weapon as he took a step forward.

That distant, maniacal laughter came again, almost hollow as if it came across a long distance or from deep within a well.

Guthrie halted once more. His free hand slid his dagger free of its leather binding.

There were no new sounds, only the familiar ring of the haunting wind upon the plain.

Enough of this
. He charged forward, his lack of patience getting the best of him. Rushing out the doorway, he dodged to one side and lifted his mace across his face as a shield as his dagger snapped out ready to strike.

There was nothing. The dead man’s unmoving legs still extended from the shadows of the doorway across the narrow road. The wind still howled overhead as the sky grayed to the color of a dying fish’s belly. Flecks of snow sauntered down from upon high, adding to the growing drifts along the sides of the houses. Guthrie’s trail continued back the way he had come, toward the mountains along the distant northern horizon.

He straightened and lowered his weapons.
I have been alone too long. My mind is playing tricks on me.

His blade was nearly returned to its sheath when he spotted movement out of the corner of his left eye. Guthrie spun. There! He could have sworn he had seen something fluttering past at the end of the row of houses. It had been but a blur it had moved so fast. There had not been enough time to catch details, but Guthrie had an impression of a thin, gauze-like garment floating out behind a person as they lunged behind the house at the end on his left.

Now anger grew within the sergeant’s breast. Someone was playing games with him. Whether the games were innocent or deadly, he had had enough of them. If his tormentor should be skilled with magic, then it was time to discover how well magic held up against the cold iron of a spiked, rounded mace.

Guthrie took off at a run, the tired muscles of his legs suddenly given new strength by the rage that had built inside him. His heavy boots jogged over the snow, the way made easier because he had already leveled this path upon his tromp into the village.

Rounding the corner of the last house on the left, the sergeant opened his mouth for a roar as he raised his mace and dagger. Then his legs slowed and his weapons lowered once more.

Again there was nothing.

Beyond the edge of the village was the whisping pale view of the land, the wind bringing up more snow than was falling by gusting along the surface of the packed white powder.

Guthrie cursed and ripped away the cloth strips that had helped shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and the snow. He slung the wad to the ground and stomped on it, cursing once more.

By rights he should have been released from his service to the army. All he needed were the official papers from his captain. He should have been in an inn somewhere with his feet up, a warm bowl of stew before him with an ale, perhaps an arm wrapped around a woman. Was it too much to ask after ten years in the pope’s service? Apparently so. Instead of being a free man for the first time since he had been a teen, he was stuck in this frozen wilderness playing games with the dead.