A guard led Thorn into the town guard's headquarters. She was surprised with how warm it was. The walls were of thick stone, shielding the inside from the cruel weather. The fireplace was generously fed with firewood, but it wasn't for luxury. Thorn suspected it was paramount to keep the place warm to maintain a dry air, staving off moisture that could damage precious armour and weapons. The building was quite spartan, bereft of luxuries, with only the grey heraldry of Shepeste its decoration.
She admired the place. It reminded her of her Consortium academy. Everything was neat and clean, maintained by disciplined men. Though instead of populated by quiet mages in robes, this place had men in armour. Compared to a mage's robes, they were quite noisy. She found herself imagining how disruptive a man in full armour would be studying in a class.
The guard led her to a tall wooden door. He stood beside it and gestured for her to enter. "The captain awaits."
She pushed the heavy door open and entered into a wide room. Despite being the captain's, it was similarly spartan like the previous rooms she passed through. The only decoration was a trophy of a deer's head hung on the mantelpiece above and a few grey tapestries. A wide and well-fed fireplace sat on the wall.
The captain and his retinue gathered around a massive wooden table, locked in a hushed discussion. A map detailing the full plans of Shepeste was spread on top of it. Hundreds of miniature men were dotted across the map, no doubt representing the captain's men and the militia.
Captain Horndall looked up from the map and gestured to Thorn to join. She joined, awkwardly wedging herself between men that towered above her. She picked the spot beside the captain but said not a word to him.
The captain and Thorn haven't exchanged a word since their argument in the tavern, save for professional business. There was an unspoken submission from him, which Thorn suspected the proud captain would rather die before admitting. But the captain proved to be a very efficient ally once he was convinced, so Thorn never pressed the matter.
Thorn studied the map alongside the miniatures dotted around it. "So who's who?"
Captain Horndall introduced her to the legend of their map and the miniatures. All proceeded swimmingly until he introduced her miniature. It was modelled after a traditional sorceress, complete with a staff of old gnarled wood, an excessively wide-brimmed hat, and the wrinkled and blistered face of a hag underneath.
Thorn had never seen such bullshit before. But she swallowed her grievance and took no offence. She convinced herself that the guards didn't own a wide collection of sorcerer miniatures to be able to pick one that would fit her best. Their alliance is woven together by a thin line, and she won't break it because of something so petty. She's not Rose.
She smiled at the captain. "Proceed."
He cleared his throat and began. "The old farmer Gaskin was right after all. The Magebane hasn't left Shepeste. Our spies have confirmed this."
By spies he meant a combination of his men and very nosey Shepestians.
Captain Horndall tapped on the map with a gloved finger. "Here. He was first spotted stealing food and clothes from the market. The spies smartly didn't engage, keeping a safe distance while they followed him to where he was hiding."
The captain's gloved finger glided across the map. He stopped, and tapped twice on a spot on the map.
"Here."
Thorn blinked at the spot. Unlike the rest of the map that was crowded with houses, busy streets, and shops, this area was a gaping blank spot at the heart of Shepeste. It was like a yawning void filled with nothing.
Thorn's eyes went wide. "The Old Hill."
The captain nodded.
Before the war, that hill was the heart of Shepeste. It was a thriving spot of trade, where the most exotic goods came from faraway countries. It housed its best buildings, facilities, and shops. Its high ground made it very defensible, too. Shepestians erected great stone walls that were thick and tall, sheer as cliffs. And in the heart of this defence was a fort, flying its proud, stalwart grey banners.
But like everywhere else, the war changed Shepeste.
It happened early in the war, long before anyone learnt the horror this world was about to face. Shepeste's wealth drew the eyes of the Sorcerer King. His army of the dead crept on the horizon like a dark storm approaching, their hungry eyes locked at that jewel sitting atop the hill.
Shepeste was in turmoil as the town mobilised. The streets were choked as the women, children, and the weak evacuated, leaving their wealth behind, bringing nothing but that will keep them alive. They were weeping as they gave their goodbyes and promises to the men who stayed behind.
The Shepestian men holed up on the hill. The storages were filled to the brim with supplies to weather the siege. Militias and soldiers alike took up arms. Archers lined the walls, their arrows nocked and poking out of the battlements like a thousand bristles. Cauldrons of boiling tar were prepared on the walls, ready to be spilled on the besiegers. The gates closed shut and soldiers piled behind, digging their heels onto the ground, bracing.
As night came, and the refugees trudged through the dark forest beyond Shepeste, they stopped and turned to see when they saw a light brimming on the Old Hill. The hill was alive with the cries of the damned and the dying and the ring of clashing steel. Smoke and fire raged all the way through the night, lighting the horizon like a second sun.
When the sun dawned and the screaming stopped, the refugees returned to discover the grim fate of the defenders. The hill was thick with smoke and the stench of burning and rotting corpses. The once thriving hill was silent save for the caws of the hungry ravens. The entire hill was filled with the dead. They were hanging on the battlements, wedged between rocks, stretched out on the slopes. They were scattered like tacks spilled from a sack, broken and twisted on the once opulent streets, now red with Shepestian blood. No one survived. It took the survivors days to bury their dead.
Like salt to injury, the wealth of Shepeste was bled dry. Everything not rooted to the ground were looted, and what's left were destroyed. The once beautiful buildings of Shepeste now looked like the bones of long deceased beasts, poking out from the earth.
The spirit of Shepeste died in that battle. The Shepestian population was cut by more than half. The refugees tried to reclaim the Old Hill, but reclamation was slow, and eventually stalled permanently. They settled with living on the foot of the hill. Ever since then, the Old Hill loomed over the new Shepeste like a black shadow from the past, a warning that all Shepestians could see everyday of what Trigan's wrath felt like.
Thorn now understood why the Magebane could hide in their midst. Even the most stalwart Shepestian steered clear of the Old Hill. The young who weren't even there to see its destruction shared the discomfort, as if the horror of its destruction was so profound it ran deep in the blood of every Shepestian, ingrained in their collective consciousness.
Thorn shook off the anxious feeling as she watched that yawning blank spot on the map. She didn't realise she was clutching her staff tightly.
She steeled herself. Now is not the time to be weak. "How many men do we have, captain?"
"We have about a hundred trained men under my command, and about a thousand from the militia. They're strong, hardworking men, just untrained."
Thorn rubbed her chin. "We have the numbers, that's comforting. But I'm worried it would intimidate the Magebane, sending him fleeing at the sight of a real threat. All our efforts would go to waste. I'm thinking of trapping him, but I fear a full encirclement of the hill would stretch our forces thin."
"Not necessarily," said Horndall, grinning. "We lived here for ages. We know this place better than he does. Let's make that an advantage. We don't need to create a full encirclement. "There are only three ways to the hill; the south, west, and east. The north is completely sealed by sheer cliff faces. It is deadlier to tread it than to face a hundred men. Our men can be divided without spreading ourselves too thinly. We need only divide our forces into three parts."
At his order, his retinue worked quickly to divide the miniatures to his description. When they're done, the miniatures were divided into orderly squads, surrounding the hill from three directions.
The captain continued. "I can lead this contingent. My second in command will lead there. As for you, sorceress, you can lead here."
He placed the old hag on the south entrance to the hill.
"Once we're all in position, we can herd him up the hill. Then, we will barricade all escape. We will dig in with stakes and defences. We will be an unmovable anvil he won't be able to break. Once we're finished, we need only to wait. It will be like a siege. The Old Hill will be like an inescapable pit. He will decay on that blistering rock."
Thorn folded her arms in front of her chest. "This is very good. This is impressive, captain"
She frowned. "But what good is an anvil without the hammer? I think there's a risk that a siege would grant him the time to recuperate his strength and turn the tide. Or, he could go for subterfuge and find ways to slip out of the siege. After all, one man could more easily slip through a siege than, say, an army."
"Then you're suggesting we sally out from our defences and make an assault once he's trapped? The hammer, as you said?"
"Yes, we need to constantly pressure him. But taking our manpower into account, perhaps a full assault is unwise. Instead, we could have skirmishes to periodically harass him."
"That would need nimble, expert skirmishers. I'm afraid my men are trained for a different kind of combat. We're guards, after all. We're trained to be on the defensive, keep our walls impregnable with our heavy armour and strong array of weapons. The Old Hill is littered with dilapidated structures and uneven surfaces. Our heavy equipment would make treading the treacherous Old Hill difficult and exhausting. The Magebane would run circles around us. He would be the one harassing us!"
"And the militia?"
The captain waved the idea away with a hand. "Skirmishing is a complicated thing, requiring discipline, coordination, and above all communication. The entire unit must know exactly what to do and when to do it. They must work as if they were a single body with a single mind. A group of militia might be good fighters individually, but I doubt their skill to work as a coherent unit."
They arrived at an impasse. The captain and his retinue huddled close, trading hurried ideas but finding no way out. Thorne squeezed herself out of the claustrophobic press. She needed blood on her brain.
She paced around the table, lips thinned, trying to find a solution, trying to find something they missed.
She looked at the miniatures huddled up in a formation. Indeed, she can imagine the awkwardness of moving such a number of people.
She absently took a miniature and ran her fingers through it, turning it over and over as she pondered her options.
Nothing. She couldn't think of anything.
She groaned as she returned the miniature to the table, but paused the moment she got a good look of it. Suddenly, a smile split on her pink lips. She pushed the miniature all the way to the centre of the hill, the inescapable pit as the captain referred to.
"If moving as a unit is difficult, why not send an individual?" she asked.
The retinue and the captain snapped their heads towards her, their jaws collectively dropped on the floor.
Horndall's mouth worked, his moustache shaking like bristles, and he was red from ear to ear. "Do you have no mercy? Sending one man in there is folly. The Magebane will eat him alive and spit him out a bloody pulp!"
Thorn chuckled. "Not a man, captain. Not quite."
She reached for the miniature and turned it around so everyone could see its face. The captain and his retinues leaned on the table to see, nearly toppling the entire furniture over.
It was the old hag, with her big hat and stick.
"Let me be the hammer."