Some of the militia broke off from the unit and followed after the retreating Magebane up the hill. They shouted after him, rallying the rest of the unit to follow in the pursuit.
"He's retreating! That coward!"
"He's wounded! Get him"
The rest of the unit caught wind of this and began to follow after the pursuers' footsteps, hollering and shouting in excitement.
But the captain raced towards them on his horse, all the way shouting and waving his sword in the air. "Do not pursue the Magebane! Regroup on me! Maintain your formations!"
Heads turned to him, hesitant. The unit slowed unsurely, until finally they stopped. They gave up the chase and formed up around captain Horndall.
They were saved from a grave mistake.
But it was too late for the pursuers.
They kept running, torches lighting up the path up the dark hill. Horndall was itching to race to them himself and pull them by the ear back to the unit. But they were too far out, and he can't risk leaving the safety of the unit.
Horndall's face was flustered red. He shouted as hard as he could, spittle flying out his mouth. "Damn fools! Get back in position!"
But his voice didn't reach them. They were too far away. They were deafened by the drum of their heart on their ears. They were blinded by the bloodlust in their eyes.
They ran further and further away from the unit, away from their mass of light, into the oppressive darkness. It enevelopped them, until their torches seemed dismal and fleeting against the dark mass.
"Do not pursue Magebane! Do not—"
Horror unfolded before his eyes. The Magebane sprang out of the darkness like a savage wolf and brought down his spear on a pursuer's neck, decapitating his head clean off his neck. His torch slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. Magebane snatched the headless body away from the light and back into the darkness, vanishing.
The other pursuers froze on their tracks. Some stood, frozen by fear and shock. Some hesitated, not stepping forward and not stepping back. But most were shaken by fear. They began to back away from the growing darkness that suddenly seemed sinister.
They were in the domain of the Magebane.
The Magebane came again, leaping out of the darkness, killing a pursuer with a deep thrust of his spear. He leaped into the darkness just before the pursuers could attack, vanishing.
He appeared behind another pursuer seemingly in an instant, skewering him through the stomach with his spear.
He was everywhere.
The pursuers turned on their heels and ran for their lives. They dropped their spears, their pitchforks, and their swords. Their training was forgotten. They ran, and ran, and ran as if the devil was on their heels. But the devil was on their heels. They screamed, cried, and laughed maniacally.
The hunter became the hunted. The Magebane pursued them, cutting down one pursuer to the next, leaping from one light to another like a living shadow.
Lieutenant Hess stared slack jawed and eyes wide like platters. His mouth worked, but half-words formed. "H-unters! Help them. Help them!."
The hunters drew their bows with shaky, clammy fingers, but the same problem came again. The Magebane deftly hid himself behind the pursuers and used the shadows to hide himself, never revealing himself as a clear target.
"We can't shoot. We can't shoot! We're going to hit our friends!"
Lieutenant Hess' head snapped to and fro, and found the riders. "Riders. Riders?"
The riders tried to push forward, but couldn't get past the infantry formation in front of them. They tried to travel through their flank, but were choked by the uneven rocky hilly terrain that surrounded the road. A few fell off their horses as they attempted to negotiate through the treacherous dead rock.
Hess turned to captain Horndall. "Infantry? Sir? We need to send out the infantry."
"Belay that!" rebuked Horndall sternly, head snapping to Hess then back to the unit. "Stay in position, the lot of you! No one moves!"
The Lieutenant's head snapped at him, and he wasn't alone. Heads turned to the captain, worried, scared, and most of all, questioning him.
"But sir?!"
"We can't break formation to save them, lieutenant. Form up, all of you! Save the formation! Or do you want to repeat their mistakes?!"
The Shepestians disheartedly stood down and maintained formation. They had hard faces. They could only watch as the Magebane picked off their friends and neighbours one by one. No one could've helped.
The Magebane slaughtered them all to the last man. The last torchlight fell off limp, dead fingers. He buried it under the sole of his boot, extinguishing it, killing the last light of the pursuers.
The last the Shepestians saw in the enclosing darkness was the Magebane's amber eyes, the last embers of the torch reflecting on it, creating an infernal glow in his eyes. There was rage in those eyes as they locked on to the Shepestian militia, fully formed, with disciplined spears at the front.
"Forward men," cried captain Horndall. "Forward slowly. Push him to the hill!"
The Shepestians moved clumsily at first, with the flanks moving at a pace too fast to the rest of the unit and some Shepestians going too slow. But the captain was ever vigilant, and had a perfect view of the entire unit from atop his horse. He whipped them into shape with his barking orders and raised sword.
"You on the flank, slower! You, go faster! We won't be waiting for you. Come!"
Slowly, the Shepestians followed the directions. The unit now moves in a coherent blob, as if it was one sentient beast.
The Magebane saw the unstoppable and disciplined mass. He glowered at the captain Horndall. His leadership was threatening. He retreated into the shadows until he vanished completely.
"He's running," reported lieutenant Hess.
Horndall nodded and sighed in relief. "Up the hill, good. Don't pursue him! Proceed as planned. Pen him in."
The Shepestian militia marched onward without pause, but it turned into a challenge when they came across the fallen pursuers. They negotiated through the bodies of friends and neighbours. Some wanted to stop and help, but Horndall assured them they'll be helped.
He quickly ordered a handful of Shepestians to tend the bodies and send a detachment back to the sappers to let them know to be ready.
As Horndall rode his horse forward, he had a good look on one of the fallen pursuers' faces. It was a young man's face, barely having any hair on his chin. Died young and green.
Horndall's eyes turned from one corpse to the other, and he saw his face on theirs. Next time, if he made a mistake and the unit fell into chaos because of a foolish decision on his part, he could be the one lying on the ground dead and foolish, surrounded by the Shepestians that have trusted him with leadership.
He bit his lip so hard it nearly drew blood. He kicked his horse forward, jaw set, brows tightened. He pressed on, anxious to keep his men alive. Anxious to continue the mission.
The Shepestian's slow march to the darkness seemed to go for an eternity. The distance between the slope of the Old Hill to its crest seemed to stretch forever. The wait was maddening. The urge to break the pace and fasten their march was felt not just by Horndall, but every single Shepestian in the unit. But still, Horndall kept the unit formed neatly and paced properly. The army maintained the speed diligently. Until finally, they arrived.
"And stop!"
Many of the Shepestians blinked and looked around dumbly as if they were just woken up from a deep slumber. It took them a second for them to register the order, and the fact that followed that they're at the end of their mission.
They were on a narrow street, hugged by two hard rock hills. The chokepoint. Beyond lies the crest of the Old Hill, the inescapable pit.
"Hunters, keep a close watch."
Hunters climbed the slope of the hill beside them, trying to gain a vantage point.
"Easy, men. Now we wait."
The infantry sighed deeply and rested on their spears.
Far behind them, climbing up the slopes of the Old Hill, were dozens of torch lights. They swayed to and fro as the sappers raced up the hill, negotiating the treacherous dead rock. They arrived, sweaty and greasy, but fresh faced compared to the battle-worn militia. They carried stakes, shovels, hammers, and wooden planks on their shoulders and backs.
"Make way for the sappers!" the order echoed through the ranks.
The unit loosened their formation for the sappers. Most of them were civilians who never saw a fight, but with their flanks and rear secured, they could work freely without fear. Protecting them were a couple of spearmen taking station in front of them, spears at the ready always. And above them, perched on the slopes, were the ever vigilant hunters giving them overwatch.
"Go! He's nowhere in sight!"
"Dig in, boys!" cried Horndall.
The sappers began digging. They stabbed their shovels into the hard dirt and threw them out over their shoulders, sometimes throwing out palm-sized rocks out of the way. They made a ditch through the length of the chokepoint, and began planting the stakes into the earth and hammering them until they're rooted deeply like firm, ancient trees.
The ones carrying wooden planks began shaping simple barricades and raised platforms for the hunters to safely take position. Their hammers thundered as they worked, roaring in the silent night.
Horndall watched them work intently. The cage to the inescapable pit is approaching perfection. The pieces are falling into place. The final stage of the battle looms on the horizon.