Burning pain made the Magebane double over. He dug his spear to the ground and hung onto it like a crutch to stop him from keeling over.
Blood and spit dripped down his chin onto the grasses below. His fair skin was pale and coated with a sheen of sweat. His braid came undone. Strands of his long, red hair clung to his sweaty cheek and temple.
He sucked in air through his teeth in a hiss. Something smelled of cooking meat, and it was him. It was definitely him.
He looked down, and saw smoke trailing from his stomach. The fireball scored a mean, scorched mark where it struck his stomach. The last of the fire was singing his clothes and stinging his skin.
The pain made him feel sick. He felt burning bile rising in his throat. The world spun underneath his unsteady feet. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth so hard he feared they'd crack.
He lifted his infernal amber eyes and glared at the one responsible for this agonising pain.
The mage acolyte stood stiff, hands splayed in the final motion of his spell. The last vestiges of the fireball dissipated from his fingers, like embers blown into the wind.
He was just a young acolyte. A Red Mage. Barely out of the academy judging by the pristine look of his robes and the red tassel hanging on his chest.
And he was scared shitless, slack jawed and eyes wide like saucers.
Magebane can guess how shocked he was. The acolyte seemed to have been taught all his life that a fireball was lethal, a destructive spell that should never be pointed at his fellow classmates, that one mistake could cost a life.
Yet here was Magebane, taken a full blast, and still standing.
And not just standing.
Magebane took a shambling step forward, then the next, then the next, until he was right on top of the mage. His towering height cast a grim shadow across the acolyte's pale face.
Magebane raised his spear high and brought it down in a mighty overhead swing.
The acolute finally snapped out of his shock. His fingers moved, crackling with magical energy, and a shimmering arcane barrier rose around him.
It was an instinctive but desperate move, like a man raising his arms against a sword slash.
He might as well try to stop the waves of the ocean.
Magebane's spear cleaved through the barrier like a hot knife through butter. It cut all the way down until it met the acolyte's head, splitting his skull down to the stump of his neck.
The acolyte sank on his knees and fell face first onto the earth, wetting the soil and tall grasses with his blood.
Magebane gasped for air and looked at his work. The dead surrounded him. Bodies were littered around the broken camp like tacks spilled on the floor. Tents were torn open or toppled over, laying on the earth, deflated like empty waterskins. The campfire at the centre was all but embers, buried under a layer of soil that must've been kicked up during the mayhem.
Amid this death and destruction, one man still stood against Magebane, or as best a man could stand with a bleeding calf.
This man was not a mage. He was not dressed in Consortium robes but in ringmail and gambeson. Instead of a big pointy hat, he glared at Magebane from the narrow slits of his helmeted head.
He held no staff or lightning in his hands. He held only a billhook. The polearm's talon-like hook glinted in the sun, wavering back and forth under the soldier's trembling grip.
"Go home," Magebane said. "Go back to your family."
Magebane thought that'd send him fleeing with his tail tucked between his legs, but the soldier shook his head. "And let you go? No."
"I have no feud with you. My feud is only with the Consortium."
"That's exactly why I can't let you go."
His face was set. His grip on his billhook tightened until his knuckles went white. His feet crept ever closer towards Magebane.
There was no changing his heart.
"You're a loyal man. Loyal to the Consortium. Loyal to the mages. Loyal to magic," said Magebane, in the pitying tone of a man who had to put down a prized but lame horse.
The soldier roared into a charge and thrusted his billhook.
Magebane met the charge, ducked low, and let the soldier's billhook whistle through the air right above his ear.
Magebane twisted his body and swung his spear in a mighty arc. The spear's broad head tore through the soldier's steel ringmail and tough gambeson like they were made of paper.
Blood sprayed, painting the trees and the grasses blood red.
The soldier sank on his knees. His fingers reached at his wound before he toppled and fell on the earth, joining the many other bodies littering the camp, joining his friends.
Magebane stared at him, stared as his eyes rolled back underneath the narrow slits of his helmet.
Magebane frowned. What lies have the Consortium fed him that he'd leave the comfort of his home to fight for them? What love have they planted in his heart that he'd give his life away? So deeply this man believed in them. So terrible was his love for them.
"That's why you had to die," whispered Magebane.
Tired, he dug the butt of his spear to the earth and leaned on it. He took deep breaths and let his mind run blank as he caught his breath.
Around him, the birds chirped away on the canopies. Rodents chittered up along the trees that surrounded the camp. The green grass ran red with blood, but they swayed away with the whistling wind still. The earth carried on, uncaring of the battles of men. Uncaring to the depravity of Magebane's bloodlust.
It was quiet now.
So quiet he could fall asleep on his spear if he wanted.
So quiet, save for one, ragged panting, not quite silent like the rest of the corpses.
Magebane followed to sound to a man pinned underneath a felled horse. He was an old man with thin, balding hair and a full beard and well trimmed moustache.
His tassel's colour was purple, and a glittering gem hung at its end. A Purple Wizard. A high rank within the Consortium.
Indeed, he was a man with an outfit worthy of the Consortium's high ranks. He wore a glittering robe, richly embroidered with golden threats and sporting the most expensive dyes nature could afford. He was wreathed with sparkling rings, heavy bracelets with shiny gems, and a circlet atop his balding, sweaty forehead.
But his wealth bought him no good now. Even his richly bred horse lay on top of him uselessly, pinning its master instead of taking him far away from danger. Indeed, his kingly stature was juxtaposed by the humiliating situation he was in.
"Master… Gaspard," Magebane ventured.
The man named Gaspard responded by pushing his horse harder. His face turned red and puffed like a full waterskin. His mouth frothed. He pushed, and pushed, but his horse won't budge.
"Do you know who I am?" Magebane asked.
"I know who you were. A damn shame what you've become— agh!"
Magebane dug his heel onto the horse. Gaspard rolled his head on the grass as he held back a scream of pain.
"A damn shame I didn't die, you mean? A damn shame I didn't join the other Heroes into the grave?"
He dug his heel deeper, and Gaspard growled. "Gah! You bastard. You cruel bastard!"
Magebane leaned close to Gaspard's face, all while pressing harder. He spoke in a whisper, like a schoolboy who was about to share a naughty secret. "The truth is, Gaspard, I actually agree with you. I do! I should've died. But I think we disagree on the details, particularly on the when.
"You should've let me die in my world, surrounded by my family, surrounded by the ones I love. But instead you and your glorious Consortium just had to bring me here, to a world worse than death, to be a pawn to filth like you.
"Now, what do you think I should do to subhuman scum like you, Gaspard, hm?"
Gaspard's eyes were squeezed shut. He cracked them open, just a squint, to say, "Mercy! Grant me mercy. I wasn't the one who brought you here. Not a thousand mages like me could do it! Only the archmages could do it. You know this!"
"Gaspard the innocent," Magebane snorted. He eased his pressing just slightly. "But have you not introduced yourself all these years as a proud Consortium? Have you not introduced the Consortium as saviours? Have you not hid the truth of what happened in the Heart of Darkness? No, Gaspard, you're not innocent. You're an innocent man who upholds devils, and that makes you their ilk."
Magebane dug his heels harder than he ever did. Gaspard's head shot back, his teeth gritted hard. His neck was hard and sinewy. He writhed like a pig. And Magebane dug harder.
But in between the screams and thrashing, he blurted out. "Grandmaster Manfred! I know where he is!"
Magebane froze. His mouth worked, but no word came out.
"You want him, right?" Gaspard managed in between sharp rasps of breath. "I know where he is. He's nearby, in the city of Rakkendolf, south of here."
Magebane frowned. "Is this true?"
"I swear on my life."
"Then where are the others? Where are the creators of the summoning runes that brought the Heroes into this world? Where are those who are capable of repeating the spell? Tell me!"
"I don't know! I only know Manfred—"
Magebane sharply dug his heel, and Gaspard wailed. "I swear! I swear on my family! I don't know where the other archmages are!"
"Liar!"
Magebane kept pressing. Gaspard's face went from red to pale, and his writhing lost its vigour. His screams died down to a rattling wheeze and the tears stopped flowing as he cried all his tears out. Life was fleeting him as his eyes slowly rolled back to his skull.
But slowly, Magebane lifted his feet. Gaspard blinked fast and hard. He sucked in breath through his teeth, chest raising and falling. He stared at Magebane with eyes wide and full of disbelief.
Magebane was silent, brows drawn together in a thought.
"Then will you send a message to him?" he asked.
Gaspard nodded, or as close as a dying man could. "Anything. Anything. I'll send anything. Just let me go."
/0/
Thorn dug her heels to the flanks of her horse, sending it into a full gallop until the Inquisitors were but a speck behind her. She was dressed in a richly coloured Consortium uniform, its multicoloured cloak flapping behind her in the wind. She wore a blue tassel braided onto her sandy blonde hair that now whipped in the wind.
She had one hand gripping the rein, another on her wooden staff. Often holding onto it gives her strength. Keeps her steady. Keeps her steady. But now, she can't get her heart to stop hammering up her throat.
Her eyes darted between the dirt-packed road ahead and the trail of smoke rising in the sky. Often she looked up too long and ran her face to sharp branches.
When she arrived at the source of the smoke, her jaw went slack.
Master Gaspard's camp had been broken. The dead were everywhere, laying on the earth, hidden in the grasses, propped up on the trees, buried within the slashed and toppled tents. The campfire had been unattended, and began to burn at the grasses and tents.
The rest of the riders caught up. They didn't share Thorn's colourful Consortium clothes but instead wore the black colour of the Consortium's Inquisition. They sport a different kind of tassel than Thorn's. Theirs were black, with bronze instead of a gem hanging at its end. These bronze tassels hung on different spots on their black chainmail, scales, and gambesons.
Bronze Inquisitors. Far from the comfort of the Consortium life they were hard men of the sword. Fighters more than mages. Taken in from all corners of the country, from all walks of hard, unforgiving lives.
Despite it all, they all shared Thorn's shock. They went still, gaping at the wanton destruction before their eyes.
Fear and shock seemed to rip courage from everyone's heart, save for one man, save for Iron Inquisitor Wolfric.
His dark horse trampled past, nose flaring, neighing. He was a dour middle-aged man with lines to his face. He had a scar across his thick eyebrow and a chip to his ear. His eyes were fixed in a droopy stare, freezing him in a constant scowl of suspicion. He has long, dark hair that was tied in a bun underneath a tricorn hat.
He slid off his horse. He was somewhat short, but it was an ill measure of his physics. He seemed sure and strong in his stride, and his sharp, attentive eyes belay intelligence and ingenuity. He wore a brigandine, his iron tassel hanging near his chest. His dark cloak swung as he walked, sometimes revealing on his hip the terrible pair of daggers he carried, one straight and narrow bladed, the other with a snaking blade, reminiscent of a kris from the far spice kingdoms to the East.
Wolfric's face remained hard as a stone as he surveyed the destruction coolly. There was not a single quiver to his split lip.
"Someone stop that fire," he barked, pointing with his black gloved hand. "And find out if anyone survived!"
The Bronzes worked wordlessly. Their faces were grimly set as they explored the ruined camp. Some tended to the fire, kicking dirt on them and stomping them underneath their boots. Others inspected the casualties. They'd crouch low and check the bodies with hopeful looks in their faces, and get up with sad and disappointed looks.
Thorn swallowed. "Such destruction, and so close to Rakkendolf. The bandits have grown bold."
"No. I refuse to believe that," answered Wolfric. "The Rakkendolf garrison retaliated not long ago, scoring a great victory over them. They've thus been driven off to the hills, too far from here. Even in their prime, no bandit would ambush a sorcerer, even one travelling alone. Gaspard was well defended."
"Then who? Who could've done this?"
"My lord!" came a distant call.
The two followed the noise to a distressed, pale-faced Bronze Inquisitor, flailing his arms around and pointing towards a large tree.
Thorn felt cold sweat run down her neck as she approached. On her heels came the rest of the inquisitors, curious and terrified at the same time.
When she saw what he was pointing at, she froze, lips quivering and eyes bulging.
"My God," breathed Thorn.
Master Gaspard's pale body was hanging on a tree, his limbs stretched on the wide bark by ropes. His neck was cut open. Blood trailed from his open wound all the way to the tree's roots. His rich robes were drenched in red.
A symbol was painted on the dark bark of the tree, red with the ink of Gaspard's blood. It was an image of a wyrm, circled around until it devoured its own tail. It was an imperfect circle, as a cut cleaved through the neck of the wyrm, severing the cycle.
Finally, the slightest hint of emotion cracked on Wolfric's face. A grin. "So, the Magebane has revealed himself."
Whispers rippled through the inquisitors. The air was thick with fear.
"The Bane of Mages."
"He's here?"
But hatred eclipsed any trace of fear in Thorn's heart. She balled her fists until her knuckles went white.
Wolfric climbed up his horse and barked orders at his men. "Prepare to leave! Leave whatever we don't need. We go south to Rakkendolf. The Archmage must be warned, and he must be defended."
Thorn was about to climb on her horse when Wolfric stopped her.
"You will go no further, Sorceress. Leave this matter to the Inquisitors."
"But I can fight! You know that."
"It would be foolish of me to question the arcane mastery of a Blue."
"Then why can't I?"
"Inquisition business. There's a degree of secrecy that Grandmaster Manfred instructed me to maintain. I cannot allow anyone outside the Inquisition to intervene with my work."
Thorn glared at him. "I have as much right as you in punishing Magebane. I want nothing more than to see him answer for all his crimes against my brothers and sisters. I want nothing more than to see his body hang from the white walls of the Rakkendolf. What gives you more right than me to fight for what I love?"
Wolfric's face remained flat and hard, like a slab of cut stone. "A paper, with the Archmage's ink on it."
Wolfric dug his heels on his horse's flank, and the beast neighed and kicked off into a gallop. The Bronzes followed, thundering past Thorn, kicking up dirt and grass.
Thorn helplessly watched them shrink in the distance. There they go, hunting the Magebane, leaving her to rot with the corpses.
She gripped the shaft of her staff. The familiar soft grain of the wood comforted her.
Her staff always seemed to calm her. It anchored her.
Magic, the Consortium, the Heroes, they had always found a way to comfort her.
Yet they were all the very things Magebane swore to destroy.
This wild man came out of nowhere and started a personal crusade against the Consortium, against magic. He dared to desecrate the world the Heroes worked so hard to protect, the world they died to protect.
Magebane needed to be stopped. Simple as. And it should be the duty of every mage. Nay, every Nemesian.
But the Inquisition doesn't want that. They don't want her involved. They don't want anyone else involved.
Damn the Inquisitors and their secrets.