Magebane pulled at his hood and coat, trying to stave off the biting cold. His amber eyes stared more on the ground than the road ahead.
The sky stretched above him, with thick rolling clouds like grey cotton spreading from one end of the horizon to the other. He could taste that a rain was coming, if not today, maybe the following days.
He didn't like it. He was ill equipped for it. Even the coat he had wasn't the best choice.
He took what he could from Gaspard's camp before leaving. He must've overlooked a wealth of things in his haste. The fear of the Inquisitors arriving at the scene, catching him by surprise, prevented him from any thorough looting.
He spent too much time getting creative with his message. He really wanted something memorable to the Consortium, but in retrospect it took precious seconds away. Now he questioned whether he was acting wisely or emotionally. His grumbling stomach and shivering skin told him it was the latter.
He should've at least taken a horse. The road to Rakkendolf was somewhat long by horse, even longer by foot.
And it would feel an eternity longer without a good pair of shoes.
His boots were worn thin and torn from his journey. It felt like he was walking barefooted. He could feel every small pebble poking and twig scratching on the soles of his feet. His feet ached so bad the entire limb almost felt numb.
Often a man can't distinguish their wants from their needs, but at that moment, Magebane had a moment of clarity where he believed the two were aligned.
A horse. That was what he wanted. That was what he needed.
Shame he accidentally speared the only good horse in the camp. He had little choice when they're charging at you with a very murderous rider at its back.
Oh, how he longs for a good horse of a good breed, with shiny well-brushed mane, complete with a leather saddle for his arse to rest upon. And of course, a hard, steel horseshoe that would save the horse from agonising pain, much like he was experiencing now.
There was a time when he rode a horse like that. A strong horse, with thick hooves that spark fire and breaths that came out in fumes. And he didn't ride alone. He was flanked by a hundred more like him, Heroes all, riding horses by the hundreds, galloping forward, lances flashing in the sun, banners whipping in the wind, hooves kicking up dust, punching through ranks of enemy infantry.
But now he was Magebane, and he didn't even have a lame mule.
"A horse. A horse," he moaned. "My kingdom for a horse!"
Magebane blinked. He had spoken it out of thought. That line brought back so many memories.
He heard of that line before. The Tragedy of King Richard III, by William Shakespear. He had been forced to understand it but he could never wrap his head around it. After all, how could a teen sitting in an air conditioned classroom understand the sorrow of a horseless monarch from the middle ages?
Now he understood, and all it took was to be kidnapped and thrown into a grimdark world.
Perhaps the school system in his homeworld should be reinspected. Perhaps their students should be sent to this grimdark world, suffer the same fate as his, so they'd understand what the bloody author meant by 'the curtains were blue'.
If ever he returns to his home world, there would be serious rearrangements of the educational system.
If ever.
Magebane bit his lip. It was a mad thought born out of exhaustion, but he tried to extinguish that thought like it was poison nonetheless.
This grimdark world was his new home. To think otherwise would grant him hope, and he couldn't afford to hope now. Not anymore. Not after everything.
Magebane suddenly froze.
He felt something.
The earth trembled so subtly.
Magebane fell flat to the earth. He pressed his ears on the ground and listened. It was hard to distinguish what caused it at first, but as his tired mind slowly realised what it was, his eyes slowly opened until they were fully wide with shock.
It was the thunder of horses' hooves.
Magebane got to his feet fast. Dizziness assaulted his head like a nail driven to his skull, but he ignored it.
He found a small hill and climbed up its slopes. As he neared the top, he laid flat on his stomach and crested the hill slowly, stealthily, until he gained view of the surroundings.
Far on the horizon, on a dirt-packed road that ran through the forest, were a dozen or more riders. They were mean-looking, well armoured men. The dark cloaks made them look like black shapes. Living shadows. Deadly shadows.
Inquisitors. The Consortium's black dogs. They rode healthy, strong horses that kicked up a cloud of dust in their wake. They covered the distance that took Magebane hours in half the time.
Things just got from bad to worse.
Magebane slid down the hill and stayed there for a moment, chest raising and falling fast, eyes darting to and fro, searching for what to do. He felt like running for his life, but he forced himself to stay put and think things through first.
With his injuries, he won't be able to go far nor quickly on the open road. The Inquisitors would close on him on horseback.
Going off track west would lead him to a swampy area where he can lose the Inquisitors. However, it was infested with nasty germs and swarming insects, not something you'd want when you have plenty of exposed wounds. The swamp would lose the horses, true, but he'd lose his life, too.
That leaves him with one option, the rocky hills to the south. The horses wouldn't take the Inquisitors there. The rocky slopes of the hill could give him plenty of cover to hide behind. He could evenforgo the running and wait out the storm as he hid there, giving him plenty of time to nurse his wounds.
The hills were a good choice, but it wasn't an easy one. To Magebane, the hill was uncharted territory. He had never traversed it or learnt of it. And that makes it dangerous.
The first cruelty he learnt when he arrived in this world wasn't the bite of a sword or the betrayal of friends. It was the very earth itself. It was apathetic, cruel, cold, and dangerous.
A journey through an unmarked hill could be the death of him. Dangerous animals could be lurking there. One wrong footing could send him tumbling down the sharp rocks, tearing him apart. The cold weather at the top could freeze his limbs off. The rain could set the earth loose, sending mud and rocks down the slopes in a great landslide, burying him alive.
However, as terrifying as those possibilities were, they were just that: possibilities. Meanwhile, the Inquisitors racing through the road was a very real threat. So he took the gamble and began the long and arduous climb up the hills.