Magebane laid flat on his stomach and crawled up the rocky hills. His stomach brushed the sharp rocky surface, but he kept himself nice and low. Better to have a sore stomach than an arrow to your face, a wise scout once told him that.
The thunder of the horse's hooves had become audible. It was loud, and it was steadily getting louder, until it was as if they were at the back of his neck.
He found a large rock jutting out of the slopes, big enough for cover. He climbed behind it, held his breath, and listened as the riders thundered past far below.
Magebane poked his head out and saw the last of the black cloaks shrinking in the distance.
He slinked back into cover and laid flat on his back. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his heart hammered up his throat.
It worked. He couldn't believe it worked.
But it was not the time to rest yet.
Now came a different kind of thunder, rolling on the horizon, cracking in the dark clouds.
Magebane turned to the far sky and frowned. The night was closing in fast, faster with the dark clouds that gathered in the horizon.
He looked at his surroundings, checking his options.
He couldn't stay here forever. He has to find a place to shelter for the night. But he didn't want to go back down the hill either with his entire body aching.
He thought about making his shelter on this hill, here. Set up camp, cook up a fire and throw in a few meals in it. And of course, nurse his wounds. But there was a chance the inquisitors might see his fire.
More choices. More risks to take.
One last look at the rumbling clouds made him sure.
He sucked in breath through his teeth in a hiss and stood to his feet. Thus continued his climb up the rocky hills, now in search of a spot worthy of a shelter.
/0/
As night fell, Magebane had a good fire working. A small pot hung above it, cooking a morsel of meat mixed in lightly spiced soup.
The cold was growing stronger. A fireless night would've been unbearable. At first he wasn't sure about lighting a fire on a hill, where anyone from miles away could see it. But he reckoned the Inquisitors would be too far away to notice his light.
Magebane counted on the Inquisitor's speed. One good thing about having fast enemies was they won't stay put in one place for long.
Under the flickering light of the fire, Magebane dressed his wounds. He winced and sweated profusely as he pressed a cloth dipped in healing salve into his fresh burn wound. It stung even worse than the fireball itself. He gritted his teeth so hard they nearly cracked, but he persevered.
As he took the cloth off his wound, he was relieved to find it sealed considerably, closing his exposed tissues. But it was imperfect, and any rash action could reopen the wound. Even if it was left to seal completely, it would leave a rather ugly mark, a dark explosive-shaped scar on the side of his stone hard stomach.
Magebane snorted. What spot on his body didn't bear a scar?
As he nursed the last of his wounds tight, he rested his back on a smooth rock. In front of him, the fire crackled gently, slowly cooking his meal, sending wisps of fragrant steam up the air.
Magebane always fancied himself to be a pragmatic man, putting practicality over luxurious flare that most people would be trapped in. He openly admits guilt, however, that he can't imagine not putting effort in his meals, no matter how bleak the situation is.
From earth to Nemesis, from the beginning of his journey to the Heart of Darkness, that hasn't changed.
He took a deep breath in, smelling the sweet scent of the spices, and shut his eyes.
There was a time when he shared such a meal with friends, fellow Heroes.
Though they'd never known each other in their previous lives, the strange new world they shared created a bond of fellowship between them.
Magebane could still remember how they'd swap stories, about their experiences in this world or the previous. Back then, they could laugh and smile. Back then, everything seemed brighter. Back then, they believed they were granted a second chance in a second life.
Magebane opened his eyes and was welcomed with no one but the lonely fire.
But the Heroes were now gone. His friends were gone. They died, together with that naive dream that this world is kind.
Now there was no one to share his fire with. Now his name was Magebane, and only his enemies utter his name, for he has no friends left in this world.
The only thing left from his old life was his spear.
Magebane stared at it, leaning on a rock across him like it was a person sitting folded. The flickering fire danced on its red shaft, reflecting on its black spearhead.
At a glance, the spear seemed like any winged spear. It had a broad metal spearhead like a partisan; a spear meant to be swung. Yet the head was also narrowed to a sharp tip, allowing for powerful thrusts. A wing spread at the spearhead's base, meant to catch blades or hook riders down from their horses.
He recalled the battle today, particularly on the surprised look on the Red Mage's face as the spear cut through his barrier.
Who wouldn't be shocked? A weapon of wood and metal shouldn't be able to cut through the arcane.
But wyrmmetal can.
Drawn from ore so rare, and only able to be smelted by the fire of a wyrm dragon (which by themselves are near mythical as well), wyrmmetal was the most coveted metal in all of Nemesis. It was the strongest metal in the belly of the earth. It can cut through daemon scales, or through arcane barriers. It all depended on who you pointed it at.
Magebane recalled the awesome weapons of myth from his world. Guts had Dragonslayer, Aragorn had Anduril, Logen Ninefingers had Sword of the Maker, and Sigmar Heldenhammer had Ghal Maraz, but Magebane had wyrmmetal.
It had been with Magebane throughout the Age of Heroes. The irony wasn't lost to him that the Consortium shaped it to be his weapon to smite daemons, yet now he used it to slaughter mages.
It was no surprise he didn't have people to call friends these days.
Perhaps his only friend left was the spear.
Perhaps he should talk to it.
Magebane knelt forward and stirred the soup with his knife. He stirred and stirred, a small tug of smile at his lips despite the small amount of meat surfacing.
"If I could just get some potatoes with this..." he mumbled.
But his spear, wyrmmetal as it is, didn't reply.
No one replied to him.
No one but the soft crackle and pop from the fire.
No one but the twang of a bow.
An arrow struck Magebane on the back of his shoulder. It sent him keeling over, crashing on to his fire and toppling over his pot, spilling the precious meal on the ashes.
He pushed his face off the hot ashes.
Inquisitors! How?
He crawled away on the hard rock as arrows flew by above his ears.
It was dark, the fire dying. He had to feel around for a weapon to defend himself.
His fingers found the familiar grain of the shaft of his spear. He took it and kept himself flat on the ground, waiting at any moment for another arrow to find its mark at the back of his skull.
But then the arrows stopped.
Then came the roar of men.
Men draped in mismatched armour leapt out of the shadows. They were not the uniformed soldiers of the Consortium's Inquisitors. They wore dented breastplates, holed chainmails, and rustic helmets. They wield axes, spears, and cudgels.
Bandits, Magebane ventured. Or mercenaries. Either way, the line between the two was easily blurred when times were rough.
And these were rough times indeed.
Magebane leapt to his feet just in time to block the swing of an axe.
He tried to fend himself from the next attacker when a sharp pain burst in his stomach.
It was his wound, reopening painfully.
In that second of distraction, he was rewarded with a cudgel to the face.
The world spun. Magebane couldn't see the kick coming to his gut. It sent him stumbling backwards like a drunken fool.
He tried to find his footing, but the rocky hill was treacherous, and he slipped, fell, and wouldn't stop falling.
He took a tumble down the rocky hill, crashing into sharp rocks and landing on the rough dirt.
The world was spinning endlessly even after his tumble stopped.
He pushed himself up only to find his arms giving in, feeling like boneless jelly. He laid flat on his back and gasped for air like a fish thrown into land.
His shoulder burnt hotly. The arrow broke during his tumble, but not before tearing his muscle in the process.
His spear was missing, fallen somewhere in his fall. He searched blindly with his hands for a weapon, but he couldn't even find a rock to defend himself with.
He heard laughter, plenty of them, distant and blurry in his ringing ears. They crept closer, louder.
He lifted his head slightly and watched as the bandits climbed down the rocky hill deftly, closing the distance at terrifying speed.
The hills were their domain, and he unknowingly ventured here.
The bandits circled around him, all cackling and grinning, flashing their yellowed teeth. There were too many of them, and Magebane couldn't even move. Their weapons were drawn, and the murderous look in their eyes told him they were ready to hack him to pieces.
But the bandits didn't leap at him. Instead, they made way for a dark haired man with the worst looking grin among the bunch. He had a lanky body, crooked nose, and thick brows that gave him a hawkish look. He wore an ill-fitting gambeson draped with a once colourful cloak. Despite it, he was best dressed among the bandits. Magebane was sure he was the terrible leader of this miserable party.
His cruel cudgel hung from his belt while his hands were occupied by Magebane's wyrmmetal spear.
Magebane growled and tried to leap for his spear, but a quick boot to the chest from one of the bandits put him back to the earth.
The leader grinned at Magebane's defiance.
He handed the spear to one of his men and said, "Put this with the rest. Search his camp. Leave no stone unturned."
The bandits cackled as they climbed back up to the camp, leaving Magebane in the company of the leader and the man with his boot on his chest.
"What do we do with him?" the latter asked.
The leader crouched next to Magebane. His eyes searched him from head to toe like a merchant appraising a product.
"Take everything he has."
Magebane growled and clawed at the boot on his chest, only to meet a boot to the face.