Cold rain prickled at Magebane's skin like a thousand needles of ice. He cracked his eyes open and saw the dark clouds dominating the sky, pouring its rain on the earth, turning Magebane's resting place into a bed of mud.
Magebane climbed to his feet and felt pain assaulting every inch of his body like a wave.
Some of his wounds reopened. Some new wounds were made, both from the bandits and from the wee tumble he took down the rocky slopes.
His first instinct was to nurse them immediately, but his heart sank to his stomach when he remembered the bandits picked through his camp.
He was wrong about everything. He was wrong about picking the hills. He was wrong about making the fire. He was wrong to think the inquisitors were his only problem. The only thing he was right about was the rain. It did come, but it was the one thing he hoped he was wrong.
Every inch of his body hurt. Every fibre of his muscles ached. He didn't feel like getting up. He wanted to stay in the mud forever.
Fighting the pain and the sorrow, he climbed back to his camp. His tent lies broken, deflated like an empty waterskin, while his waterskin was drained of its content. The fire was long drenched by the rain, and his meal disappeared, likely picked off by animals.
He checked himself. His belt without his knives. His sheath was empty of his sword. But most importantly, his hands were empty of his spear.
Magebane sank into his knees as despair pressed down on him.
He can find more food, another knife, or a new sword, but his spear was irreplaceable. Not unless he's willing to go back to the depths of the earth to find a wyrm friendly enough to be willing to smelt another wyrmmetal for him.
He'd give his kingdom for a wyrmmetal.
And to think a gang of subhuman scum dared to take it from his hands.
Anger burnt away his sorrow. Anger kept his blood boiling, kept him warm against the rain. Anger kept him conscious despite the pain and exhaustion.
He needed a change of plan. He couldn't just go to Rakkendolf. To fight Grandmaster Manfred without his wyrmmetal spear would be courting death. The Grandmaster will have to wait.
Magebane had an appointment to make with the bandits.
He searched his camp, looking for tracks. They were careless, or rather they didn't count on a single person to survive and be a problem. Their tracks were clear, and it led him east of the hill.
Magebane followed the tracks down the rocky hill towards the road east, away from the route south to Rakkendolf.
He kept walking and walking, ignoring his pain, ignoring the cold rain.
He kept walking until he saw a change in the scenery.
Farms lined the road ahead. Rows after rows of wheat surrounded the road from both sides. They seemed pale in colour, definitely not of a good stock or planted on the best soil. They hung low like hunched men, and swayed languidly with the wind. The barns were mostly vacant with rooms to spare, and when it was occupied it was by skinny donkeys or cattles.
A few farmers were scattered around the farm. They all shared hard, dark leathery faces and rough hands.
Magebane met one of their eyes. Hope lit up in his heart. Hope that he would be helped. Hope that he'd be welcomed to a warm meal and nice and clean bandages.
But the farmer's eyes widened with shock and he turned on his heels and ran to the safety of his hovel.
Magebane sighed. He supposed that a stranger coming around with blood all over their face was not the kind of people you'd want to go near.
Hope. He couldn't believe it kindled just for a moment.
The Magebane pushed on, following the tracks, following the road.
He reckoned a farm should be supplying a town of some sort. A town meant merchants or fencers, meaning a place for the bandits to sell their contraband.
He was right. He saw a town in the far distance, poking out of the horizon like a small dot.
The town of Shepeste, he recalled. An unremarkable spot on the map. He'd never ventured there.
Shepeste was a squeezed jumble of buildings and rooftops, with smoke rising from a hundred chimneys. Perhaps the most unique thing about the town was the hill it was built around on. It rose smack dab on the centre of the town, but without a single building inhabiting that hill. The hill's high elevation would've afforded a naturally defensible position. And people of power love being physically higher than the rest of the peasants. He wondered why it was untouched.
Magebane set his jaw and proceeded towards Shepeste without a single weapon in his arm, but with murder and mayhem in his heart. In Shepeste his enemies dwelled. In Shepeste they will die.